A/N: Hello, my wonderful readers. I wish to offer my profuse apologies for the delay in posting. I would love to work on my writing full time but that is just not possible at this juncture in my life.
I wish I could adequately express how much I love and appreciate my YMCB supporters. The contributions and accolades that I have received have been such a morale booster in providing me with that extra push when I needed it. Thank you to everyone. Truly, Windies are a phenomenal bunch.
Much love goes out to my WINGMAN, Lady K. She is incredible—a fantastic sounding board, voice of reason, and occasional pot-stirrer. Thank you, dear Lady, for all of your assistance. All mistakes are mine.
"...Hoping for 1 more chapter at least this year pretty please.. ~Miasmum" CHALLENGE ACCEPTED! I don't know if I can do it, but I am going to try to pull off one more chappie by year's end...
...and on that note, I know these chapters are long, but there is a method to my madness. Because YCMB is being posted to a forum and due to lengthy absences on my part, when I post, I want to give you, dear reader, a little meat on the bone. As a reader, there is nothing more disheartening than to finally get that long-awaited notification of a story update only to find a posting of less than one thousand words. I've been there. I feel your pain. The other reason is that lengthy chapters are my mind's way of tricking myself into believing that the task at hand is less daunting. Twenty chapters is much more palatable than sixty. Believe it or not, with YMCB, we are only eight chapters (technically, seven and a prologue) in, but halfway through the story.
CONTENT WARNING: Finally, I wish to thank all of the anti-angsties and the somewhat-squishies for continuing on with YMCB. I would like to restate that I never seek to intentionally offend anyone but I do understand that people have different sensitivity levels. With that being said, I wish to caution readers that the ending may push some of you outside the bounds of your comfort zone. Although, I did not put in a hard break, I have designated '~*~' to mark the beginning of the content. I believe that even if you skip over the text, the intent of the passage will not be lost. For those that may have reservations but continue forth, be brave and hang on. (Oh, and the beginning is a little 'M' as well)
Disclaimers:
•I need to reiterate that my goal at the onset of YMCB was to not sanitize Rhett nor Scarlett which invariably means that YMCB will not be everyone's cup of tea. I appreciate readers that are still willing to give YMCB a try, but I understand if you do not continue on with the story. Cheers.
•Like all authors, I LOVE comments and feedback that are constructive and useful. If the intended comment is meant to inflame, then it will be deleted. Sorry guys, no trolls on the YMCB board.
•I do not own nor profit from Margaret Mitchell's beautiful characters. In accordance with producing a transformative work, the source copyrighted elements derived from Gone With The Wind have been removed and Your Mistress, Captain B- has been submitted to the US Copyright Office for copyright protection, thereby the author retains all rights to the original creative work of this story.
Chapter 7
Summer, 1875
A Thousand Miles Apart
She knelt behind him undulating, her naked breasts slicking the perspiration around his back. Scraping her tongue across his shoulder blade, she licked away the salty sheen misting his body. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he glanced over his shoulder, flashing her a colorless smile.
The whiskey he held in his hand sloshed over the glass. Her audacity had not been anticipated. She had lifted his arm and ducked underneath, positioning herself in front of him. The maneuver allowed her to sit astride him and straddle his one leg. Wrapping his arm around her waist and leaning their bodies forward, he set his drink on the night stand while she nipped at the skin on his neck and the underside of his jaw. Furrowing her fingers through his thick hair, she brought her mouth to his—at the precise moment in which he had circumvented her lips to open the drawer.
Enfolding one arm around his neck, she rolled her hips along the length of his leg. His masculine, wiry hair abraded the soft flesh of her inner thighs as she purred, petting him with her damp grotto. She jounced on his knee as he fumbled through the clutter piled in the drawer. Her hand slid from his neck and a finger flicked his nipple. It drew an unhurried path to the valley of his torso and followed the line of his chest hair down to—
"Where is it?"
Shadows quaked. A drawer crashed to a close. She clutched his neck to prevent any further jostling, of which she was certain would entail her backside being unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.
"What?"
"What have you done with my sheath?"
The rounded, guileless eyes, the protruding, swollen lips, the heaving chest—she was the embodiment of a virginal ingénue. Splaying her hand, her fingers dove underneath his chest's patch of hair, massaging and soothing the warm skin. He snatched her wrist overextending her arm as he held her at a safe distance from his body.
"Answer me." Nearly bruising her flesh, his grip compelled her to squeal.
"It—it was there—"
She toppled forward into a tangle of sheets as he sprung from the bed and groped for his clothing. With dispatch, he managed to pull on his trousers and fasten a couple of buttons before ripping his shirt off of the chaise whilst fleeing her chamber. Storming footfalls rushed across the gallery. The artwork on the walls rattled long after his door battered against the hinges.
Grappling for a cocktail glass, he stood buttressed by the table and faced the window in all of his semi-dressed, disheveled glory. His tall frame burdened by a twisted mass of taut sinew straining over bone. His eyes pinched shut, blocking out the harsh glare from the light of a street lamp. A glance was hazarded to his periphery followed by a wavering step towards the armoire. The unfulfilled tumbler slid across the table as he made his way over to the finely crafted doors of the dark mahogany-stained cabinet.
Unsteady fingers opened the left door panel and pulled out the second drawer from the bottom. He shimmied off the sliver-thin sheet of wood, functioning as a false back, which had been inserted into the end piece of the drawer, and out clattered a small key. Ascending again, he guided the top drawer open, claiming the polished writing box reposing against velvet lining in the color of midnight.
He deposited the writing box on the bottom shelf of the armoire, and secured the key in the hole. In one soft click and one hard breath, the lock was discharged. Lifting the cover, he stared at the boon. Staring back at him were the remnants of a coveted life: a mound of daguerreotypes, ribbons, two locks of hair, a baby's necklace, a hand-stitched handkerchief, a note from a child—and the envelope with a crimp in the shape of a quarter moon in the corner.
As the months frittered away, excessive handling had tattered and stained the envelope, eventually eroding the linen fiber. Betimes it was his one true companion—whether the content encased within or nothing more than the envelope itself.
It contained everything. It had changed everything.
"Blanchard H. Sullivan, Esquire." Rhett held his hat in one hand and extended the other as he stepped into the gentleman's office. "To be in the presence of one of Louisiana's greatest legal minds is indeed an honor, sir."
"Well, I'll be," exclaimed the distinguished gentleman pumping Rhett's hand. "If it isn't one of the Confederacy's most infamous renegades and renowned profiteers. This very great honor is all mine, Captain Butler."
Ambling up to the lowboy, Blanchard H. Sullivan, nodded at Rhett to make himself comfortable in one of a matching set of wooden crates, masquerading as suitable seating, positioned in front of the utilitarian desk. The decanter clinked against identical tumblers, slicking each glass with color as it filled the pair with generous swallows of whiskey. Sullivan stepped away from the console and swung a sampling of Kentucky's finest sour mash at Rhett.
Adept at navigating rickety vessels over tempestuous seas, Rhett covered his drink with his palm. The floorboards bowed and crested with every lumbering step as Sullivan maneuvered toward his lopsided swivel chair. Sullivan set his drink on the desk and lowered himself into his seat, shifting his weight from one side to the other, wedging his bulk between the armrests. His groan of satisfaction rose above the cacophony of raucous protestations expelled from underneath him. Rhett paused, interrupting his autonomic reflexes. He held his unlit cigar in the air and rolled his eyes.
"Sully, in lieu of a protracted discussion on the havoc your dinner has just wreaked upon your delicate constitution, let us entertain the notion that the resounding cracker shot was fired by your chair."
"Ah, hell. Beg your pardon, Rhett." Sully slapped his hand on the desk, dust billowing into the stale air. "Look here, now you know how I love Tujague's brisket but sometimes I get a powerful hankering for that there shrimp Guy likes to scare up." Sully groaned, shimmying in his chair and giving his delicate constitution another stir. "Have mercy. That man's roumalade gives my innards the what for every goddamn time!"
