Vignette 4

"The anticipation and dread he felt at seeing her was also a kind of sensual pleasure, and surrounding it, like an embrace, was a general elation—it might hurt, it was horribly inconvenient, no good might come of it, but he had found out for himself what it was to be in love, and it thrilled him." -Ian McEwan, Atonement

She hadn't been looking at him when she asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

The question awakened him as if emerging sober from the endless stupor of drink, and with such sharp clarity of mind, he stopped the buggy and turned to her, bewildered.

"What a question, Mrs. Kennedy!"

Yet she did not turn at his and continued her stiff vigil.

"Scarlett?" he asked, more tentatively.

She did not turn. "Have you?"

Yes, yes, yes, he wished to say—to relieve him of the long-standing burden, the brutal poison. If he were a more foolish man, he would have laid his heart at her feet for her to crush. If he were able to control it, he wouldn't love her, but for once after years of wandering aimlessly, he wanted to stay.

"No," he clipped, but quickly amended, "though if I were, I'd imagine that I would love her more than man has loved any woman."

She was silent for a moment.

"That's highly conceited of you. But, you speak prettily, Rhett."

He frowned and pulled at her arm to face him. Rather than the sullen, defeated look he had expected, only a tiny wrinkle between her brows marred her skin subtly, like an ink smudge on paper, and she appeared uncharacteristically contemplative. He raised his defenses. She was too unrecognizable, too dangerous.

"What's all this talk about love?" he jeered. "Don't tell me the little gentleman is failing you in that aspect now, is he?"

At the mention of him, she ripped her arm away and glared, her face stained with contempt.

"You always bring him up to make me feel like a fool."

Because he so often makes you a fool, he wanted to say. But he said nothing for the same exact thing could be said about him.

"Well, you can laugh and boast about how you were right about him," she said, her face vindictive. "Ashley doesn't love me. And I don't love him. Maybe I never did."

As she uttered the words into existence, the rigidness left her expression and she seemed almost relieved, her eyes widening slightly with wonder at the realization. Turning to see his reaction, she was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze and that eager light that danced in his eyes. At any moment, she felt that he would take her in his arms. And she shuddered that she wouldn't mind, that she would welcome it. Affection was scarce to be found, and her eyes demanded that he provide.

Yet he kept his distance.

"You didn't love him," he replied instead.

She scowled, "what do you know about love?"

"Not much more than you, I'm afraid. But, my dear, how can you love someone without even knowing their mind?"

"If you're so high and mighty, how can you tell?"

"I suspect it's when you love them more than life itself. Every thought is filled with them and no matter how desperately you try, you cannot get them out of your blood."

She cried out indignantly. "You make it sound so horrid! You must not know a thing!"

"Indeed," he mocked, begrudgingly amused.

"But you must know something! How about those—those women! You must have loved one!"

"You may certainly interpret it like that," he smirked.

"Oh, you cad! I don't even know why I bothered bringing it up with you!"

He could see the genuine frustration, from the glassy eyes to her flushed cheeks. She was serious while he goaded and joked and mocked. The poison pulsed through him.

"Why did you then," he asked softly.

Lured by his kindness, she warmed to him. Cold, she had been so cold.

"They all say I'm a heartless woman. Maybe I am now. Mother is gone, Pa is gone, and I didn't love Ashley. Wade fears me, and I cannot bear to look at Ella. They're right, Rhett, they must be. I have no heart; I can't love anyone."

"They're wrong, Scarlett," he comforted. Her body slumped with the relief that he did not laugh, he did not judge her. Hold me, hold me, Rhett, she wanted to say. To have a modicum of affection. At the same time, he doubted his words. But her claws were in far too deep now for retreat.

"I'm supposed to love my family, Mother always said so." Her eyes clouded over at the memory of lemon verbena. "But I don't. That makes me heartless, doesn't it?"

She looked up at him with such trusting, childlike eyes that he bit back a retort.

"No. You love Tara, don't you?" A trace of bitterness slipped into his voice. To think he was envious of a pile of dirt!

"I do. Tara is Pa and Mother, of course I do. But I live in Atlanta now. And even your twisted talk on love seems better than all this."

Poison. Her words fed his hunger for her affection and he was sickened at how he'd grovel for a single drop. His romanticism spurred his idealism, like whipping at galloping horseflesh, and he grabbed at the minute chance. Perhaps...? Disposed of all rationality, of any sense, all caution to the wind—he would bluff his way to fortune.

"Do you mean that, my dear? Are you willing to test that sentiment?"

"God's nightgown, stop speaking in riddles, will you!"

"What I'm saying is if you're so curious my dear, we could stage a little experiment and certainly give it a try."

Her brow raised and she looked at him peculiarly, her green eyes filled with trepidation, suspicion, anticipation. Each emotion ebbed and flowed as she studied each detail of his face, and he held his breath as one prevailed.

Her ruby lips parted to answer, and he cursed his weakness once more. Fool, he was a fool.

Let the blind lead the blind!

Author's Note: The last line is in reference to Tennessee William's A Streetcar Named Desire.