Hello again! This took a while longer than I expected - but it is a long chapter at least - another 5000 words, whooppee! I'm going to stop promising chapters quickly, though. They never cooperate, and this one has the general, who always demands extra time. He's worth it, though. Hope you like it :)

Chapter 17

"Old-fashioned ways which no longer apply to changed conditions are a snare in which the feet of women have always become readily entangled."

— Jane Addams, suffragist

"If she were more perfect she would be less interesting."

― Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Her face says freedom

with a little fear

I have no fear

I have only love

― Fleetwood Mac, Gypsy

Last chapter:

Scarlett walked to the wagon to look closer, even though she could tell from the door it was a large wooden crate, with NASSAU TO ATLANTA stamped all over it in red.

Rhett. He was on his way home.

'Home' being a relative term, taking into consideration the person in question. Scarlett's mood flattened as though the crate had landed squarely on top of her.

"Pork, let someone else take that inside," she admonished. "I don't want you hurting yourself."

Pork gave her a supremely affronted look. "I reckon I'll let you know when I'm too old and broke down to perform my duties," he sniffed.

"No one said you were old Pork, you're just not young," Scarlett said. Another dirty look.

"That's not any better, Miss Scarlett."

"Just, why should you lift things when all these strong young men are being paid to lift things?" she stomped her foot to make her point. Male pride will be the death of me. I'll never understand it.

Pork ignored her while he and the same worker lifted up the crate and took it inside. Scarlett directed them to leave it beside the office door; Pork looked at her questioningly.

"General Hampton is stopping by in a bit and I don't want the office crowded," she explained.

"May we open it?" Wade asked.

"No, you know Uncle Rhett likes to be here when you open the gifts," Scarlett said. Ella became unusually subdued as she traced the letters on the crate longingly. It would contain toys and books for the children, and whatever interesting, exotic items Rhett had picked up and would want to explain in his most entertaining way; they all enjoyed that immensely, traveling with him vicariously, if not actually, through his words.

There would be nothing for her, of course. That stopped after Melly died.

"So when … ."

"It's been running about two weeks after the shipments arrive, Wade, don't you recall? He'll stop off in Charleston first to visit and catch up on business there. Nassau means he's sailing, therefore he put the goods on a steamship most likely, which is why they get here so far ahead of his arrival."

Scarlett stared at the crate with the children, albeit glumly. A part of her felt exhilaration and wanted to see Rhett desperately. The bigger part, however, feared he would not hesitate to rain rather heavily on her oh-so-important parade. Stop being silly, she told herself. You knew he would show up eventually. It was just surprising she wasn't more excited at the prospect.

Rhett didn't always send shipments ahead, but when he did this is how it had worked for nearly two years. She felt extreme resentment that he wouldn't provide what was left of his family with the courtesy of letting them know for certain when he would be home, but she wouldn't burden the children with that. They'd figure out how unfair it was on their own. She didn't know how much longer this 'appearances' arrangement would last, anyway.

She became aware that Tate, Leif and Babette were regarding her interaction with Wade and Ella with interest. Scarlett noticed Leif looked particularly intrigued when the general's name was mentioned. When he saw her watching, however, his face became an inscrutable mask.

Wish I knew how to do that.

"Wade," Leif said after a moment, "I brought you something from New Orleans, and you too, Ella."

He kneeled and pulled the package of kites from where it was leaning against the door, almost forgotten.

"Your mother said we could go tomorrow," he said, winking at Scarlett. He opened the package and displayed the brightly colored sticks and paper.

"This one's for you, little one," he handed a yellow kite with delicate green etching decorating it to Ella, "this one for you," a bright red and blue striped one to Wade. "And there's a few more so Tate and your mother can come, and Babette," he glanced at her, smiling. "If they want to, of course."

Leif explained how fragile the kites were as the children gleefully, yet carefully examined them. Scarlett studied his face as he spoke to Wade as an adult and to Ella gently, patiently. He had that type of rugged male beauty that left a woman speechless if she looked at it head-on, the shiny hair tied back, strong eyebrows, full lips, straight aquiline nose. It was late in the day and he had a bit of a scruffy blond five o'clock shadow. It only added to his appeal.