Uncorking himself from his confines, Sully rotated his chair ninety degrees and popped out from his seat. He bounded to the window and hoisted the sash, inviting a spittle of pungent New Orleans air to venture within and partake in the affair. Rhett lifted the hand serving to smother his intake of oxygen from underneath his nose and raised his glass up in the air.
"Much obliged."
"Well, now that you're back in N'Orleans, is that sorry hide of yours fixing to stay put for a spell?"
"Your genteel breeding is absent you, Sully. When bechanced upon a dear old friend, one must extend heartfelt salutations, offer up a few banalities, and lavish said dear old friend with excessive flattery."
"Why in the holy hell would I do that?!" Sully's muttonchops flared out like the spines on a puffer. "While you've spent the better part of this past year gallivanting across Europe, I've been back here squirreling 'round after my own tail." Sully crammed himself down between the arm slats. Whirling back around, the man clobbered his hands down on the desk and dropped anchor. The S.S. Sully was coming about. "And besides, you look like hammered shit!"
"It is a damn fine sight to see you, too, Sully."
After a few chest rumbles had been elicited from the dispensing of the rising-to-well-nigh-art-form pleasantries, the gentlemen eased into the next step of the conversational rigmarole.
"Say, Rhett, have you heard of this new fellow passing through town? Goes by the name of Doc Holliday. A good ol' Georgia boy, I hear. Came by way of Philadelphia, on his way to Texas. Been spotted at the tables down on Gallatin."
"At the Amsterdam House?"
"Mmhm. And The Green Tree."
"Young fellow?"
"Mmhm."
"Has he found the folks down here to be hospitable?"
"Nope. Can't rightly say that he has. Folks 'round here haven't taken a shine to him—once he plumb cleaned up at the tables and all."
"Maybe the young buck is merely in want of some mentoring in social etiquette?"
"From the likes of a seasoned gambler, I presume? Best hurry if you are to make the fellow's acquaintance. I suspect he'll be hightailing it out of town soon enough."
In unison, Sully cast his eyes while Rhett cocked his head at the patter coming from the other side of the black walnut door.
"That would be Alfred." Sully cleared an opening in the center of his desk, shoving stacks of papers into all four corners. "Come in."
"A new clerk?"
"Not precisely, no. My sister's boy."
"You asked for Ca-Cap'n Butler's file, Uncle—er, sir?" A high-pitched lilt squeaked out from a crown of sandy curls and docile eyes peeping through a slice of opened door.
"Well? Don't just stand there stiff as a week-old turd! Bring it on over here!"
Barely fifteen years of age and hardly outgrown his knickerbockers, Alfred's timid step stuttered as he loped in with Rhett's dossier. The fair-skinned boy shied a wide girth around the fabled blackguard and placed the folder into Sully's outstretched hand. Alfred took a reverential step backwards away from Rhett, nearly toppling into the bookcase set in the corner. Readying himself for the cursory inspection, he straightened his shirt and tucked it around his suspenders and down his breeches. His palm flattened the curls that sprung out from his skewed side part, and his eyes watched his feet rub off the scuffs marking the tips of his shoes.
"Open your mouth and greet Captain Butler, boy."
"I-it is a right privilege to meet you, sir." Alfred wrapped one arm around his torso and the other behind his back, and extended his bow below the waist. He propelled himself upright, staring in open-mouth wonder at Rhett for an incomprehensible amount of time until the romantic idolatry of youth freed his tongue. "Did you really steal all that gold, Cap'n Butler?"
"Alfred." Rhett nodded with a smile that could have damned near blinded the Devil himself. "The honor is all mine, son."
Glancing up from another round of vigorous pecking and sorting, Sully smacked a pile of documents onto the desk and sighed. "Close your mouth, boy."
He then snapped his fingers and hiked his thumb at the exit, accelerating Alfred's departure.
"Your nephew seems a mite... timid, Sully."
"The boy's got a sound mind. All he needs is a little learning."
"A trip down to Basin Street might be just the learning that would improve the soundness of his mind."
"Whatever chicanery you're conjuring up, get it out of your head, Butler." Sully's brows slammed down his nose. "And don't you start thundering at him on your way out, neither. I ain't about to send that boy back on home to his mama after he'd done pissed himself!"
Rhett pitched his open hands high above his head in surrender. The fiendish cigar still perched in the corner of his mouth wiggled with delight. Relaxing in the chair, he crossed his ankle on top of his knee and lounged against the backrest while Sully continued to prioritize Rhett's folderful of life's little inconveniences.
Sully gathered up the thick envelopes into his even thicker fingers, the substance of each missive mirroring the one prior. Aligning the bottoms with a crack on the desk, he turned them on their side, and for good measure, whacked the surface once more. Propping his elbow on the corner of the desktop, Sully held the bundle in the air, suspending the envelopes over the ledge.
"Five."
Rhett altered his posture and closed off his expression, settling bereft, black eyes on a distant point in space. With a slight shake of his head, he dismissed the overture along with the unspoken admonition. Sully loosened his grip allowing each of the five envelopes to slide from his palm and cascade into a waste bin biding below. Rhett directed his attention towards the window, expelling a sullen breath. Sully followed suit, quieting his boisterous baritone. "They're just going to keep on coming, Rhett."
Rhett gestured at the docket, the tick in his jaw indicating his interest resided only with any subsequent order of business. "So, what has kept our industrious Mr. Smith occupied during my pilgrimage?"
"Pilgrimage? Is that what they are calling it nowadays?"
"Mission... Hegira... Odyssey..." Rhett bandied about amended nomenclatures at a pair of crusty, silver brows incrementally rising with each utterance. "Semantics aside, myself being a tad weary as of late, it was imperative that I felt the gentle touch of divine enlightenment upon my brow."
"By spending the past six months befouling the motherland of all and sundry?"
"I grant you, the route to my spiritual awakening was not necessarily the devout journey that I had initially envisioned."
Sully guffawed at Rhett's shrugging shoulders. "Well, it appears that Mr. Smith has been a busy fellow as of late. He and his partner have set up a new company, A. R. Smith—incorporated out of Ohio. They have interests here in N'Orleans and along the Atlantic Seaboard."
"What is their billing?"
"They claim to be commission merchants."
"Are they cotton factors?"
"Yes and no. They have dealt in cotton and tobacco, but my understanding is that they have also dabbled in consignments, as well as shipping—imports, exports, and the like. The assets of the partnership consist of a couple of steamers and a majority stake in a transport consortium. But in truth, they're nothing more than your every day, run-of-the-mill opportunists—"
"Praying to hit the head on a dime, I reckon." Rhett interjected smoothing down the ends of his mustache. What began as a twinkle in his eye ignited into a blaze. "I would presume, that at present, these gentlemen are aggressively seeking an ungodly amount of capital to further their various business interests."
"A presumption of any sort is not necessary. If an ungodly rich investor—such as yourself—were to enter into a courtship with the company's principles, I believe that the gentlemen would be most ardent lovers. Now I ask you, Captain Butler, what is sweeter than an eager whore?"
"Hmm." Underlying deviltry could not be quelled, rearing to the surface as the corners of Rhett's mouth raised to the rafters. "I daresay, it has been ages since I've had a good stroking."
Sully grunted and grinned. "Well, when the occasion arises, you know where to find me."
Sully exhaled, and the second hand on the clock never ceased. Rhett exhaled, and the atmosphere deflated.
Sully's countenance grew pensive as he wiped down the bristles fringing his jowls. The dreaded moment had arrived when inconsequential business matters were set aside. Rhett slumped in the chair resting his elbows on his knees. He bowed his head below his shoulders and gazed up at Sully, questioning him from underneath hooded brows.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
Sully winced. All that remained in the wake of the chair screeching across the wooden floor was a four-inch gouge as Rhett propelled himself out of his seat and stalked over to the back window.
