Dear readers,
Please do not kill me. At least, not until I finished! For I am determined I shall do so, am very inspired to do so, though not so quickly it might become rushed.
I love you all and missed you. Your kind words, inquiries, really motivate me. At the same time, work and private life had been overwhelming with new and old challenges, and I've been struggling with it all, but as I received your comments, read it again and again, it gave me the strength to go on.
I hope you will like this chapter, and I thank you all for your patience!
Elise
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As they arrived in Atlanta, Scarlett, Wade and Carreen had the dismaying surprise to be confronted with the business of the city, its people anxiously running and whispering, and no one to wait for them, no one to help them but the people of Tara who had travelled with them with the trunks, and who had to continue with them, bewildered at the indignity of their two ladies having to walk to Miss Pittypat's without anyone to greet them. And when they finally came, with red dust on the hem of their skirts, Cheyenne was the one to open the door, her head bowing with red cheeks.
The house was as surprisingly quiet, and Scarlett commented on it.
"Where is everyone?" She asked then.
"Come, Miz, Cookie made some cakes for you. No worry. The Mizes Melly, Randa and miz Pittypat are already at the office with Uncle Peter first ho'r dis morning, Miz Scarlett. Yer message came after deir leavin'. Po'r Mizes be so sorry dat ye came home in dat way."
At least, here, she seemed genuinely sorry.
An unfortunate event, certainly, but Scarlett could not help but notice the absence of the mention of her other sister.
"And Suellen?"
Something lit in the girl's eyes, a little bit like mischief.
"I kain say for sure, miz. She said she would go pray for our brave boys. Must be at the church."
Church?
The idea of Suellen being a good Christian was terribly laughable to Scarlett, and if she could prevent herself from smiling at it, her eyes still glistened.
No, Suellen would delight to behave as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. But her tongue was that of the gossip and the viper. It hissed and irritated whether she was whiney or feeling self-righteous. Which was often.
Well, not that she cared anyway. It was not Suellen she wanted to see. She shrugged and took a sharp breath.
"Well, it doesn't matter. Help me unpack. I need to change before joining Melly."
"And me, Scarlett?"
She turned toward Carreen, and suddenly remarked the girl seemed so pale and little. So vulnerable that she seemed about to swoon at any given moment.
I can't bring her any more outside, she thought in dismay.
"Oh, baby," She chided, patting her arm. "You look so tired. Please do rest a little. I beg of you."
A weak little protest escaped the younger girl's lips, but her wish seemed to be the only thing to keep her standing, and even then, it did not seem enough.
"But if Brent..."
Scarlett dismissed the possibility entirely.
"I'll tell you right away. But there's nothing to worry about. He's a strong one, your Brent. He wouldn't want you worrying. He wants you all pretty and happy. Do rest, sweetheart. You're so pale."
This drew a smile on Carreen's face as she nodded feebly, as if trying to convince herself of that.
After giving her people some money and a written word to go back home, Scarlett went up to her room, holding an agitated Wade who wanted to climb the stairs on his own, and being dismayed as well of his weight. A strong boy he was, that one, but for once she would have wished him a little less so, and a little less willful as well. The thought came to her that maybe it would have been easier to let Cheyenne have him, and for herself to hold one of her boxes. At least, the boxes couldn't move and scratch her.
She put Wade down and took time to refresh herself, before carefully choosing a new dress, one she thought would suit the event.
It was a time of possible sorrow, anxiety, and she knew she would be observed. She knew she would be judged. They would look at her, would want to find her wanting. Charlie Hamilton's widow.
She looked at Wade at her feet. For him, she would take the black again, she decided. She just had to hope they would see it as her trying to redeem herself for her previous temptation with Rhett.
Well, better late than ever, she thought grimly, as Cheyenne helped her lace the heavy dark dress and fix the veil.
She squared her shoulders.
I am strong, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror. I am strong and I will show them. I will show him. They will think me vanquished, but I shall win them over and make my way.
The reflection satisfied her immensely, and she believed in these words truly. How couldn't she? She stood proud and confident, her green eyes sparkling cleverly over a smile full of pride.
She could do it.
She felt reluctant to leave Wade, for she had drawn strength from his presence, not to mention he provided the useful excuse for distraction. Wasn't a mother expected to be most attentive to her child's needs, after all?
Yet, she was decent enough to know a baby's place was not in a crowd filled with anxious people about to learn the death of their loved ones.