She had to wonder how he treated the women in his life, what it would be like to be a woman in his life. Four years. It's been four years since a man touched me, and then he threatened me with divorce and a buggy whip the next time we spoke.

As if he felt her gaze he glanced at her while she was staring and she looked quickly away.

"I've asked around and there's a place on the way to Stone Mountain that catches the wind, about an hour out of town. There's a place to hike a bit, as well. I was thinking we could go in the morning?" he said casually as if he hadn't just caught her shamelessly ogling him.

Wade appeared very pleased to be doing something outdoors with both Tate and Leif and Ella clapped her hands in glee.

"We have the practice supper …" Scarlett trailed off.

"Which is not until seven. We'll be back by one if we leave by eight, plenty of time. The winds will be best early in the day."

Scarlett peered at Wade and Ella's hopeful faces. Hard to turn these two down. Not to mention Tate and Leif.

Babette looked rueful. "I cannot, perhaps next time," she said with regret in her voice. "I'd love to, though. Too much to do in the kitchen."

"She's a perfectionist, don't try to talk her out of it," Tate sighed. "I can leave a foreman in charge of my work for the morning, however."

Well, now I have to go. It's acceptable for Wade but I can't send Ella off with two unrelated men.

"I'll make it up to you," Leif said to Babette. What does that mean? Oh lord. Feeling possessive of Leif could only lead to trouble.

"All right, children," Scarlett said. "It's getting close to supper. Pork will run you and Prissy home. Dilcey will have something ready shortly."

"Aren't you coming, mother?" Ella asked.

"I have to stay and meet General Hampton, but not to worry. I'll be home in time to tuck you in and we'll have the kite flying tomorrow."

Wade and Ella fussed a bit but got ready to go with Pork.

Leif looked at her. "Are you not leaving with your children?"

"No, I have to wait for General Hampton."

He and Tate exchanged a glance. "We will wait with you," he said.

Scarlett started to protest.

"Not leaving you and Babette in this huge place alone," Leif said firmly. "She wants to work late as well."

"We'll wait. Babette just started some project in the kitchen that will take a little while longer," Tate repeated.

Scarlett bristled. "Well, why not? We can take care of ourselves. And I can get Pork to come back." Even though Pork was tired, and it had been a long day, and he'd done all that lifting and carrying … .

"I have a buggy outside. We will all ride together and take you to your home first." Leif appeared determined, so she shrugged and acquiesced. They settled in for an evening together.

"Tate has paperwork and I am still inventorying the wine," Leif said. "There's an impressive collection in your cellar, by the way. Are you a connoisseur?" He brought forth three bottles of red he'd set down on a couple of board-topped sawhorses.

"These are quite valuable." She read the label - 1865 Châteaux Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux. "You might want to put them in your vault with all the workers milling about."

"My husband is a collector. We had purchased quite a bit for entertainment in mind when we bought this house, but then my daughter passed," she paused for a beat, "and then there were no more parties."

"Where would you like me to put these?" Leif brandished the bottles. She indicated a space on her desk.

They all went their separate ways for a while. Tate instructed a couple of workers to cover the portrait with dust cloths to protect it before they left for the day. Babette served an early supper of the remaining pissaladiere and what she termed a 'salade verte' she'd picked from Dilcey's kitchen garden around six pm.

They'd pulled chairs around the sawhorse table in the foyer-soon-to-be-hotel lobby and thrown a tablecloth over it. Several of the pastries were topped with small, whole fish filets. Scarlett had seen them sold in tins.

"Sardines?" she questioned. "Anchois," Babette corrected. "Or anchovies, in English. Similar to sardines, only smaller. French and Creole cooks use them often, especially in sauces and dressings, in the nicoise salade. I carry tins of them with me in my valise."

Scarlett nodded and gingerly tried one. Not bad. She didn't often turn her nose up at food, especially after starving during the war years. It would be another inexpensive way to incorporate seafood in the restaurant menu.

She ran through a list in her mind of freshwater fish she'd seen the men catch at Tara and also on the New Orleans restaurant menus Leif had brought; sac-a-lait, chinquapins, bluegill, and of course, catfish. Local fish would also be a part of the menu, she decided. Variety was key. And freshwater fish, cheap. She made a mental note to discuss this with Babette later.

