February 6, 2022 - I need a few more days, peeps, but it's coming. The prose took a bit of a left turn, but it's all good. I really like this chapter, I'm enjoying writing it. Soon, my darlings, soon. Go buy yourselves a purple hyacinth, and think of spring :)
Please note—I *might* play around with canon a little more than usual in this chapter. The story is described as OOC and kinda AU if you recall. I need to give credit to the lovely Marilyn1000; we were having one of our many GWTW discussions when I raised the question of why Ellen's sisters seemed so much older than she, and Marilyn responded that she had the impression that perhaps Eulalie and Pauline were Ellen's half-sisters, by a first wife of Pierre's who died young, as so many did.
It's not written anywhere that I can find, but not much about them is. I think it's probably just a part of the book Margaret Mitchell decided not to explore as she had plenty on her plate. But it makes perfect sense to me that they could be half-sisters. Quite frankly, I have often wondered how Solange Robillard could be the mother of those two sanctimonious old bats. So I decided to roll with the half-sister theory here.
Inspiration this time around:
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
—Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
Disclaimer: I said no.
Chapter 38
After conversing with Belle for a good while, Rhett went to the bank to check on some financial matters and have dinner in town, then returned to the Painted Lady to see what other gossip and information he could pick up. Finding his usual table full and too close to the bar, as well as various other temptations, he chose one in a far corner he'd never played at before; situated to the left of an alcove that housed what appeared to be a new dark red velvet patterned sofa. As if there weren't enough in the place already.
This was the most activity he'd attempted in a while. He kept a flask filled with laudanum next to his chewing tobacco pouch in his jacket pocket, in case.
Not wanting to share his teetotaler status quite yet, he ordered a glass of whiskey with a side of ginger beer, for show. The smell made his mouth water exponentially. When no one was watching he poured a sip of the beer into his water glass, then topped the beer off from the glass of whiskey.
Random acquaintances and working girls drifted by his table as he started a poker game with a few regulars, looking to relax before the evening crowd began trickling in.
A couple of hours later he noticed Belle making her usual rounds at the bar. She appeared to have bathed, for which he was thankful. She also appeared to have taken a little extra time with her toilette, her dark red hair piled high and curled, her face powdered and rouged, and dressed in her best bright silks.
He smiled and lifted his glass at her. The old girl still cleaned up fairly well.
The evening went on with the usual lull right around suppertime, before the true crowd came in. A few asked about his spouse and her new endeavors, and he nodded, making pleasant and noncommittal answers, smooth and unfazed. His latest fellow players left after he all but cleaned them out, and Belle sashayed over to him, bringing an unopened bottle of his favorite whiskey with her.
She set it on the table in front of him and winked. "For old times' sake."
He laughed and thanked her, but did not move the bottle. She went to open it but he stopped her with a flick of his hand.
"Not yet," he pointed to his still half-full glass. "I overindulged a couple of days ago," it had been several weeks in actuality, "and I'm trying to let my body recover."
She lifted an eyebrow. " I noticed you were pouring your whiskey into that ginger beer glass. No hair of the dog?" Damn Belle, she never missed anything.
"Not tonight."
"You wanna girl instead?"
"No, I'm alright."
"No drinkin', no smokin', and no girl? No wonder you were rather—testy earlier." He made a disgruntled sound; he could hardly deny it.
"I might have spoken a little out of turn, but when a man decides to visit his mistress," she gave him the eye, "or even his former mistress, and his good friend to boot, and she comes to greet him smelling to high heaven of another man's se—"
"I believe we've worn that subject plum out," she cut him off. He smirked, and she rolled her eyes before flickering them to the left.
"You wanna move back to your regular table, then? It's empty right now." She fiddled with the pendant at her neck. A nervous tell of Belle's, he learned long ago.
As if on cue Nelly approached them, trailed by a pretty light-skinned girl carrying a basket of clean bar towels. When Nelly stopped the girl skirted around the table and headed for the bar, walking quickly, but with a pronounced limp. Rhett watched her as she rounded the corner. Something about that limp.