"I wonder what we will find there," She mused.
"Ma'am. I kain go dere." Cheyenne declared.
The tone was firm, devoid of fear, with a hostility that drew Scarlett's curious eyes, until they widened in understanding.
India. She wanted to avoid India, and all the other members of her pathetic family.
Well, that, she could understand.
"Fine," She conceded, trying to conceal the relief at this solution brought to her just when she was wondering what to do with Carreen. "I need someone to care for Carreen and Wade anyway. Please do make sure she doesn't leave the house. This child is sure to break her heart for nothing today if one lets her!"
The glare softened, its ice slowly melting to something that seemed like gratitude.
"Thank Miz, for understanding..."
"Don't." Scarlett snapped
But Cheyenne's grin only grew larger.
"Yes, Miz, of course, miz." She bowed lightly. "And good luck to you, Miz!"
She stared baffled. Luck? Why luck?
.
.
.
Carreen watched as her sister walked, a dignified silhouette in black, and the sight gripped her heart in longing. In that moment, she looked so much like their mother she wanted to cry. She did not know why exactly, but she was suddenly filled with as much a feeling of pride and love, and a feeling of need. A need to suddenly call her back and embrace her and cry.
In her arms, Wade stayed silent until Scarlett disappeared, his eyes following her form. And then, quietly, yet with a strange little voice whispered one word which made her gasp. A little word, a little voice, that seemed to echo exactly what she had been feeling.
"Mama."
.
.
.
It seemed so long since that great victory at Chancellorsville in May, and Forrest's defense of the veins of the war, whose blood ran smoothly from Atlanta to Tennessee. How they all laughed, then, the Southerners, when an entire Yankee force was captured! She remembered. How they exulted when Lee marched into Pennsylvania!
But Scarlett's eyes could not be blind to the losses, which had been nagging her with Rhett's voice, mocking her lightly for any of her attempts at hope. Vicksburg had fallen, General T.R.R. Cobb had been killed at Fredericksburg, and what to say of Stonewall Jackson? And what about these tales, coming from conquered territories? What about the change in the mood when the Confederate soldiers were denied their looting when the Yankees weren't?
It wasn't fair for Scarlett, and she recalled faithfully that Rhett had once told her soldiers fought better when the motivation was as important, if not more, than the acts they did. It was cruel, but such was the way of the war, and Scarlett could perfectly understand that. Why, she had lived it after all, for being a proper lady did not give her anything truly useful for herself. If it weren't for Wade, she would have given it all up already. Her behavior, if completely improper, could close him some doors, and she had perfectly understood it, from all the time Mammy and Mother had reflected on it.
It was not a reward, but it certainly was effective, if not worrisome. It was a corset tied too tightly which she longed to take off, and that had seemed to tighten even more with the moments she allowed herself with Rhett.
Or a dress too hot weighting her down.
But now she had drunk the cup, swallowed it and felt the effects of it. She could not afford to be a girl, nor a woman actually. She could not cry anymore. She had to be a Mother, and a Mother had to forgo her own desires for the sake of her child.
She loved Wade with all of her heart, she thought. At least it should be easier than what had been for her own mother.
But still, it did not mean the transformation was easy, and it seemed the more she tried, the more she struggled, the girl in her crying in protest for that attempt at concealing her.
But war was war and she kept on.
Now, where was General Lee? Who died? Who lived ?
That question was about to have its answer.
They were all gathered in front of the Daily Examiner office, and she could see Melanie and Miss Pittypat's little parasols waving slightly in the crowd. Melanie held hers firmly, while it was clear Aunt Pitty was excited and could not help trembling. She imagined Melly's little face, eyes growing larger as anguish settled, and Randa bursting with forced exuberance, and scowling at the ridiculous amount times the smelling scents were asked for by the elder lady. She had but few patience such things, and Scarlett suspected that on this occasion, her tolerance was low and little.
All around, they waited with agitation, Mrs. Meade with her bonnet askew, clinging to her remaining son, Mrs. Elsing with her hair in disarray.. Mrs. Whiting was twisting her gloves, eyes ahead, waiting.
The triumvirate was confronted with the same powerlessness as the others, and their fragile veneer of peace cracked under the pressure of the southern boys' fate. Yet, it would thicken once more once answers would be brought to the table.
India Wilkes was in a carriage with friends, nervously twisting a ring in her finger.