They were finishing up their meal when a knocking at the door signified General Hampton's arrival.

Scarlett opened the door and took him in. He had turned to look behind him and his large frame took up most of the doorway. When he turned back around she saw he was dressed in a light gray suit that reminded her of Confederate colors and brought out his grayish-blue eyes. He smiled at her with a kind expression, holding a large envelope in his hands.

"I beg your pardon, Scarlett," he said. "I had meetings at the governor's mansion and Democratic party headquarters today, and both were over-long."

He nodded at the men who had risen upon his entrance and bowed to Babette. "I believe you know Mr. Tate and Mr. Erickson," Scarlett said. "And this is Ms. Babette Baudelaire, the new head chef for the hotel restaurant." Greetings were exchanged before the general turned expectantly in her direction.

"Mrs. Butler is completing a bookkeeping project for the Democratic Party," he said smoothly. "I am sorry to interrupt."

"Perhaps we should go into my office," Scarlett said, excusing herself from the group as she led the general into the study and shut the door.

"The renovations appear to be going well," he commented.

"Yes," she said, "and actually, Babette has decided to prepare a few of her favorite dishes for a small gathering tomorrow night. I know it's short notice, but I did want to extend an invitation to you."

"I'm afraid I have committed to another engagement," he said with some regret. "Although I dearly love New Orleans cuisine. Perhaps I can stop by later for coffee or brandy?"

"Certainly, and do clear your calendar one Saturday night in the next few weeks. It's an open invitation," she smiled.

They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. He politely declined her offer of tea, wine or brandy and held out the packet.

"This is a list of all the major profiteers from the war; and their approximated net worth during, immediately after and today, as far as well can tell."

"You'll find indexed pages that describe how they made their money, or rather, how we suspect they made their money, and where they might have hidden more; criminal activity, proven or suspected, and known associations."

Scarlett's eyes grew wide. This was a great deal of information. The general pointed to the banker's boxes he'd had delivered, not yet put in the vault.

"The boxes are marked as to their contents. The ledgers will be fairly straightforward. The others contain transcripts of interviews with key players, seconds in command, witnesses, partners. There are pages of theories and suppositions in addition to proven facts as well.

"Go through it all, the accounting, the ledgers, the transcripts, these notes. And see what stands out. Remember any conversations you might have had with your husband," he paused here, "and the Yankees and other - less reputable folk, shall we say - that you both associated with. You had a unique view for a long time. I'm thinking you will see something of value, recall something of value, and make connections."

"If anyone asks what you are doing, explain it to them just as I explained it to your company a few minutes ago. You are completing a bookkeeping project for the Democratic party." Scarlett nodded.

"Right now all you are doing is actually bookkeeping and research. When you start snooping around, asking questions, and talking to actual people, then it's espionage," he winked.

Fabulous. Scarlett's palms began to sweat a little.

"What I want for you to do is examine the accounting, yes. But more importantly, read the transcripts. See if anything jumps out. Any names you might connect to events, to withdrawals, etcetera, in the ledgers."

She scanned the list quickly. The name 'Butler' stood out immediately on the alphabetical list. When she saw the figures next to it she felt a little dizzy. She knew he was rich, but - not that rich.

"Discretion," his eyes bored into hers for a fraction of a minute but might as well have been an hour, "will be of paramount importance."

"Don't look so frightened, Scarlett," he patted her on the hand. "After all, you were a belle, just a few years out of finishing school, when you brought a plantation back from the brink when all the rest were falling around you. You not only survived, but thrived after the war, and saved the lives of a passel of starving people through sheer force of will.

"I don't think you yourself realize just how capable you are, and how suited you are for this undertaking. You have the backing of some very powerful people and all my confidence."

She felt flattered and dismayed all at once; didn't understand exactly what he was saying as far as 'very powerful people.' Who could that possibly be?

"We'll meet again in a few days to discuss what you have found," he said. "It may be that you need to reacquaint yourself with some of your old carpetbagger friends." After about fifteen more minutes of instruction, he moved the boxes into the vault himself.

"Who else has the combination to this safe?" he asked.

"Just Rhett and myself," she answered.