Nelly nodded at him as she addressed Belle. They'd always talked business in front of him; sometimes they even heeded his advice.
"The Swede's here again, you remember, big blond fella," the hairs stood up on the back of Rhett's neck. "It's been a while. He wants two girls, one at a time, like before, but this time he says dark hair and green eyes for both. Their hair needs to be as dark as possible, and real green eyes, not some muddy hazel. He was very specific."
Belle laughed lightly. "I'll see what I can do. He must be in rare form."
Rhett sat up straighter, all senses on alert.
"He appears," Nelly thought for a moment, "frustrated, alright, but a little sad as well. Unusual for him."
At that Rhett's hand jerked, knocking over the untouched bottle of whiskey. Still uncapped, it rolled onto the thick carpet to the left and under the velvet settee. Waving Nelly away, he climbed down on his knees, wincing at the pain in his ribs, and reached under the sofa to retrieve it.
He had to turn his head slightly and stretch his arm to obtain his goal, and at that particular angle he found himself in a perfect position to view the deep scratches on the back of the carved walnut legs; scratches that a certain gray-striped kitten made some years back, much to the distress of the mistress of one rather ostentatious and overbuilt Peachtree Street abode.
Slowly he pulled his arm back, rolling the whiskey carelessly onto the rug. He sat back on his heels as his eyes traveled up along the length of the settee, and up to the matching velvet-trimmed mirror hanging above it.
Two years ago Belle Watling would have done nearly anything to help her dearest friend through his insurmountable grief and put the light back into those dead shark eyes. She reminded herself of that as Rhett Butler, said eyes bright and choler rising, stood up and grabbed her arm lightly, pulling her back to her office for the second time that day.
OOOOooooOOOOoooo
Have you been by yet, Mr. Rhett?" Pork asked as they traveled down Peachtree Street in the buggy Friday morning. "It's somethin' else, let me tell you."
Rhett surveyed the street as they rode, tipping his hat to people enjoying the brightly lit spring day on the sidewalks as they passed. "No, I have not. I've only seen a drawing in the newspaper."
"Well now," Pork chuckled as he slapped the reins at the horses. "You in for a treat."
A large sign with 'Hotel Robillard' emblazoned in tall bronze letters graced the entrance to the driveway. Pork expertly took the white pea gravel without slowing down. A wave of nostalgia instantly hit Rhett and caught him by surprise, a feeling of homecoming.
But as the former house of horrors came into view all that went by the wayside. The drawing had not done the structure justice.
If he hadn't known better, he'd have said the house had been torn down and a new hotel constructed in its place. Aside from that deep mansard roof, there was absolutely nothing to remind him of the ill-conceived and dreadfully misnomered Swiss Chalet.
The turrets and colored glass windows were gone. That godawful jigsaw work, no more. The dreary large balconied overhangs had all been razed.
The sun caught the bright, white stucco and painted bricks, embellished by intricate wrought iron designs and scrollwork. An inviting front door, forged of verdigris copper and replete with a gracious amount of beveled glass, replaced the former heavy and dark behemoth.
The windows, always large, but heavily draped before, were open, their gauze and silk curtains blowing in the breeze.
Delightful. He couldn't help but think that 'delightful' was the perfect word to describe the stunning transformation.
He scanned the property to the left and right of the hotel. New landscaping abounded, magnolias and tea olive trees and flower beds replacing the former maze of rigid boxwoods. The stern iron gazebo had been painted verdigris to match the front door, with morning glories and trailing wisteria vines recently replanted and trained to trail up the sides and cover the domed top. The bronze stag was positioned in front of it, wearing flower garlands in its horns and around its neck.
He disembarked from the carriage and pushed his hat back on his head to get a better view. Workers scurried about, preparing for the big event on the morrow. One carrying a huge hydrangea plant nearly ran him down and he jumped back just in time to avoid a collision.