"I am sorry, Rhett, but there's only such much that can be done."
"I have spared neither worry nor expense and all I have to hold in my hand is another apology?"
"Look here, Rhett. I've hired out two men to pursue this day and night. Now, if you're willing to put up more money, I'd just as soon take it as the next fellow. But as your friend, I have given you what another hired man won't—the truth."
"Of late, your version of the truth resembles an appeasement conveniently cast in quicksand, Sully."
"What more do you expect? What more can you expect? Think about what we had just talked about. Look at all the changes that are happening throughout this nation. Consider Rockefeller's oil and Vanderbilt's railways. No sooner than John D. had put Standard on the map, he and The Commodore have done naught but dip each other's wick.
"Hell, ever since those two have been in bed together, this country has birthed over twenty thousand miles of rail—Twenty... Thousand... Miles. And what do you think happens after all that track has been laid down? I'll tell you what happens. In the blink of an eye, another little piss-ant town has just sprung up around the next bend.
"Think of the implications, Rhett. Damn near anybody can walk up to the depot and purchase a one-way ticket to anywhere. For the price of a stub of paper, they can cast off their lot and buy themselves a whole new life. That's all it takes—a piece of paper no bigger than your thumb and the desire to be gone."
"Sully, don't misconstrue what I am about to say. Be assured, it is nothing personal, but I have contacted Pinkerton."
"PINKERTON?! God in heaven!" In cahoots with his lower lip, his jowls bobbed about. "Would you be so kind, good sir, as to regale me with an account of your European enlightenment? Had you, perchance, staggered out from a pub and into the Atlantic? Had some ancient relic fallen from the sky and conked you on the head? Forgive me, Rhett, but I simply lack the power in imagining you all gussied up in one of your fancy suits whilst living in a cave!"
"Sully, I am fully aware of Pinkerton's raid on the James' farmhouse this past January."
"Jesse's mother was maimed and his younger brother was killed!"
"The outcome was unfortunate."
"Unfortunate, yes. Appropriate...? I reckon it will do me no good to understand the workings of your mind. It now appears that we are not of a similar bent. I hired investigators. You want mercenaries." Sully tipped his head to one shoulder mulling over the revelation. "It's your business, Rhett, but I can't help but wonder, is it your fervent wish to find her... or to hunt her down?"
Still sculpted and beautiful, still powerful and graceful—yet forever restless—the aging thoroughbred pulled out the antique timepiece from his fob pocket and ignored the barrage.
"You know, Rhett, for the past couple of years I've kept Clarabelle. Now, I know her charms can't hold a candle to the beauties that have always graced your arm, but she suits me just fine. She's obliging, available, and not so terribly demanding. Don't misunderstand me, there were some matters that needed a hammer to the head, but now that everything has been set to rights, I couldn't be more pleased."
"How much did it cost you?"
"Not much at all—a little shotgun house down on St. Andrew's and an allowance with enough for a shiny new bauble every now and again."
Once spoken aloud, the pretty words felt leaden, sounding tired and flat to the ear. Sully swiveled his chair and faced the drooping shelves overburdened with leather-bound tomes of codification. Sinking into a glumness of which few people save the other man in the room could comprehend, Sully slouched in his chair. He rested his clasped hands on his stomach and honed in on a faded daguerreotype smiling back at him from behind a gleaming silver frame. The sparkling glass and polished border made the incongruity of the pristine photograph all the more stark when situated amid the dust motes cloaking every exposed surface. Sorrow hung heavy until the unnatural silence was intruded upon by Sully's chest struggling to rise and fall with a lone shuddering breath.
"How long has it been since Adelaide's passing?"
"My Addie will be gone three years come this October." Sully's cravat remained tucked underneath his second chin, and buried somewhere within his collar. He tilted his threaded hands outward from his stomach and stared at his palms. "Aw, hell. Who knows? Maybe one day the sun will shine again."
Sully contemplated the man of great contradictions cemented to the window in the opposite corner of his office. The disharmonious moment droned on as murky undercurrents belied the tranquility of the scene. The walls became an enclosure, a pen separating the pair from a world of boundless horizons, of simple joys, and of freedom. In a mere transformative moment, the men were mortal no more; they were creatures—confined and dispirited. The old plow horse exhaled another long, drawn out sigh and chanced another look at the proud yet bridled stallion staring out into an unrecognizable world.
"You've kept your actress for over a year now. You reckon it's about time you fixed your intentions with that girl?" Sully hesitated briefly, softening his tone. "You're a good man, Rhett, and a good friend. And as your friend, allow me to say this and do you a good turn."
Sully abided the extended quietude until Rhett surrendered to eventuality.
"Speak your peace."
"Stop lying to yourself. She's gone and she intends to stay gone. And that, my friend, is the truth that you seek. You are never going to find her. "
"I lost my footing and fell down... a... a couple of steps."
"A 'couple'?" Dr. Morris parroted as he queried Scarlett with no small ration of incredulity. She steadied her chin with aplomb, donning an air of hauteur of which could rival the condescension of an empress. He ran bony fingers through his thinning hair, further mussing the unruly ginger strands that streaked across his crown, and sighed in disgust.
The gaucheness tainting his reaction revealed his personal discontent with enduring the trials as Norfolk's prominent physician. Seated before him was another reticent young woman, which in turn meant another crude diagnosis extracted from a consultation mired in posturing and shame. He pushed his round-rimmed glasses up and over the sizable slope on his aquiline nose.
Mesmerized by the slightest gesticulation, Scarlett's lips silently tallied the freckles on the back of his spindly hands and generous forehead. She determined not to return to her home that day until her arms were laden with a bounty of frilly gloves and pink sun bonnets for Ella.
"Other than some... bruising... did you receive any other injuries from your fall?"
Bruising! Mortified and riled, Scarlett snatched her reticule, yanking the string along with herself from the chair. She had to break free from that arrogant man's barb coiling around her throat. However, her attempt to make a swift escape was stymied by a soft knock. Dr. Morris glanced toward the door, slightly ajar, and addressed the nurse. "Yes, Mother?"
Scarlett held her breath and extended her arm behind her, blindly reaching to find the seat of the chair. Mrs. Morris sought her out but Scarlett had to avert her eyes. The matron floated into the room wearing a dove gray-colored basque with a delicate Mother of Pearl broach adorning the high collar, trimmed with starched-white lace. Her eyes shone of the softest silver, and her hair had the look of soft wisps lining a cloud.
To the dispassionate eye, Mrs. Morris was a pleasing yet unremarkable woman, but to Scarlett, she personified a particular loveliness. Her hands were gentle and warm. Her countenance was honest and kind. She laughed with her eyes. She exuded grace and strength. Yes, to Scarlett, she was the embodiment of compassion—and deep within, Scarlett longed to be soothed by this woman's embrace.
"I beg your pardon." Mrs. Morris stepped into the office holding Scarlett's gloves in her hand. "You left these in the examination room, dear." Mrs. Morris' presence had such a profound effect on Scarlett's equanimity that Scarlett lowered her lashes and pulled in her bottom lip, lest Dr. Morris should see her as another weak female.
"Thank you, Mother."
Soon after Mrs. Morris' departure, Scarlett conducted a handful—or possibly, a peck—of covert glances, scanning Dr. Morris' features: the beady eyes, the beak of a nose, the scrawny physique, the unkempt hair.
He was a buzzard.
But how could that be? How could a buzzard be the offspring of a mourning dove?
"I don't understand, Dr. Morris." Scarlett retook her seat and renewed her determination of cutting off the blood flow in her index finger, at present tangled around the string of her satchel. "I came here because I was feeling tired is all."