"Ah," he said. "Then I suggest you change it. This is your property alone now, after all." He then turned to the door.

"I will leave you to your evening. I'm staying at the governor's mansion if you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. And of course, I will be calling on Wade Hampton this Thursday."

Babette had disappeared and Leif and Tate were immersed in a card game on the sawhorse table, which had been cleared completely of dishes except for four glasses and an open bottle of port. She walked the general to the door and stepped outside with him.

She watched his face in profile as he gazed into the fading colors of the sunset. It appeared that he'd had a long day, and looked every bit of his age. A champion, beaten but not fallen. She could see, just for a moment, what he must have been on the battlefield. In that split second, she didn't understand how the North had ever won.

"I want you to know that I'm honored, Hamp," she said simply. "I will do my best to the extent of my abilities. And then some."

"Thank you, Scarlett," he bowed and took his leave.

Scarlett crossed the foyer and into her office, grabbed a bottle of the Lafite Bordeaux, and walked back to set it in the middle of the table.

"Do you have a corkscrew?" she asked Tate, who was watching her bemusedly.

"You realize that's one of your husband's most expensive selections," Leif asked, glancing up from his cards.

"Approximately how much per bottle would you say they're worth?"

"At least $150," he said.

"That's a magic number," she said. "Open it up." Tate eyed her dubiously.

"Trust me," Scarlett said. "He can afford it." She took a seat and arranged her skirts quite properly, despite the fact that they were about to be drinking and playing poker at a sawhorse table. "Would you mind if I joined your game? I need to work on my poker face."

Leif looked up all the way at this. "Alright. We'll deal you in next hand. If I might ask, why do you want to work on your poker face?"

"Because the lack of one is causing me trouble." He lifted an eyebrow.

She sighed. "My facial expressions are too easy to read. It's been a problem for years and I need to correct it."

"I like that your expressions are easy to read," he said almost softly. She didn't know quite how to take that.

"What are you playing for?" Scarlett had some cash in the office, but she wasn't sure it would be enough.

"We've been playing for carpenter's nails," Tate snorted. She saw the pile in the middle and smaller ones beside Tate and Leif and laughed. "But now you're in the game, we can make it more interesting."

"Yes," Leif said, eyeing her in a speculative manner. "We work together, and we should all get to know a bit more about each other's backgrounds."

"Excellent, '' Tate replied. "Every hand you win you get to ask three questions, every hand you lose, you answer three."

Leif added a few more contingencies before they started. Tate uncorked the wine and poured.

And then the game commenced.

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

"I do believe that's the worst story I've ever heard, Scarlett," Tate said. His British accent became more prominent as he drank, as did Leif's Norwegian one. Scarlett merely nodded her head, defeated. She'd had too much wine. And lost far too many hands.

"It's like an overly painful melodramatic romance," he continued. "Except there's precious little romance."

"Thank you." She sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"And the irony!" Tate all but shouted at the sky as he leaned back. "My God, the irony!"

"It's a Shakespearean tragedy," Leif agreed.

"Don't talk about Shakespeare," Scarlett groaned. "I've been trying to read it for months and it's excruciating."

"Well, many people struggle with it," Leif sympathized. "Those plays are meant to be performed."

"Yes, by thespians," Scarlett all but spit out venomously.

Her fellow poker players looked confused at the strength of her response for a moment. Leif shrugged and filled his glass again. He offered more to Babette, who had joined late, and Scarlett, who shook her head.

"The point of that type of literature is to connect it to your own life and those around you and see the parallels, that's all. It's enriching and comforting that way. I think you're looking at it too much like work," Leif said, in a light, nonjudgemental tone she might have appreciated had she not been more-than-slightly pickled with alcohol.

Scarlett groaned again and held her head. She'd tried to give the story of her marriage in synopsis form, but the pain bled through. The game seemed like an excellent idea when Leif suggested it. Scarlett blamed it on the wine, which truly was excellent, and dangerously intoxicating for such a spirit.

I used to be able to hold my liquor. That's what happens when you stop drinking. You make a damn fool of yourself with five hundred dollars worth of your husband's best vintage stock.