So, she finally got Stuart to propose, Scarlett thought idly. She wondered how many beratings it had taken from his mother for him to find the motivation.
Maybelle sat with her mother, so very pregnant and pale. It was something shocking to expose oneself so, Scarlett thought, especially when her little Zouave was so far away from these battlefields. He would not die, that one, and she suspected he was as swift and cunning as a mouse when it came to surviving. He was one of the few of that army in butternut that was simply too persistent to die.
Thank God Rhett does not believe in it, the thought came to her swiftly, with a grip on her heart.
She paused, then pursed her lips. Oh, may he go, that scoundrel, for all she cared! May he be reached by a bullet and bleed from it! The scoundrel would grin certainly less, and that'd be all for the better.
Her fists clenched with the buoyant anger that felt almost like anxiety. Her eyes ached from staring too long, too hard at the distance. All ahead, the view was dusty and busy, numbed in a great cloud of unrest which caught to the lungs, leaving its heavy weight of smoke and powder.
She stopped, breathless, and the dust burned her feet through her thin shoes.
"Hello Mrs. Hamilton," She heard a soft, drawling voice, hitting her like an arrow in her chest. A beloved voice, which sent her heart astray, unaware and hurt by the sound detachment and formality of the tone. "You've been too close to the sun, it seems. What a curious little red and black woman."
She froze, her heart skipping a beat like a declaration of love she could not stop.
She rose her eyes to his face, yet the eyes lingered (too long) on the figure, from the boots that covered light feet, and strong and well-defined calves, then behind that tight pants were salient knees and powerful thighs, which she knew were hard and supple at the same time. She had felt their strength, had wanted to hold on to it. Her nails had clawed on the two dimples at the small of his back, had felt right here, just like it felt right for him to dig on the similar spots of her body…
No matter what, his body and mine are two parts of the same mold, she thought. Two parts begging to be completed…
At least her part did. Her weak, craving part.
She flustered, feeling so very warm and squeezy, and pressed her lips, yet could not help continuing her scrutiny. For then, she came to the crook of his elbow, forearms tight as the hands, these skillful hands, held the reins with an almost gentle grip. She thought lightly the horse did not seem to mind the little smoke from his cigar, with such hands. He kept himself straight, and she could guess the hard muscles behind the linen suit, but not the tenderer part where she had laid her head and felt his heart, and for a moment, she doubted it was even there. He gave off such an air of cleanness, meticulosity and immovability that she could fancy herself fancying over the statue of a hero. Yet, she knew he was not. His skin was swarthy and tough, his jaw strong and his lips sinful, one corner of them holding tight the cigar in a lopsided grin. She was not a fool. He was looking down on everyone beyond that hawk nose, with these dark, gleaming eyes.
And yet, she could not help but think, he had reasons to.
She had not expected him to be there, or at least she told herself. Surely, he would know he was not accepted in that crowd that he mocked, and who glared at him as if he were a Yankee himself.
Yet, he did not care. He was there, so very handsome with his shining boots and white linen suit, smoking with a devil-may-care expression on his beloved face.
Her eyes swam and sparkled with a longing she could not repress.
He had no right being handsome like that!
He was not looking at her, but ahead, and she stared and could not help but yearn and remember. Remember how easy it had been to be in his arms, how easy it had been to kiss him.
If only being with him was easy. Her heart seemed to burst out of her chest as she longed so, and she felt dismayed to see that as much as she could prepare herself to face him, she could not prepare herself not to feel. Love rose unexpected with the thrill of an exciting song she knew all too well, yet still felt surprised to feel its ardent grip. It warmed her until she felt she would suffocate from longing, tickled from the small of her back to her neck, lusty fingers on her skin.
With him, she could not pretend. And in this war, the girl in her seemed to win, willfully nestling against his frame with a triumphant smile.
He was there, and suddenly there was his scent, there was his warmth, and there was his body, so strong, so hard and big, a pillar she wanted to lean on. She was but little, and so weak and weary, and she loved him! She loved him!
To think that she shall be happy were he just to turn to her with a smile, and say "honey, it was all a misunderstanding. Let's go home"!
Somehow, she thought she would accept it all, now. She would open her arms and cry for him, call him beloved and lean on his shoulder with the relish of a pet welcoming its master home. His body was warm and strong, and she felt so cold, and so lonely at his feet!