"How far along were you when you miscarried?"
"About three months."
"Prior to your fall and subsequent miscarriage, have you had a history of difficulties with your other pregnancies?"
"No."
"Do you find that you are experiencing any ongoing troubles since your fall?"
Dr. Morris continued his interrogation with his brows nearing his stratospheric hairline.
"Every once in a while, after a long day, my back tends to tire easily."
Scarlett traded her gloves and handkerchief from one hand to the other, tugging at buttons and knotting lace around her fingers before each exchange.
"In taking into consideration that you had suffered a miscarriage from your fall, did your doctor address the possibility of having more children?"
"Dr. Meade said I was fit as a fiddle. As a matter of fact, he thought the best thing for me was to—" Scarlett hiccuped into the wadded bundle of linen pressed against her lips mumbling, "I don't understand."
Dr. Morris rubbed his fingers along his forehead, uttering a profanity. He steepled his hands in prayer and supported his elbows on the desk. His sight line wandered no further than his fingertips.
"There has been some research that came out of Harvard University this year past regarding internal medicine..." He squinted at Scarlett over the top of his spectacles, observing her coping—and failing—to maintain a detached affectation. All that he saw was pretense. "Well, I suppose that is neither here nor there." He pushed his glasses up above his brow and pinched the bridge of his nose. "By all accounts, I have determined from my examination—and according to what you were willing to reveal—it would appear that your body's ability to withstand bearing another child has been compromised."
The clock on the mantle ticked for several seconds in a room filling with a sickening calm.
"No."
"Madam—"
"No."
"I am sorry, but I'm afraid that I will have to counter Dr. Meade's good opinion and advise you to refrain from having any more children."
"I came here because I was tired is all."
"A symptom of what I believe is a direct result of your fall. I must be blunt, madam. In your current physical state, you—your body—does not have the strength to carry another child. If you wish to discuss methods of prevention, there are... ways..."
Scarlett was at the door, fumbling for the knob long before her chair had ceased wobbling around the floor.
"I thank you for your time, Dr. Morris. If you will excuse me, I-I'm late for—excuse me."
Hastening her way downtown to anywhere, Scarlett found her steps frozen to the front window of the local watchmaker, C. F. Greenwood on Tidewater Street. The mellifluous chimes of a custom Mermod Frères music box rising above the city's daily pandemonium arrested her attention.
She stepped up to the glass, placing her fingers on the pane. A feeling of purity resonated over her and the wafting melody filled with sweetness lightened her heart. Spellbound was Scarlett by the comb as it picked and flounced, the tines danced their way across the gleaming brass cylinder. Consumed by the familiar strains of a delicate flowing air—so soft, so ethereal—Scarlett's lashes fell, brushing her cheeks as her mind reawakened a hidden yet treasured memory.
The abomination. The injustice. The mortification.
Oh, how wretched was she!
Scarlett stuffed herself back into the downy haven of the silk-covered pillows overflowing with ruffles and lace. Underneath her weight, feathers collapsed and molded themselves to her tiny figure. Her person, harboring a scowl and arms folded across her wriggling belly, upturned her nose at the ceiling's painted mural heralding the saints and apostles alike, floating high above the clouds.
Her eyes traveled a threadbare path, woven of vexation, from the delicate pink ribbons dotted along her dressing gown, to the invitation on the salver, and back to the empty expanse at foot of her bed. Her petal-soft lips shriveled into a pout.
Scarlett smoothed her dressing gown as she glided her hands down her sides and swaddled the underside of her rounded stomach. She first kicked up her left foot and then the right, and after a few huffs and a couple of puffs, Godey's latest edition two-stepped across her tummy and flopped onto the floor.
"Go away!" She shrieked over the fructiferous girth anchoring her to the bedclothes. Her eyes narrowed into two lines of dark lashes aimed at the interloper breaching the threshold. No one dare intrude upon her prostration of which entailed endless wallowing in a hefty dose of pique.
"Good evening, my pet. If I may be so bold, I must say that your confinement has done wonders for your complexion." Scarlett opened one eye and glared at Rhett positioning himself at the side of the bedstead, casting a shadow over her. "My dear, you have never looked lovelier."
"Why am I being punished for having a baby?"
"Ah, yes. How does the saying go, 'The meek shall inherit the earth... after the indignant and indisposed have scorched it', of course."
"That's not how the saying goes."
"If I placed your hand on The Bible, would you swear by your knowledge that lies between the covers, my little theologian?"
"I don't know what that word, 'thogian'—"
"Theologian." Rhett enunciated.
"—means, but I know that what you said is not right."
"Shall I call upon the pietism of either the ladies Meade or Merriwether to sanctify a biblical passage of such momentous import?"
"How difficult would it be to get a blessing to fall from one of their mouths? First, you must dangle a dollar bill underneath their nose and then say that it's for The Cause. And then, look down at your feet. I guarantee, the sight before you would be a pair of old pea hens spit-shining your shoes."
"Darling, I could dump a wagon-load of greenbacks, fertilized by my own groveling, upon the most sanctimonious stoops in Atlanta, and my due comeuppance would still be in arrears. It pains me to say that even your rich, scalawag of a husband can not afford to purchase a commission granting himself a welcomed embrace within the heaving bosoms of those old pea hens."
Ever it be so ladylike, Scarlett trumpeted her concurrence out through her nose. She traced his movements as Rhett scooted her aside and seated himself next to her on the bed.
"Are you going out?" Scarlett pinched her brows together bemused by his choice of attire. Donning black evening slacks, a brilliant-white silk vest and a matching shirt, he appeared to be in the midst of preparing to spend the evening about Atlanta. And yet, he sat beside her in a casual state of dress, for he had relieved himself of his coat and cravat, and came to her with an opened shirt collar.
"In a matter of speaking, I won't be going out, but I will be entertaining this evening." Rhett bent down and picked up Godey's Ladies Journal, setting it atop another invitation to a carpetbagger's ball on the tray.
"It's not fair, Rhett. It's just not fair! Right this very minute, the whole entire world is all dressed up, drinking champagne, and dancing the night away while I'm lying here and getting bigger by the minute!"
"Did I ever mention Gabby Flanders to you? She was the belle of Dorchester County." Rhett expounded at the disinterested scrunch of Scarlett's nose. "Dorchester is the next county over from Charleston." An aspect of nostalgia overtook him and softened his features. Sighing, he lifted his chin up to the heavenly frescoes painted across his ceiling and cocked his head to the side. Unable to bear opening both eyes at once, he cringed at the harsh glare beaming off the slipshod representation of the Sistine Chapel. "My, but she was a fine young thing."
"What the—?! Why should I give a fig about some scrawny, whey-faced nin—" Scarlett clamped her hand over her mouth. A devilish glint fired as her brightened eyes cut to Rhett. "Pray tell, Rhett, was she your first love?"
"You are mistaken on both scores, my pet. Firstly and to the latter point, I did not carry a tendre for Gabby and secondly, by no means could Gabby's figure have ever been misconstrued as 'scrawny'. As a matter of opinion, some folks would actually say that she was quite healthy, even a mite plump."
"Is there a point to this story, other than to drive me to distraction?"
"Ah, patience—thy name is Scarlett. Although a bit Rubinesque in size, for four years running Gabby had managed to take home the blue ribbon for every contest that she had entered at the county fair. My point is this, my dear, have you ever heard of the proverb, 'beauty lies within the eye of the beholder'?"
"Did she ever win a beauty contest strutting around eight months pregnant and fat as a hog?!"
"Scarlett, darling," Rhett brought her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss on the back of her wrist. "Gabby was a hog."
"YOU SKUNK!"
Rhett reared back distancing himself from the unfurling winds of wrath barreling at him. "If Lars Flanders were alive today, he would not take kindly to the scorn of which you have so cruelly foisted upon his dear Gabby. Why, she was his prized sow and the pride of Dorchester County."