A loud, barking laugh escaped from his lips before he could stop it. Scarlett could still surprise him. It wasn't quite perfect yet, some of the new landscaping was in its early stages, but he could see it would be outstanding when fully grown in. The property itself, from the outside at least, appeared grand, certainly, perhaps a little showy in that way a hotel, not a home, should be. He could find nothing objectionable whatsoever.
He found himself impatient to see the rest and bounded up the front steps. As he entered the lobby his eyes flitted around, noting the changes; the scratchy wool carpet removed, tasteless, overblown wallpaper gone, and— he did a double-take in spite of his conversation with Belle—no dreadful staircase! Quickly he noted the pale blues, greens, and creams of the furnishings, all atop a white marble floor with matching rugs of obvious quality.
And in the center of the room stood Scarlett, in a state of what only could be described as high umbrage, holding Ella by the hand; in front of a large portrait and a few feet back from another, older woman, similar in stature to his wife. Wade and a stocky man with light-brown hair were situated directly to the right. An intense, confrontational air permeated the space.
And then she saw him.
OOOOooooOOOOooo
Friday morning Scarlett and the children took a hired cab immediately from the train station to the hotel, dropping Beau off at his home on the way. No time to wait for Pork to pick them up, he and Dilcey should already be there, so much to do!
After disembarking and unloading his mother's boxes of notes and ledgers Wade immediately took off in search of Tate, eager to share the news of his visit and promising to walk and bathe Clarice as he went.
Her mind ran quickly through her list of activities for Saturday's events. She rushed up the sidewalk with Ella in tow and through the entryway, then stopped as she spied a figure in the lobby. An elegant woman, older, in her mid-sixties at least, stood with her head cocked slightly to one side as she surveyed the portrait hanging high and presiding over the room.
She turned around and Scarlett's hand went to her throat. It felt like looking in a mirror and seeing her mother's face again at the same time.
The woman in the portrait, older but still the same in so many ways, stared back at her.
This must be a dream, Scarlett thought as her face stiffened. I'm still in my bed at Tara, talking to my ancestors and making things up in my head. It can't be real. It just can't be.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. Solange Robillard absolutely could not be standing before her. Nonsensical thoughts swirled through her mind as she grappled with reality. I never should have given Dilcey permission to practice hoo-doo in this hotel. What has she conjured up in my absence?
The woman pivoted toward her and her eyes immediately lit up. "Scarlett," she said with a French accent as she gracefully moved forward. Even in her stunned state Scarlett's eyes flickered up and down as she took in her attire, the height of Parisian fashion, complemented by considerable, and expensive jewelry—not to mention the waspish waist, remarkable for a woman that age. "I would know you anywhere. You look so much like my Ellen."
Scarlett's blood rushed as she felt her heartbeat in her ears. It seemed as if she watched the scene from the outside. Something's happening, she thought, all her senses awakened, alerting to danger. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.
The woman moved closer and Scarlett stepped back, wrapping one arm around Ella as she continued to study the intruder. Mostly black hair streaked with several dramatic bands of white, so perfectly appointed as though nature had placed them by design; dark, expressive eyes, a fine aristocratic bone structure, and the highest of cheekbones; that nose. A full mouth, even after all these years, and black brows that drew down in wings. Just like her own.
"And those emeraude eyes! Your aunts told me you had quite a striking countenance, but their description did not do you justice at all."
Scarlett managed to clear her throat. "Pardon me. I don't believe we've been introduced."
The woman laughed—laughed! as she held out her arms to Ella. "I am your Grand-mere Robillard, of course. And is this little beauty my great-granddaughter, and my daughter's namesake Ella?"
Scarlett stepped back again, pulling Ella even closer as she berated herself internally. Why wasn't she wearing her femme fatale ring from Leif? Or that dagger Belle gave her?
The person in so much question had the nerve to sigh at her expression before drawing herself up to her full height and quirking an eyebrow.
"So I understand that you did not receive my telegram, nor one from Eulalie or Pauline? I sent one earlier this week, and expected they would as well." As Scarlett's frown did not fade she sighed again.
"Oh, it's a shock after all these years. But I knew I must visit you. I have heard many stories—" her eyes flitted to the child again and back to Scarlett. "And I so needed to meet this audacious and dauntless progeny of mine, no matter the costs."