No, she shook her head. She should not. She could not. Not at the expense of her own pride, of the respect she owed herself. She was no pet to wait on him as such. The body was weak indeed, but the mind sharp, and the soul had to be strong and unyielding.
He would trample her if she let him, she thought. She straightened herself and squared her shoulders.
Turn your head, she willed him to. Turn your head so I could show you how poised and dignified I can be toward you. Turn your head and I will show you how strong I am.
He did not. She tilted her head, irritated, then huffed.
I'll scratch you! She thought. You and your ridiculous horse, and your ridiculous, stupid little suit!
The infuriating creature ! Always doing the contrary of her wishes, just to prove he could !
And… had he just mocked her on her suntan?
Outraged by the insult, she did not even ask herself how he could be aware of this when she was all dressed in veil and crepe, though it would have given her the idea that it had to come for a very attentive and close examination. Certainly not uncaring.
She whizzed.
"Do you seek to crush me, sir, beneath your horse's heels?"
"Nothing can truly crush a bad weed," was retorted back quietly, though swiftly, a parade to her shot in the dark.
She gritted her teeth then rolled her eyes, and the sun glared back at her, hard even through her veil. A little ache settled between her brows, like the pressure of fingers pushing her insistently back to the shade. Holding back tears of pain, she scoffed. She should be angry. Or course she was. She ought to be angry.
Bad weed? Who was he calling bad weed?
He was the one creeping under her skin! Oh, would that she could just rip him out of it, out of her heart, and get rid of it, just like a bad weed, indeed!
Yet, as she tried to focus on her rightlful anger, she remembered Grandma Fontaine, her words and attitudes, and she fought back the smile. The old lady was a funny creature, sharp and greatly intolerant to foolishness, and she had made the dull gathering between ladies interesting, full of stories of scandals and mischiefs.
What was she doing now? Scarlett wondered idly. Certainly looking at the mayhem of men bellowing at war with malice, her voice unheard in the tumult.
She did not feel ashamed in not taking care to see how she was. She had still of that careless youth which thinks old people, out of her sight, continued living as they always did, waiting, watching the world and commenting.
"Funny. I've often heard you called like that as well."
This drew a lopsided grin on these sensuous red lips (a reaction, at last!), lips that had kissed her hungrily, as if he could not get enough of her.
As he kissed others like that as well? She felt the horror quicken coldly in her stomach, and she was tempted to throw up.
No, she would not think of it. Not ever.
And why would she care for it? Why would she care for these red lips, going from woman to woman, sinful and teasing carelessly?
These dirty, dirty lips… Disgusting, really, such lips, below a ridiculously clipped little mustache, which teased, tickled, and scratched when he kissed. She should scrub these dirty lips and make them learn some discrimination.
She pursed her mouth in satisfaction. Yet, the meaning of her thoughts violently came to her and as it did, the humiliation burnt across her cheeks.
She swelled in horror.
Oh, that was unbearable ! He had done nothing, and she was already losing her grip !
That was not to be borne! Oh, if she wasn't such a lady, she would just kick his horse, and see how he would keep standing that proudly!
"Samson is huffing. You know he's very protective of me and reacts to any danger that might befall me. Are you about to have a fit, Mrs. Hamilton? That wouldn't do, in front of such gentle company," He commented sneakily, not even condescending to look at her. "You know what they say about people who are alike, Mrs Hamilton."
Oh, wouldn't he stop calling her that?
She said nothing about that, because she could not find any plausible reason why he would say such a thing. It made her remember what Pa used to say, but certainly he did not refer to that. He could not.
She could not allow herself to hope and be deceived again!
Focused on the crowd, trying to see Melanie's bonnet, she bit her lip and got on her toes.
"Don't frown, you'll get wrinkles."
"You're the old one," She retorted.
"Indeed," He quipped, and She had the satisfaction of knowing that this shot at least had hit him, even if it still surprised her it had, when it was certainly quite a very pathetic attempt. "Older than you, at least. Wiser, more experienced."
And higher than you, she seemed to hear through his silence.
She pursed her lips, shaking her head lightly.
She would not ask him to help her.
Not that he offered.
She was a little vexed by that.
She huffed, looking at the crowd, before taking her most simpering smile, her eyes glittering dangerously.
"You seem to forget something, though."
From his profile, she could see his brow lift up, as a corner of his lips, almost drawing a dimple on that hard cheek.
"What is it?"