Unable to bridge the distance between them, Scarlett punched and kicked the air until worn breathless. However, never one to succumb to defeat, she pummeled her elbows into the mattress and pedaled her feet against the growing puddle of linens and goose down drowning her feet. Neither leverage nor gravity proved trustworthy allies in her battle to push herself up into a sitting position. As ought expected of a dutiful husband, Rhett tucked away a Cheshire grin and extended his hand, aiding her into an upright attitude.
Futile assistance aside, Scarlett had yet to achieve success in attaining an increasingly insurmountable goal of touching her toes. She extended her right arm across her rounded belly and heaved herself onto her side, stretching her wriggling fingers towards her left foot. It was for naught. Attempting once more to methodically skin that age-old cat, Scarlett flung her left arm across her right side and rolled, and grunted, and twisted. "God's nightgown!" She flopped her back against the pillows. "Oh, just give it to me!"
"Of what are you referring to, my dear?" Rhett craned his neck at the pace of a tortoise moving in 3/2 time, twisting his chin across his right shoulder. With his left arm trailing in languid pursuit, he pointed his finger over yon fecund hill towards his dearest one's limbs, still flailing but with a trifle less vigor. "Your slipper?"
"YES!" Scarlett's flapping hand gathered strength as the tendons temporarily disconnected themselves from her wrist. "Give it to me!"
Rhett outstretched his arm and gently dislodged the mule from the slightly swollen foot that was within his reach. From the tip of the rounded toe to the back of the half-inch heel, the delicate satin slipper was dyed a hue as vibrant as the rosiest rose and topped off with an ostrich feather to boot. Rhett placed the sandal in the palm of his hand. Bowing his head in reverence, he gestured with a flourish as he presented his highness with her coveted prize.
"Thank you, Rhett." Scarlett flashed him a smile sweeter than tea, taking great care in retrieving her slipper, lifting it with the mere tips of her fingers. Once secure in her grasp, she fluffed the plumes adorning the mule and then... proceeded to whale the ever-loving Imperial stitching right off of his silver-threaded, brocade vest!
Whilst enduring several hellish moments of fending off the royal flogging, Rhett held his powerful arms out before him, conveying his innermost sentiments with a sniff: his fingernails were indeed due for a trim. Appearing satisfied with his inspection, he captured her wrist in mid-strike, relieving Scarlett of her fuzzy lethal truncheon. "Forgive me, my queen, for interrupting my most thorough anointing, but are you aware that you have been wearing a pair of mismatched houseshoes this entire time?"
"I can't see my feet, you varmint!"
"Ah, I have erred." Rhett fluttered a kiss upon the tip of her nose and surrendered her weapon of choice. Ill-disguised was the somber look of contrition—it being tattled on by a juddering lip beneath a twitching mustache. He pulled his expansive shoulders back, puffed out his chest, and lifted his aristocratic chin. The fanciful wrinkles on the plaits of his vest were smoothed down followed by a couple of tugs to the bottom hem. Squeezing his eyes tight and adding a wee bit of panache, Rhett drawled, "Then by all means, carry on."
Pulling a face that could be only rivaled to her inaugural sucking on a particularly tart lemon, Scarlett kept her fiery stare affixed on Rhett as she hurtled the plumage across her body and onto the floor. Of equal parts innocence and insolence, Rhett took her by the hands encouraging Scarlett to rise from the alter whereby she had effectually been christened the sacred bearer of the Butler issue.
"Come with me, darling."
"Where?"
"You shall see." Rhett secured her fingers around the crook of his arm, leading her towards the bedroom door. "Close your eyes."
"But... my slipper."
Exasperated by the lengthy waddle down the hallowed halls of the Peachtree mansion, Scarlett stomped her foot. "Why am I standing in the middle of the ballroom?" Umbrage boomed throughout the cavernous hall, bouncing off the four corners and tinkling the crystal bijou dangling from the chandeliers.
She spun on her heel espying his muscular back concealing some silly contraption resting upon a small serving table abutting the wall. "Rhett, what in the devil are you fiddling with?"
"Hush." He tossed Scarlett a crooked grin over his shoulder. Scarlett crossed her arms atop her belly and groaned.
"Rhe—"
A second nonverbal reprimand by way of a pointing finger and hush she did, silenced by that determined, confident air that only he possessed as he strode towards her.
Rhett draped one arm around her waist, and with his other hand, he gently entwined their fingers. Scarlett touched his shoulder, sliding her hand over his vest, the unbuttoned collar, and caressed his neck. She held her breath as her fingers found their way to his skin, seeking the warmth—the hypnotic rhythm—of his pulse.
The dulcet melody began to flow, the harmonies building and enhancing the beauty of the air, and together, they took their first step. The count was inconsequential for their bodies knew only each other, sensing the natural rhythm of the other as Rhett led Scarlett in their waltz. He splayed his fingers, caressing the small of her back, and brought her body flush with his. Scarlett melted into his chest cloaking herself—
"Stop!"
Rhett jerked his head back at Scarlett's uncharacteristic stumble and released her from his embrace. His dark eyes queried, failing to ascertain her intent as she grappled with his arm for support. She bent over with her pert derriere bobbing about in a manner that were equally endearing and inelegant. Still bemused by her abrupt change in comportment, Rhett's mustache twitched readying his tongue to inquire—until a mint green jacquard slipper with a golden tassel somersaulted past his head.
"There. Much better." Scarlett straightened herself and wriggled back into Rhett's waiting arms. In the detection of his amusement, her own expression, once beaming of self-satisfaction, transformed into one of tweaked irritation. Scarlett thrust herself upwards onto the dainty tips of her unshod toes. All the while staring him down, she butted her belly into Rhett's torso followed by an impressive knocking of his forehead with hers. "Stop your infernal laughing, Rhett Butler, and start twirling me around!"
"As you wish, my darling." Rhett chuckled, nuzzling his nose against the shell of her ear. Scarlett felt his smile grow against her neck, causing a frisson to erupt over her skin and her nightgown to shimmy at her feet. She would never know the lovely vision that she was as she rested her head against his chest with her eyes closed and wearing a breathtaking smile. All that mattered to her was being in that moment when he would lead her in the dance.
"Is that a music box, Rhett?" Scarlett mused as they glided in the direction of the instrument. "It sounds different."
"Yes, it is a music box and there are some subtle differences in the mechanisms."
"Whyever for?"
"For potential, my dear. Some time back, while I was traveling through Saxony, I had struck up a friendship with the inventor—a fellow by the name of Lochmann. He recognized my interest and was gracious enough to ship me a functional prototype."
"It mostly sounds like any other music box to me." Scarlett hemmed, but then slipped in a kittenish admission at seeing the twist in Rhett's mouth. "Well, maybe it is a mite prettier."
"The reason is because unlike any other music box that is equipped with a cylinder, the sound comes from a round, flat disk—similar to a dinner plate. And unlike a cylinder, the discs are interchangeable."
"Interchangeable? Does that mean that it can play more than one song?"
"That is exactly what it means, my shrewd little wife. I had supposed that if this contraption had struck your fancy, I would consider investing in Lochmann's company. Do you like it?"
"I do like it." Scarlett snuggled closer into his arms ever tightening around her. Their steps in the waltz became a shuffling of their feet. "I like it very much."
"Well then, I'm pleased."
"Rhett, is this Serenade?" Scarlett wondered aloud after humming a few bars. "You remembered, didn't you?"
"I will never tell." Rhett shushed their swaying bodies and cradled her face, his thumb caressing her cheek.
A look of tenderness softened her features as she stared into the intense light smoldering within Rhett's eyes. She would never know how deeply afflicted was he when she would bestow onto him her lustrous eyes, colored brilliant by warmth and affection. She would never know that within her own beautiful eyes, she forever held the power to steal his breath.