They'd finished off all three bottles, and the port, before turning to brandy. When Babette finished in the kitchen they all moved out to the veranda, and then ended up spreading drop cloths on the lawn, where they currently found themselves sitting situated in a circle, like children playing yard games. It was late April, a full moon lighting up the night. It felt oddly conciliatory and intimate, but in a completely friendly manner.

"So he stays gone now," Tate said.

"Yes, but he'll be back. And fairly soon, judging from the shipment that arrived today."

"Why did he want to get married?" Babette asked.

"He said he wanted me, and that was the only way he could have me. But after a few months I couldn't really tell that he did. He was aloof and standoffish, even in intimate moments." She couldn't go into the lukewarm bedroom details. Thankfully, they didn't ask. She was grateful for the moonlight hiding her reddened face as it was.

The wine and fellowship continued to loosen her tongue, apparently.

"Outside of the bedroom he would be kind, but then mean, and I never knew which one to expect. I couldn't trust him to treat me nicely, couldn't trust him not to cut me, mock my every move. We maintained separate bedrooms after -" pause here "after our daughter was born, at my request. Soon after that we stopped speaking except in passing, and I missed him, but I couldn't trust him with that knowledge, either."

"I didn't think it would mean that much to him, the not sleeping together, you realize, because he kept it so impersonal anyway. And then he went back to his old mistress almost immediately, which re-confirmed that. She was never completely out of the picture, unfortunately."

She had to be fair. "And he knew I had been holding a torch for another man since I was sixteen, which created a host of problems."

Scarlett knew she was revealing too much, but she couldn't seem to stop. This felt better than telling Ashley because Ashley was - himself.

"So do you think you will reconcile?" Tate asked. She noticed Leif watching her carefully.

"He hates me. Says his love wore out."

"But he never told me he loved me, not in a way that wasn't joking," she thought about Rough and Ready, "or just not so horrendously timed that I would believe him. He didn't tell me for certain until the day he left me."

Babette's brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

"Said he was scared of me using it against him." Three blank stares.

"Because I'm mean." Still blank. "Well, I can be pretty mean," she admitted.

"I've seen you get after suppliers you think are overcharging you," Tate joked. "You can be mean." She raised her glass at him in a mock toast.

"I am mean," she said, quite despondently. "Or I was. I don't think I'm as bad as I used to be. I'm trying to practice kindness. It's easier when you're not starving, or worrying about starving again, I tell myself, but the truth is I was a very selfish, careless girl when the war broke out, and then all the ugliness," she thought of Rhett's words, "did things to me that kept me that way and made me hard."

"Don't be so rough on yourself," Tate said, chucking her on her arm. "The war twisted everything. It's like a sickness everyone caught." He drained his glass before continuing.

"Sounds like he was a right rounder, a girl-snatcher who probably thought you owed him perfection since he was giving up his freedom. I'd say he resented you for forcing his hand and making him leave his bachelor ways behind, and he never really got over it."

"Perhaps," Scarlett said. "But as you mentioned, plenty of unfortunate occurrences took place, as well. And I am not without blame."

"Apparently, he had problems of his own. And I still say you're not that scary." She grinned at him. How had she ever survived without Tate?

She'd learned during the game that Tate's fiance left him two days before their wedding for an older man of higher social standing. It was the reason he'd left England. Scarlett had almost wept when the normally jovial Tate parlayed the story with such a sadness in his demeanor.

"And are you a confirmed bachelor now?" she teased, albeit lightly.

"Nah, just nursing my broken heart back to health," he grinned back crookedly. "That's what I have in common with Leif and Babette." Scarlett glanced quickly her way, but Babette remained quiet.

"And you, Scarlett," Tate added. "But you're a bricky girl. You'll do just fine."

"Bricky?"

"Fearless." Oh, Tate, you sweet, funny man. If only you knew how I scream in my sleep.

"But to answer your question, no, he has not expressed an interest in reconciliation. He's not recovered from my daughter's death and he said it took whatever love there was left."

"I lost a child," Leif said out of the blue. "And my wife. Within a week of each other." He'd been picking at the grass in silence while the others spoke.

"Really?" Scarlett propped herself up on an elbow. "I am so sorry." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "Were they sick?"

