Vignette 1
"It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage. She turns and walks away." -Wong Kar-wai, In the Mood for Love
It had been no longer than a week since the disastrous raid had occurred, and in that very week, the typically shameless Mrs. Kennedy made herself favorably inconspicuous. No longer was she riding to those vile mills of hers for all respectable folk to see, just to flaunt her disregard for all things fit and proper. The scandal and disgrace she had caused by her carelessness were nowhere near unexpected, rather, all were surprised something of the sort had not happened sooner. All cooped up in a drab-looking parlor were those still following the rules of propriety, the bodies clad in billowing black dresses that did nothing to aid the color of the walls that were fading with antiquity. Voices bounced off one another in between each meticulous stitch and pull of thread, all colored with bitterness and a sense of admonishment that laid reserved for one Scarlett O'Hara.
"She didn't get half what she deserved. She had it coming, ever since she had unsexed herself and purchased those mills."
"Even since the war, she held no respect for how things are to be—consorting with the likes of that Scallywag—that Butler!"
"She was always such a disagreeable girl! Dragging our men into her mess, and, oh, poor Frank Kennedy! She had some sense knocked into her when she saw him, truly…"
Such words did not reach the girl, as isolated as she was, twirling a glass of brandy in her hand, her eyes misty, as a baby, her baby, cried out from another room. If she heard, she did not show it, downing each shot with unladylike ease as Frank's hushed voice penetrated through the walls of her sanctuary, and soon the baby no longer wept. The glass grew colder under her fingers.
He had been in the room earlier.
"I should've forbidden you from riding to those mills a long time ago. I should've known, for your place is here, with Ella and Wade. I don't know how I let it get this far… it must stop now."
Her mouth opened in protest, but her eyes lingered on his limping form, his face pinched from pain, and she appeared uncharacteristically subservient, the hunted look in her eye dulled by her sudden bout of weariness.
"Okay, Frank."
Surprised by the easy acquiescence, his lip went down and scanned her carefully.
"I will go see to Ella now."
He had limped away while clutching his left thigh, and she winced, immediately heading for the decanter. The mindlessness of drink comforted her like a warm embrace, and she stood there, her forehead pressed to the cold, frigid glass that seemed to burn her pale skin. It momentarily purged the guilt from her mind, and she repeated the vicious cycle until she was as numb and unfeeling as they all thought her to be.
When he walked up Peachtree Street, he saw her before she saw him and he took a moment to stare. She was a passionate creature, a woman so usually invigorated and spirited, but in this private moment, it seemed as if she, for once, allowed her face to express the heavy burden that weighed upon her shoulders. The green eyes that pushed him to points of idolatry were now murky and vacant; her lips that had smiled frowned and pouted for him so many times in the past now laid stagnant on her face. With all her talk of wanting to be lady, she had, at last, achieved it, looking far too docile and soft than she ought to be and the sight was almost offensive to him.
She noticed him then and turned, allowing him to see the full extent of her condition. It made for a sad picture—this beautiful woman in a drab grey dress, surrounded by weathering architecture, tirelessly beaten down by the war, her own people, and herself.
"Are you well?"
"Certainly. Why should I not be?"
He took a seat beside her, the bench entirely too small for him, as he continued to analyze her unchanged expression.
"I'd imagine after what you went through last week, one would typically find themselves feeling unwell."
She shrugged and picked at her shawl which warmed her amidst the crisp autumn air. "I suppose it is not entirely undeserved."
Such a self-loathing comment was unfit coming from her lips, he thought bitterly.
"You mustn't say things that are untrue."
"Oh, but it is. Everyone says so. You saw him. I crippled Frank same as if I had shot him myself."
His entire body was poisoned with the aching need to touch her, to hold her hand and replenish the strength that had been drained out by others. But one glance at the ring that bound her to another violently suppressed the wretched urge. Coarsely, he replied:
"Frank is his own man. You didn't ask him to do any of his foolishness, but he went and did it anyway."
"No," she murmured, shaking her head. "He did it because I insisted on going to the mills myself. If I hadn't done it, then we wouldn't be in this mess."
"Ah, but to do that, you would've needed to be an entirely different person, my dear."
There was a slight burst of life that lit up her eyes at his perceived jab at her character and it excited him as if restoring an old painting. The rosy color returned to her cheeks and her green eyes sparked with its intended vivacity, the anger that only he could arouse in her unearthing her deeply rooted passion.
"What exactly are you trying to say?!"
He laughed. "It wasn't an insult. I'm simply saying that if you had the chance to do it all over again, you would do the same thing. There is no use in dwelling in it—you only feel sorry now that you've been caught."
Visibly, the rationality of his words conflicted with her borrowed set of morals, and the uncertainty of the two together made her turn to him, with childlike confusion. He suddenly became aware of the scent of lemon verbena and leaned into her slightly, all the while wishing that he could forget her. Without accusation, and with a rare quality of genuineness, she whispered:
"Why did you come here, Rhett?"
There laid a moment of silence where neither of them uttered a thing. But, for all he was, he was a gambling man, and abandoning all remaining sense, he gave in to temptation and reached for her hand.
"Don't let them win, Scarlett. Come back to the mills."
She paused as if to decline, but she knew what she desired, and the restoration was complete.
Author's Notes: Inspired by Wong Kar-wai's 2000 film In The Mood For Love and if you haven't watched it, I highly recommend it. This was born out of some random thought I had and I'll probably continue it after wrapping up The Age of Appetence.