And yet it was he that stole hers.
With his mouth hovering above her own, Scarlett's hands fisted the bulky stitching woven throughout his brocade vest; her breathing descending into shallow pants. She rolled her head back onto her shoulders and let herself feel the rush of his warm breath against her skin. The knuckles on Rhett's hand, dimpling the flesh in the small of her back, whitened. His breathing quickened in time with hers. She watched—he waited—until her tongue wet the delicate skin of her parted lips. Rhett clasped his hand around the back of her neck, and with a swiftness that made Scarlett gasp, his mouth crashed down on hers.
Within their intimate embrace, romantic touches gave way to instinctual desires. Rhett plundered, delving deep into the warmth of her mouth and forcing her jaw to relax. His tongue prodded and stroked nary allowing a breath to pass between them. Scarlett's only response was to rake her fingers through his hair and moan her encouragement while burrowing into his protective chest. He would never know that he was the only man that caused her nails to make indentations in her palms and her toes curl under.
The kisses grew longer. The caresses grew bolder. The need became greater until—
"So beautiful." he groaned against her lips. And without warning, a bout of insecurity pricked the surface. Scarlett's arms, once tightly wound around Rhett's neck, broke apart and fell the front of his vest. She bowed her head and all that could be heard was a whimper.
"Darling?" He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted her face, and beheld eyes swimming with the heart-wrenching tears of a child. Scarlett slid her arms away and encased her swollen belly.
"Rhett, do you think I'm ugly?"
"Aw, honey." Rhett dropped to one knee. Running his hands down her arms, he threaded their fingers together. A sigh left him as his eyes drifted shut, warming Scarlett with his opened-mouth kiss so lovingly placed upon her stomach. Scarlett quivered above him, uttering not a sound as they locked eyes. "I should have spirited you away to Europe—France or Italy—and you would not have had to suffer society. You would have been admired, revered even, for the ethereal beauty that only comes from being an expectant mother.
"And as for myself, I would have walked a little taller, for there is nothing greater that can fill a man with pride than knowing that the lovely creature at his side is carrying his child."
"Thank you," came her watery reply. She did not recognize nor could describe the look in his eyes, and yet, in their depths she found the reassurance that she craved. Scarlett felt his reluctance in releasing their entwined hands as he stood, but the bereft feeling evaporated and they cuddled in his embrace once again.
"Do you feel better, darling?" Scarlett sniffled nodding against his chest. He ventured on, his tone growing decidedly playful. "Well, I'm relieved, for there is a dearth of anecdotes in my repertoire befitting our conversation—and, at this moment, I am not altogether certain that espousing the sagacity of Benjamin Franklin likening you to a cargo ship would have served me well."
Scarlett's pursed lips fought a mighty battle, waging a war against burgeoning dimples. Grabbing Rhett by the hair at the back of his neck and pulling his head down to her lips, she whispered in his ear. "You're a no good skunk, Rhett Butler." Sinking her teeth into his skin, she taunted. "And I don't like skunks."
Rhett turned his cheek and brushed his warm lips over the shell of her ear. "Of course you don't, darling, " he whispered flicking his tongue over her lobe. "You love skunks."
Scarlett lifted her fingers from Greenwood's window pane separating her from the music box, and rested her downcast eyes on her muslin skirt crushed within her fist.
"Oh, Rhett." Freeing the material from her grasp and smoothing the wrinkles, she despaired openly. "Are you finally at peace?"
"Are you well, child?"
Scarlett jumped back from the storefront, blinking herself back into the moment. She stared into those kind, soft gray eyes crinkled with concern. "Mrs. Morris?" She stammered. "No. No, ma'am. I'm fine."
"You were beside yourself when you left my son's office." Mrs. Morris' straightened two fingers from the scallop-edged handkerchief ensconced in her grasp and placed them on Scarlett's forearm. She gestured her head toward an empty park bench agreeably situated in a gated patch of grass, underneath a red maple residing near the river bank. "Would you indulge me for a moment or two? I most certainly could wrest a little reprieve from this suffocating heat."
Her stride lacked fluidity as Scarlett was led to the lush green where they proceeded to sit beneath the leaves' canopy. Turning to Scarlett, Mrs. Morris smiled letting out a friendly sigh and plopping her clasps hands in her lap. "Well, here we are."
"Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Morris." Scarlett placed her hand on the armrest and bent forward as she began to rise. "If you will excuse me—"
"Please?" Mrs. Morris tugged Scarlett's sleeve.
"I am unaccustomed to being spoken to in that way."
"I beg your forgiveness. My son means no offense. I believe he has inherited his gruff manner from his father." Mrs. Morris eyes mirrored the unease in her faltering smile. She pulled her lips between her teeth, gathering her composure. "You see, my late husband was a physician for thirty-four years. He was a good doctor and a good man, but he was a bit old-fashioned—set in his ways, you might say."
"Mrs. Morris, an apology is not necessary."
"I would wish to extend it all the same—along with an explanation." Mrs. Morris hesitated long enough for Scarlett to nod her acquiescence and began anew. "A few years back my son had just returned from medical school with his head full of newfangled ideas and soon after, assisted my husband in his practice.
"Goodness! What a trying time it was to live in the same house with that stubborn pair. They did not see eye-to-eye on most everything, and in particular, the care of women.
"As it happened, one of my son's first lessons regarding the concerns of a doctor came by way of treating a young married woman—a girl, really. She had never received suitable care and when she had finally sought his help, she had already born two children and was nearing confinement with her third." Her voice softened, barely audible. "Both her and the baby died before the child came to term."
"Stillborn?"
"No. Her situation went far beyond..." Mrs. Morris pulled her hand back from Scarlett's arm, committing herself to fretting the lace on the handkerchief still within her grasp. "The girl's suffering was simply more than she could bear. Although my son has not spoken of it since, I believe that he has always carried that young woman's sorrow with him." Through her periphery, Scarlett cautioned a wary glance at Mrs. Morris. "My son is an excellent doctor, but he differs greatly from his peers in that he is not so nearly insensitive to the struggles that are integral to becoming both a woman and a mother."
Scarlett trembled, unsure if it was a gust of wind or Mrs. Morris' true intent in conversing with her that left her to shiver. Regardless of the cause, the effect was the immediate rise of her hackles.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morris, but your son doesn't know the first thing about me."
"And I beg to differ. He knows enough."
"There is no need to dance around me. I know what you are trying to say, and it is not true!" Scarlett's upper lip curled under exposing gritted teeth. "It was an accident!"
"Struck by a familiar hand—of that, I am certain!"
"Leave me be."
"Please, child! Please? Allow me to say this and I shall never encroach upon your privacy again."
Scarlett slumped her shoulders, and the ire weighting down upon her slid away. Exhaustion would not allow her to withstand the woman's perseverance. She met Mrs. Morris's concerned expression with eyes brimming in sadness. A slight dip of Scarlett's chin said yes, she would stay. Mrs. Morris eased nearer to Scarlett and pointed toward the Chesapeake Bay. "The best time to watch the ships coming into the harbor is at dusk. Their majesty, when cast against the colors of twilight, can be breathtaking."
"Then, I must make it a habit to take my exercise near the bay more often."
Scarlett veered her emerald eyes away from the sparkling water towards Mrs. Morris, who had been scrutinizing her with an expectant look. Scarlett cleared her throat, acknowledging that she understood the role she must play in ensuring their tête-à-tête remained a clandestine affair. Both women broke eye contact and, utilizing the scenery before them as a centric point, focused their sights on the ships floating along the Elizabeth River.
"You must not disregard my son's opinion of the dangers that would face you if you were to have another baby. I sought you out because I need to make you aware of the measures that a woman can take to protect herself, especially if she is solely reliant upon the charity of her husband's regard."