"I can make my way through the crowd. I can get lost in it. For all of your superiority, you will get stuck on your high horse, waiting for them to let you pass."
.
.
The scent of magnolias still lingered after her, swift and poignant like a call for love. Its sensuality grazed his nostrils, his mustache, then his lips, and he opened them slightly, to catch its essence.
"Alas, my love, you do me wrong..." He whispered, allowing his hungry eyes to follow painfully her silhouette as she moved through the crowd.
Foolish, stubborn girl. She certainly was too hot behind these dark garbs.
She would punish herself just to spite him, he reflected, and that thought amused him as much as it pained him.
It was too much, far too much…
Oh, to force that pretty, pretty bullheaded strumpet inside, to relieve her of all of her layers, and then to drench some chilly water over them both! To face each other bare as they were, and not as they had to appear to be!
What a relief it would be.
How merrily she would destroy every little victory of his, victories that should be good for her, as it is for the sake of her pleasure!
She turned dark in front of him, when he had wanted to make it lighter for her!
Let her sweat, he thought bitterly. Let her suffer with her pride, it will weaken her faster.
Yet, to his misfortune, his mind tended to focus on what people tried to keep from him. It innerved him. The more she tried to hide, the more he was painfully aware of her. The more his heart called for her.
Oh, Scarlett !
To look into these pale green eyes would be his downfall. They would cut him through that veil and bring him to his knees if he let them. They would cut him, and she would appear with her heart untouched, nagging him with the hopes he nurtured. How she would like that, for him to bow, to admit his defeat. How she would delight in his fall.
And how twistedly he knew some part of him would delight in her delight, even though it was at his expanse!
He sighed, then led his horse forward, taking a mean pleasure in forcing the people on foot to let him pass.
.
.
As she saw her, Melanie raised from the carriage, relief written in her face.
"Scarlett! Thank God you're here!"
"Melanie!" Miss Pittypat gasped.
"You came earlier than expected," Randa said softly.
She gave her a smile.
"I had to come."
Understanding lit between the two and they nodded to each other. She was the first to help Scarlett climb in the carriage, both hands pressing on her and with a grateful glance.
"Though I don't know why I came," Scarlett jested as she settled, spreading her skirts to make it more comfortable. "It is all a tempest in a cup!"
Randa smiled lightly. Miss Pittypat let out a cry of shock and fanned herself.
"Scarlett!"
"And for once, it seems you're decently dressed for the circumstances. Strange things occur."
"Randa!"
"Auntie, take your smelling salts," Melly chided. "You're all red."
The little lady passed the salts, before embracing her friend heartfully, with the joy of a child.
"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry we weren't there to welcome you!" She cried, seeming to realize it. "Had we know..."
"It's alright, Melly. Carreen needed to rest anyway. I left Wade with her."
It was as this moment Scarlett realized Frank Kennedy was also seated on the carriage, awkward next to Miss Pittypat, so very uncomfortably stuck by the ladies' dresses.
"Oh, and Carreen came too, finally!" Melanie continued, all in her enthusiasm. "So sweet! We shall be all happy together!"
Someone cleared his throat, drawing the attention of all ladies to him with his excellent bass.
"I've come to tell you ladies that I have been to headquarters and the first casuality lists are coming in. Don't go, they should be out any minute."
The great Rhett Butler had finally made his way through the crowd, noted Scarlett viciously. But much to her disappointment, he seemed to have been left untouched and still so very handsome she bit her lip in dismay.
Melly greeted him warmly, and his gaze softened.
"You are very kind!" She said. "My betrothed will come help us in a few, but we're happy to have your assistance."
She shone as she said the word "betrothed", as if she couldn't even believe such thing, and uttering it was a new joy to behold, to savor.
Rhett seemed for a moment somber.
"I expect he will want to. But I fear he might be detained."
Melanie tilted her head, concerned.
"But for that matter," He continued smoothly. "Please do consider me as your knight in shining armor. I shall be content in helping such ladies."
He nodded toward Melly and Randa, but said nothing toward Scarlett.
Oh, why was he so cold? Scarlett thought, distraught. Why was he so gentle and considerate to Melly and Randa, and not to her?
Wasn't she the mother of his child? Surely, that meant he had to pay her some attention and respect...
She corrected herself. Those were child's whims, and she could not behave like that.
He would be only too pleased to have the upper hand, and to mock her.
If he cared...