Scarlett regained her composure, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, her eyes and color flaring bright. When she spoke, her voice could have frozen water. "My grandmother died before I was born and when my mother was still a girl. Who are you? What are you doing here, and most importantly, what do you want?"
"Bloody hell," Tate swore from the doorway as he took in the scene; Wade, carrying Clarice, right behind him. The two dumbstruck males slowly advanced into the room as Scarlett went on, completely incensed at this point.
"You have a great deal of moxy showing up here. If you are my grandmother, which I highly doubt, then you have a momentous amount of explaining to do—why it happened that everyone said you died so long ago during a visit to Paris, and why you apparently faked that death and abandoned your family for decades." Her color rose higher as she began to rant.
"You have no idea what we have been through, what my mother went through after you left her with that bitter old man for a father and the only parent she had to depend upon, who wouldn't even help us when we were starving and about to lose our home—not to mention Pauline and Eulalie as her maternal figures,'" her voice rose a bit at the end. "Who, by the way, nearly drove her to a convent, and still depend on me to supplement their support—"
A sound Wade made from the side caught her attention as Rhett Butler himself sauntered through the door.
Three generations of Robillard females turned and regarded him with the same aristocratic sneer. The expressions were so identical they chilled the room. And stopped him in his tracks.
If Scarlett hadn't been worked up into somewhat of a state she might have laughed to see this man completely gobsmacked, probably for the first time since she'd known him. Instead, all the wind went out of her sails at his appearance.
"Oh, hello, Rhett," she flipped a hand at him wearily. One corner of his mouth went immediately down.
He recovered quickly, of course. "Hello to you, my darling wife."
She vaguely noted that he offered this softly, the ever-present sarcasm not—quite—present. Yet.
"I expected a more dramatic welcome after my extended absence, but I can see you are rather occupied at the moment." And there we have it.
"Pardon me," she pretended to remember her manners. "We seem to be having a little impromptu faux family reunion here."
"I can see that. It also appears that you have been quite industrious," he waved about the room. "I would be rather interested to discuss the details of all your, shall we say, far-reaching efforts," he fixed her with a steely gaze, "at your leisure, of course."
He just got here, and he knows something. She felt a little thankful for the current distraction of her present situation, as aggravating as it might be.
He made his way to her, bussing her on the cheek, which surprised her, he hadn't done that in a while. When he got close she could see the bandage on his forehead, partially disguised by a thick lock of his hair curling down over it. She raised a hand to touch it, then pulled back and closed her fingers into a fist, remembering the last time she made such a gesture toward him. An inexplicable flash of disappointment crossed his face but disappeared almost immediately.
Just then Dilcey appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Miss Scarlett, did I hear you raisin' your voice?" She gave her a pointed glance. Oh yes. No getting angry here. Although the bad spirits appear to be recovered from the cleanse and returning at the speed of light …
Rhett cocked an eyebrow at the interruption.
"Not now, Dilcey," Scarlett tried not to snap.
"Me and Babette got souffles goin' on back in the kitchen, Mr. Rhett," Dilcey offered by way of explanation. "Nice to see you home." She made a hasty and wise retreat.
Ella's face turned hopeful and she started tugging at Scarlett's arm as soon as she saw the newest intruder was Rhett, and finally she let her go to run straight to him. Surely this imposter couldn't harm Ella or try to kidnap her in front of so many witnesses. Not at the moment, anyway.
"Uncle Rhett," Ella breathed. "Where have you been for so long?"
She looked up at him, all innocence and light, as he regarded the beautiful child who had so bloomed in his absence.
"My sweet Ella," he cleared his throat, which suddenly seemed tight for some reason. "My, you have grown just since my last visit! Your hair," he moved one hand to touch her dark copper curls, brushed and styled to a sheen. "Is longer and auburn, and your eyes are even greener I swear!" He held her hand and twirled her around, her peach and emerald ribbon trimmed dress with matching pinafore swlrling above her dainty legs and pale leather shoes.