Scarlett felt the edge of a stiff piece of card stock being wedged into the palm of her hand resting itself on the seat between the women.
"Here." Mrs. Morris intoned softly. "Take this piece of paper to Terry's shop down on Water Street. Request an audience with Mr. Lewis, but be discreet. He is the druggist, and he will take care of everything."
"Pinkham's Tablets." Scarlett voiced her alarm as she read the notes written on the back of the card. "Prevents 'uterine tumors'?"
"The tablets are to ward off any disruptions to your body's natural cycle. They are perfectly safe. I can vouch for countless women that swear by them."
"But the new chastity laws—are these not illegal?"
"Heavens no, dear. They are perfectly legal to sell and buy"—a mischievous smirk broke through Mrs. Morris' mien of solemnity—"just so long as you go about it in the proper manner.
"Listen carefully, dear. Upon entering the shop, if you find that there are other customers about, again, be circumspect. You must inform Mr. Lewis of what ails you in precise terms. Tell him that you have been suffering from 'the worst female complaints'. He will know of what you are speaking, and if it is required of him, he will re-dispense the pills into a plain, dark bottle."
Scarlett stared down at the card partially hidden in her skirt. Her head jolted upon feeling Mrs. Morris' gentle touch awaken her from her stupor. Capturing a schooner dancing along to the rhythm of the river, Scarlett appeared transfixed by the hypnotic motion. Her eyes never strayed from the ship as she whispered, "And you say these pills will not harm me?"
"I would not have asked for your consideration if I had suspected anything to the contrary." Mrs. Morris caught the flutter of a chestnut-colored frock coat, eyeing a figure swaggering toward the bench. "Well, I must be on my way."
"Thank you, Mrs. Morris. Truly, you have been too kind."
Mrs. Morris cradled Scarlett's cheek, imparting a meaningful look. "Heal yourself, child, and be well."
Scarlett sensed his nearness before he had entered into her periphery. She squeezed the card digging into the bed of her hand and shoved it to the bottom of her reticule.
"Your presence was anticipated at the warehouse twenty minutes ago."
Scarlett bristled at the familiar click of a pocket watch snapping shut. Colluding with a stern countenance and an accusatory tone, the dramatization was a tactic employed whenever he elected to belabor his unequivocal opinion on punctuality.
"Mrs. Morris wished to speak with me, Andrew." She spat over her shoulder and made the bald statement of refusing to look at him. "What would you have me do, put her off?"
"What of your complaint that would require the gentlewoman to neglect her duties in the middle of the day?"
"Nothing so dire. Upon the by, Dr. Morris says that I'm well. Thank you for your concern." Her crooning was sarcasm itself.
Andrew rubbed his hands down his face, wincing as he sank next to her on the bench. She sensed a softening in his touch as he placed his hand over top of her fingers fused together in her lap.
"So you are not ill?"
"No."
"I apologize for failing to couch my irritation. When my ship docked this morning, I had wished for you to be with me as the bill of lading was being processed." Andrew lifted her hand by the fingers, still limp with residual irritation, and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Please forgive me, sweetheart. Are you certain you are well?"
"I'm fine." Drawing from within her most beguiling, vacuous Southern belle simper, Scarlett dimpled and shrugged her shoulders. "What exactly did you wish for me to see?"
"One of the steamers has just brought in a shipment of exclusive imports. If you recall, madam, the cargo boasted of some rather exotic household furnishings that I believe will bring in a very pretty price. And if you also recall, we are now in possession of a townhouse in Richmond boasting of not a lick of furniture."
"I'm afraid that my taste in decorating has always set folks to talking. I had surrounded myself with the most expensive things that money could buy, but I now realize that those things weren't necessarily the finest. I'm a certain that I will be happy with anything that you choose for the townhouse."
"Good God, Scarlett!" Andrew threw his head back nigh on chortling. "You speak as though your home had all the elegance and as much appeal as a bordello!" He cleared his throat and winked at her in good humor. "If it will ease your mind, the style of the furniture is reflective of designs from the Far East. You may find that they are not so very ornate—nor bawdy." His thumb stroked a lazy circle in her palm, "I was hoping that you would peruse the inventory and reserve a piece or two for the sitting room." He dropped his tone to a caress adding, "or perhaps, another room."
The tips of Scarlett's fingers tingled at the loosening of her fingers from the satchel's string. She wove her hand around Andrew's arm answering the suggestion in his private smile with a blush.
"If you would be so kind, my dear Mr. Trentholm, lead the way."
And it was everything to him.
It was peace and torment. It was liberation and imprisonment. It was an all-encompassing love and an all-consuming hate. It was heavenly raptures and fiery brimstone. It was the beginning and the end. It was a call to arms and surrendering the fight.
He spent precious time compartmentalizing the photographs and memorabilia before gingerly lowering the lid. Taking great care in its handling, he tucked the box into the velveteen lining of the cushioned drawer. Gripping the envelope, his step carried him back to the spindle-legged, circular table, peeking out from the corner of the window. Neither the vices nor sins that roused the Crescent City come nightfall could distract him from his thoughts. He collapsed into the chair alongside the table and poured himself another benevolent dose of clarity.
Rhett slid his finger underneath the fraying crease and unfurled the envelope. He lifted the flap and tipped it over, emptying its content into his waiting palm and placing the envelope next to him on the table.
It was her wedding band.
He sagged in the chair, bracing his elbows on his thighs. The ring, its circumference a sheer marvel in its diminutiveness, did not fit even his smallest digit. He lifted his signet finger pressed into the bed of his hand and was rewarded with the ring's imprint. Pinching the gold band between his thumb and forefinger, he held it to his mouth and breathed, "What if I were to let you?"
Back and forth, forth and back—he grazed the smooth metal across the seam of his lips until he felt it warming against his skin. Rhett released the ring and catching it in his fist as it slid into the bed of his palm. Clutching his bounty, he brought his hand to his mouth. His eyes crept aimlessly seeking that lone spectre covered in darkness. Calling out to the city's shadows, he bid into the sultry night. "Where are you?"
The door swung wide—light burst forth. The door slammed shut—caution thrust aside.
Veering away from being described as unflappable, the indicating mark of Rhett's distress at the disturbance was the kick of a wry smirk. His response to Marguerite's assault on his solitude trespassed no further than inching the wedding ring behind the envelope's flap, concealing it from of her line of vision.
She scurried over to where he sat, clad in a fluster of silk, piquant inebriates, and sticky flesh. Positioned between his legs, her hands drove into his thighs as she submitted to him lowering herself to the floor. The plaits of her dressing gown gaped, exposing the expanse of creamy skin from her heaving breasts down to her navel. Her fingers, once fixed upon his knees, crawled to the inside of his legs and rubbed the worsted wool of his pants into his flesh.
"Rhett?"
"Go back to your room and sober up."
"Please, Rhett. It was all a silly misunderstanding."
Marguerite whipped up her chin and flung her hair back. Innocence was begged with feral eyes and wild tumble of hair, and yet he remained impassive. Desperation began to seep in and fester. She lunged into his lap in a bungling attempt to disrobe him. Rhett straightened, tensing his muscles. His hands swooped in and caught her by the forearms. Crossing her wrists, he handcuffed her with one large hand and hoisted her fists above her head.
"Get off your knees."
Marguerite collapsed in his hands. Suspended by her wrists, she strained against the iron cuffs. To resist her imprisonment she leveraged her weight onto her thighs and sat back on her haunches. Rhett growled, baring his teeth. She nearly tumbled backwards onto the carpet, taken unawares when his grasp slackened, and he lobbed her arms out from him.