He nodded. "It was in Boston when we first moved to the states. They both caught the measles, and then when they were in the hospital they caught the mumps and were too weak to fight it off. I got both too, but recovered." She couldn't read his face as he had turned away, but his voice grew more somber as he talked.

"How old was your child?"

He smiled. "Finn was eight." She swallowed. Ella's age. How dreadful.

"Do you have any other children?"

"A son," he said, "Liam is fourteen. He's in Sweden at the present, but should be here in a few weeks for the summer."

"I can't wait to meet him." It surprised Scarlett how sincerely she did want to meet his son.

"Ennis is a widower too, you know. He came down here to start over, just like Tate and I did."

This was too much. Scarlett laid back. "Wade's father died of measles and pneumonia at the beginning of the war. Ella's father was shot in the head during a police raid." She'd told them during the game that she'd been widowed twice, but not the details.

They all stayed quiet for a while, the sounds of the night surrounding them.

Babette finally broke the silence. "I was mistress to a wealthy man in New Orleans. He told me he and his wife hated each other. Then I saw them out one night, laughing and touching. She'd been smiling and then she saw me and her face fell. She knew exactly who I was and it hurt her. It broke my heart and I felt terribly ashamed for believing his lies. So when Leif said you needed a chef I packed my bags within the hour."

Scarlett looked at Babette's young, beautiful face as she confessed. A part of her wanted to resent a woman who would sleep with a married man, but something stopped her. For the first time, she felt fortunate that all she had to compete with in the past - in Atlanta, at least - was a blousy aging courtesan with poorly-dyed hair.

"That makes you the newest addition to our Lonely Hearts Club," Scarlett said, raising her glass. 'Welcome."

"We're just a bunch of misfits," Babette snickered.

Yes, but isn't it nice we found each other?" Scarlett replied. Friends were something she needed, and badly.

"Do your poker face for Babette," Tate nudged her, attempting to lighten the mood. "She hasn't seen it yet."

Scarlett sat up and tried to render her face expressionless, opening her eyes wide, straightening out her lips, and pulling her tongue to the back of her mouth as the men had instructed her.

Everyone broke out in raucous laughter. She feared the neighbors would hear all the hooting and hollering abounding so late at night and coming from her lawn.

"You look like a surprised opossum," Tate choked out.

Babette started coughing and Leif laughed so hard he had tears in the corners of his eyes; Scarlett had a perverse desire to taste them. Which startled her.

"I suppose it's hopeless," she sighed.

"Oh no," Leif said, giving her his sudden, flashing grin. "Just use your flirting and bargaining face until we get that mask in place. You're plenty devious and you'll make a fine poker player yet, just you wait and see."

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Over-long A/N Yes, I am poking fun at both the melodrama and the liberal literary use of tragic irony in GWTW via Tate's comments. If we don't laugh at it sometimes we'll go crazy. The angst! The missed opportunities, the drama and trauma! It can be a little much. Gotta lighten up a bit every now and again.

The 19th-century quotes I am including at the first of the chapters are merely meant to make you think. I just found them interesting in regard to the story. The song lyrics are what I find inspiring and significant as I am writing. I thought some might like to know what music moves the story along as it's being created.

As far as a timeline, it is still Friday in this chapter. The characters take over, I do apologize. Saturday (Chapter 18) is the practice supper, Sunday lessons with Belle, and then I fully intend to fast-forward a bit to Rhett's return, which may, or may not, be a little sooner than Scarlett anticipates.

I am anticipating wrapping this story up in around thirty chapters, but you never can tell with me. Endings are difficult, but I won't rush the end. I can't stand it when writers do that. That's all I can really promise. I will try to answer questions through PMs as time allows, but I figure readers would rather have the chapters first.

Thank you for the reviews and words of encouragement, they are so very dear to me. Not only do they let me know I'm not just merely shouting into the wind, they also allow me to gauge reaction. And of course, give valuable insight. They do this for all fic writers. So thank you again for taking the time. You all do good :)

12/4/2020 note: Chapter 18 will be posted a little longer than the standard week after this one. Gotta get the tree and decorations up, and then I have appointments during my usual writing times on two different days, so that's gonna put me behind but I am trying, I promise :)