She preened. "Well, I have been ever so busy, wait 'til you see! We have a hotel now and a pretty green house and Babette is teaching me French! I have friends at school and I have a new puppy! Mr. Leif gave her to me—" at this, she turned to Wade, who stepped forward with the said puppy in his arms. "Here she is! And this is Mr. Tate, who's teaching Wade how to draw buildings, and where is Mr. Leif?"
She stopped, out of breath, and turned to Tate, who regarded her indulgently. "Mr. Leif will be here soon. He had a few errands to run in preparation for his son's arrival next week." Rhett appeared to examine Scarlett for a reaction. Pancake batter face. Pancake batter face. Her eyelashes may have flickered a bit, but not more than that.
Ella prattled on. "And there's more!" she lowered her voice, but not nearly enough. "I might have a great-grandmother! Babette and I have been practicing her scowl."
Rhett's lips quirked. "I saw that. Good job. And I think I need to meet this Babette."
Scarlett continued to frown as the woman who claimed to be Ella's long-gone great-grandmother watched the scene expectantly, obviously waiting for introductions. Bloody hell, indeed.
"Mrs.—oh, whoever you are—this is my—" she faltered. What was he to her, really? "... Rhett Butler."
"Oui." The woman drew herself up again and looked down her nose at Rhett in a haughty and formidable manner, and with such cool insolence that Ella caught her breath audibly. The former strong resemblance to the portrait became nothing short of miraculous.
"Mother," Ella returned to her side and tugged on her hand. "Mother, do you see?"
"Yes, Ella," Scarlett watched the interaction, transfixed. "Hush now."
"I remember you as a child, Mr. Butler. You were an insouciant creature almost from birth. I've heard of your actions as an adult from my step-daughters, and also from your mother while I was in Charleston this past week."
Rhett frowned. His mother could have mentioned that, although as he recalled, she did try.
She went on. "I could tell that a great deal was being, shall we say, left out of the story, however. I don't believe I care for the manner in which you've treated my family."
Scarlett felt a little of her instant animosity toward the woman defrost somewhat; Rhett merely gave her visitor a wolfish grin that, in light of recent events, Scarlett found quite startling.
"Perhaps we may discourse later and I can educate you on some of my motivations, Mrs.—well, as my wife expressed so eloquently, whoever you are," he said, his voice as cool and smooth as water running over river rock.
Her returning smile was full of such insincerity Scarlett nearly laughed out loud. "Bien. Thank you. But I'd rather spend my time at the present with my daughter's child. And my great-granddaughter," she addressed Ella, then turned to Wade. "And perhaps, my great-grandson?"
Ella nearly jumped up and down. Wade smiled hesitantly. The woman kneeled in front of the children, reaching out to stroke the puppy's ears. "A Papillon," she murmured. "All the rage in Paris. Your Mr. Leif chose well. And Clarice is a lovely name." Ella blushed, Wade's smile grew more welcoming, and both corners of Rhett's mouth went down this time.
"Wait just a moment, just a moment," Scarlett stood again. "We still need to establish your true identity," she swept her hand at the wall, "your resemblance to that battered portrait notwithstanding."
The would-be grandmother stood up. "I have letters of introductions from my priest, and there is the correspondence your aunts and I sent."
"Letters can be forged and I'm sure my aunts could be bribed or blackmailed," Scarlett returned coolly. "I have yet to see any correspondence although—" she turned to the woman again. "Ah. The will. When Grand-pere changed it, he didn't take your name out as the first beneficiary and everyone wondered why," she gave a delicate snort. "I'll bet they did send me a telegram."
"There are a couple that came from Charleston while you were gone," Tate spoke up for the first time since entering the room. "They're on your desk."
A low, chuckling sound emanated from Rhett's chest. "That was fast, pet. Nice to see you haven't lost your talent for cutting to the quick of the matter."
With an effort she ignored him. "Alright," she tiredly rubbed her forehead, then stopped when she noticed Rhett again watching her with interest. Of course, he'd return on a day when she'd had less than three hours of sleep the night before. "I need to send a telegram to Tara, as well."