Expelling a heavy sigh, he reached across his body and fetched his nightcap from the table. Glaring over the tumbler's gilded rim while sipping the liquor from within, he exuded a frightening emptiness. His tongue slid across his bottom lip as he swallowed and slowly set the glass back down. His blackened gaze raked over her body; reflecting in their depths were the blushing areola and erect nipple of one bared breast. He casually fingered the rim of his glass with a look that had unnerved Marguerite into compliance.
"Very well." He blew out a breath. "Matters pertaining to our situation need to be resolved. However, I must caution you. Due to your servile attitude, you have positioned yourself at a disadvantage."
As if she were a child and Rhett was about to read a bedtime story, Marguerite scooted nearer, nestling her head on his leg. From his vantage point all that visible was her shoulders and profile, hidden underneath a mass of bedraggled hair, rocking to and fro as her cheek stroked his inner thigh.
"My lease on this property is due to expire next year. I have resolved not to relet and will forfeit the right to purchase."
All affections were stifled. She eased off of his leg, confusion and resentment dulling her eyes.
"What about me?"
"On your behalf, I have had papers drawn up that will discharge both of us from this arrangement."
"What arrangement?" She sneered.
"Ah, dear girl, at times you can be rather astute. It is true. During our time together, I have neglected your concerns and for that I must now make amends. My proposition is this—while I am still in possession of this house, you will continue on as its mistress.
"When I am in residence, I will happily introduce you to any acquaintance of mine that is to your liking. I will also service you as a companion, escorting you to the appropriate functions which will place you in the society of interested patrons, whereby allowing you to exhibit your charms and promote your availability.
"If, at the end of the leased term, you have yet to find a new benefactor, I will purchase you a home in conjunction with a settlement. Upon your release, I intend for you to be adequately compensated and will provide you with a comfortable existence."
Bending over, Rhett slipped his fingers underneath the embroidered pleats on her robe. His hands gently drew the lapels of her dressing gown to a close.
"Please don't be so severe! It was a mistake. Milly must have misplaced the box with your preventatives."
"Do not conflate the issues."
Marguerite leaned away, partially sitting back on her calves. She anchored her gaze over her shoulder. Her breaths dragged and her face was pinched about the eyes, until her evident decision smoothed her features and set her jaw. She returned to Rhett addressing him with a coolness that was laudable when considering her predicament.
"What if I have a baby?"
"Nurture that thought with utmost prudence. If you are to fall pregnant prior to the formal dissolution of our agreement, all contractual obligations that I have set forth will be rescinded."
Marguerite flinched—the conviction in his voice underscored his words. Rhett allowed the silence to linger as the portrait of her reality was placed upon display. She could do naught but helplessly envision the paint dripping down the canvas, the running colors muddling the scene.
"Don't look so frightful. I assure you that if you were to have a baby, I will undertake all responsibilities as its guardian and see to its welfare until the child is of age." Rhett hooked his finger under her chin and chucked her head up. "But hold fast to my words, dear girl. In the aftermath of the child's birth, you will find yourself with neither a home nor one red cent."
"How can you think so lowly of me? I would never scheme to abuse your compassion!"
"Well, now that we have implicitly established what is deemed abuse, I will rest easy knowing that you are a lady of honor who is as good as her word." The corner of Rhett's mouth hitched up, flavoring his retort with salt.
Fear, hope, greed, hate, desire, need—time trudged on as contrary emotions all at once disfigured and beautified her countenance. An upturned lip broke the impasse, betraying her decided purpose. Her luminous eyes, brilliant with a lust undefined, never strayed from Rhett's face as she gauged his receptiveness. Advancing her mission by the employment of lengthy, leisurely strokes, she massaged the tops of his legs until her hands converged upon his groin.
"Well, I reckon there is only one thing left for me to do." She purred, licking away the drop of satisfaction wetting her lips, for her gambit had been met with wan resistance. "I must make you want me as much as I want you."
"Let us not foul this up further." Rhett cradled his head between his thumb and index finger and rubbed his temples, stretching his skin taut.
"I know it is not what you wish to hear, but you must know that I love you, Rhett. I love you so much."
'~*~'
Cognizant of his mercurial state, she hastened in unbuttoning his trousers. Bracing her hands on the chair, she pushed herself backwards and rose up on her knees. It was their dénouement and the seductive coquette played the part, chewing on her coy smile. Within the span of no more than a tug at the sash and a shrug of the shoulders, silken inhibitions trickled to the floor and pooled at her feet. Tickling and dragging along, her fingertips wandered down her alabaster neck and across her chest, encircling her breast. They pinched, and they toyed—and the nipple deepened scarlet. She brought her other hand up to her parted lips. Her tongue lashed out flicking the pad of her finger. Swollen lips puckered around the tip and a hungry mouth suckled the digit deeper, her tongue licking and coaxing until her finger was fully sheathed.
His nostrils flared—his senses impregnated by the musky redolence of her arousal. She plucked the moistened finger from her mouth, beckoning him to follow its glossy trail as it meandered past her naval. Her fingers combed through the tight curls at the apex of her legs. Guiding her hand lower, she spread her thighs open and cupped her madge. Drawing her shoulders inward, she hunched over burying her head between his knees.
"Go back to bed." The hoarseness grating his tone belied indifference. Anchoring his elbow on the armrest, he realigned his hips, edging himself into the corner of the chair. He hissed through gritted teeth, unable to quell the indescribable sensation capable of boiling a man's blood—the touch of a woman's fingers wrapping around his cock.
He craned his neck, tilting his head back. The slow burn intensified as fervent strokes melded with a wet warmth swallowing the length of his shaft. Cautioning a glance, he spied waves of golden hair blanketing his lap. The tresses ebbed and flowed to the seductive cadence of her head—dipping down, then up—and her shoulder blades—rolling in, then out.
His lids grew heavy and his breathing slowed. Leaning against the backrest, he lolled his head to the side. The whirring fragments of his turbulent mind diffused, and he had begun to drift...
—until he spasmed.
Off in the distance, a sparkle pierced the temporary haze of physical gratification—and his face contorted exposing his pain. Picking up the piece of gold with shaking fingers, he buried it in his palm and brought it to the grim line formed by his mouth.
He adjusted again, but his body's stirring never broke her rhythmic lapping and sucking. Delving one hand in her tresses, his fingers dragged down her scalp. Gathering a handful of hair, he twisted it in his fist. Clenching his fingers until his knuckles turned white, he jerked her still. With him gripping her head and her choking for air he spat through clenched teeth, "God, damn me."
© 2017-18 Olivia E. Landry. All Rights Reserved.
I would love to know your thoughts: Did Rhett allow 'it' to continue?
10/27/2018: Aethelfraed, Mistress & Guests: As much a I would love to get in on the fantastic discussions that are occurring, at this point, I am clearly an impediment. I have removed the moderation feature for reviews while reserving the right to delete any reviews that are considered offensive or inappropriate. Enjoy!
A/N: If you are interested, I will gladly provide a list of footnotes with respect to the research conducted for YMCB. I haven't done so at this point because I simply dread compiling it at the moment. *blush*
I need to send out a special 'Thank You' to another GWTW author, Cornorama. She had provided the leg work regarding a Harvard Study on the vena cava conducted in 1874 in one of my favorite GWTW fics, 'This Year's Love'. After doing a bit a research on how a fall such as Scarlett's would have impacted a person's body, the deduction of what most likely should have happened is pretty grim.
From a writing perspective, I am one of those writers in which music has a significant impact on my stories. Many times a scene will be borne from a song. I have started a Pinterest page which contains all of the songs that have influenced YMCB thus far. For this chapter, I had one song in mind for Rhett at the beginning and the end. It is Home Free's cover of 'What We Ain't Got' (And only Home Free's version). Every time I hear that song, I think of Rhett in that moment. Ooh, I also have the song that became the defacto theme for YMCB. Have a look: {pinterest address}/ authorolivialan / ymcb-music /