"I can take care of that for you, mother," Wade moved forward. "I've been helping Mr. Leif with his letters and such so I know what to do. Will you be sending for Aunt Suellen?"
"Not Suellen," Scarlett said, her eyes flashing to Rhett at the mention of Leif again before turning back to survey the room, and her voice grew stronger as she spoke. "We're going to need Mammy for this."
OOOOooooOOOOoooo
Fun facts:
Contrary to popular belief, Paris Hilton did not invent the practice of carrying tiny dogs around in purses and treating them like living dolls.
"Lapdog" was the old-fashioned name for the miniature dogs called toys, and quaintly indicated where the line was drawn between household animals. They were dogs small enough to be held in the lap, and they were, without a doubt, pets for the parlor, requiring the care of the lady herself, or of a well-trained maid. - -victoriana dot com
How dog breeds developed, mostly during the Victorian period, is fascinating. I had to do quite a bit of reading to find a dog breed I knew existed then! I would have made Clarice a Pekingese, because I'm stuck on that breed right now, but I couldn't prove they were in the US anywhere near GWTW's time period. Queen Victoria had a pair, but they were rare, and royal, and had been seized from a Chinese temple after the fall of some emperor during the Second Opium War around 1861. It's a fascinating story. I think there were seven Pekes total that were distributed across Europe. So no, none would be in Atlanta, Georgia. Papillons have been around in paintings for several hundred years, so I felt safe with that breed.
I've written about the ice trade before, but not the Nordic ice trade—
"The ice trade, also known as the frozen water trade, was a 19th-century and early-20th-century industry, centering on the east coast of the United States and Norway, involving the large-scale harvesting, transport and sale of natural ice, and later the making and sale of artificial ice, for domestic consumption and commercial purposes. Ice was cut from the surface of ponds and streams, then stored in ice houses, before being sent on by ship, barge or railroad to its final destination around the world. Networks of ice wagons were typically used to distribute the product to the final domestic and smaller commercial customers. The ice trade revolutionised the U.S. meat, vegetable and fruit industries, enabled significant growth in the fishing industry, and encouraged the introduction of a range of new drinks and foods.
Ginger beer, which is not the same thing as ginger ale, was created in the 1700s.
Ginger beer – the delicious, brewed, fermented beverage that we all know and love – first appeared around the mid-1700s in England. It was initially made as a fermented alcoholic beverage using ginger, sugar and water-
Totally random, but does anyone else here remember Emeraude perfume? Talk about reeking ….
A/N First of all, thank you for all the kind words and reviews! They truly mean the world to me.
Don't light the torches and put the pitchforks down, please. I got reasons and all will be explained. Eventually.
Doing the math, if Ellen was 16 when Scarlett was born, and Scarlett is 30 now, she would be 46 if she'd lived. If Solange Robillard managed to run through a couple of husbands by the age of 21 or 22 (don't laugh, Scarlett did, and without divorcing any), married Pierre and had Ellen at 22/23, she would be approximately 68 years of age, give or take a year or two. It's possible.
Now, how Solange managed all that divorcing back in the day, not to mention what with being Catholic, I haven't figured out yet. But the age thing is possible.
Gotta go deal with the real-life stuff I've been letting slide for the last week or so. As I put on my profile note, I called in Monday to work on this story; I don't regret it because I broke through a wall, but now I'm behind on the job AND at the house haha. Also gotta review old notes, make new notes, re-read the book some, and let the next chapters percolate a bit in my subconscious before I get into writing them in earnest. That's how I operate.
I am trying to figure out how to do accent marks in google docs, have patience with me, please. I probably need a beta, but all the betas listed on this site are from ten years ago or more. If you would like to beta for me let me know but keep in mind it will kinda ruin the story for you. I've beta'd a few and found that out the hard way.
I do have almost enough material ready for another chapter fairly quickly. We have a holiday coming up Monday and snow is predicted in my neck of the woods, which would be good for writing … fingers crossed. Peace and love, misscyn