Not once had he looked her way, he probably didn't care at all.
She felt frustrated, a warrior that had been preparing for a fight, and left with the weight of her weapons on her arms.
Yet, at no time did he ask to see her privately. Mostly, he had been distant, almost a stranger. At no time did he say her name.
It was as if she simply did not exist for him!
"Darling, your grip is painful," Randa hissed to Scarlett. There was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes Scarlett did not understand. "I might lose an arm if you keep on."
"Maybe I should go," began Frank awkwardly.
With a mean grin, Rhett told him silkily he needed not to trouble himself, for the Cause certainly did not ask a gentleman like him to risk being trampled by the crowd and leave poor defenseless ladies alone.
Mr. Kennedy eagerly accepted, not seeming to discern the insult in these words.
As Rhett turned away, he began to say to Scarlett, after a bashful greeting, that he was so sad to know that his sweet Suellen was indisposed. He then proceeded in what was a terribly annoying apology of such delicate feminine sensibility, that of a woman for whom the only mention of evil made her ill.
Scarlett said nothing, but her eyes widened and stared as she remembered Cheyenne's cheeky grin.
What was Suellen doing?
She was soon stopped in her thinking when Rhett came back with papers and distributed them to the ladies with an efficient yet respectful way that seemed only broken when he met her eyes for a short moment, his lips twitching as if in jest.
It went down as she swiftly turned her eyes. Instead, she chose to focus on the papers with Melly and Randa, scrolling through the names, stopping, then continuing, some sticking to her, others not.
Calvert Raifort... Dead.
She stared, her hands losing their grip to fall on her skirts.
Tarleton Thomas... Brent and Stuart... Dead.
It came to her as a slap.
A cry broke the crowd. India had fallen.
The boys' sister stared, but said nothing, her hair seeming almost red against her white face.
"They were brave boys," Rhett said softly, approaching and Scarlett, as she raised her distressed eyes, could see he was sincere. "The bravest. I am sorry, truly sorry."
She inhaled and nodded; her lower lip slightly trembling. Yes, they were, the Tarleton boys. Strong, fierce and stubborn, and so, so foolish in their strapping braveness! Boys that had had not the time to become men, and who had run after her, laughed with her. Boys that had looked at Rhett with envious and admirative glances, and quite almost worshipped him when he began to teach them to shoot. She could remember their enthusiasm, so contagious, their brag and pride as Rhett told them one good shot could save them from any situation.
We'll have that shot! She remembered them shouting. We'll have it!
It seemed they had not.
Her eyes shimmered with tears, and she barely registered Randa's softened reply.
"Thank you."
She turned and saw the emotion in her friend's eyes, and suddenly, it felt like all eyes were on her.
What could she say? What should she say?
What could be the best thing that could done?
Rhett had already said something, something simple and yet... Oh, she had to do better, but what? What could be better? What could bring Randa some relief?
Boyd... Boyd at least must be alive, she thought, it had to be a comforting thought... Yes…
"Oh, Randa! At least, you've still got B-…"
Randa looked at her, bewildered, then contempt tainted her eyes, the tears still unwilling to fall, gripping at the corners. Her fists clenched, white and pained, as she replied coldly.
"Who?" She hissed. "All my brothers are dead. You would have known it were you a true friend. You would have paid attention."
Scarlett stared, frozen, the information registering. All the Tarleton boys… dead?
Had she been so blind to everything else that such a part of her world could go missing without she having any knowledge of it?
"Randa… oh, Randa, I'm so sorry…"
"Leave it," she snapped, rejecting the hand that was offered.
Scarlett was about to relent when Maybelle cried to Melly from her carriage, exclaiming her joy over her René's survival, and that of the latter's cousin, before drawing attention to Mrs. Meade, whose son was patting awkwardly her hand as she remained silent, staring absent-mindedly at the paper on her lap.
Darcy. Darcy, her eldest, was dead. No more letters would come. Boots would never be sent to the boy that had asked for them so.
"Mother, you've still got me," Her youngest said. "And if you'll just let me!"
That boy, Scarlett thought in anger. That foolish boy... Couldn't he see this was the last thing to be said?
"No!" his mother cried back.
"Phil Meade., you hush your mouth," Melanie said sternly, raising from the carriage to approach them.
Her hand was trembling as she stood, Scarlett noticed, and though her tone was stern, her eyes moved swiftly from mother to son, certainly asking herself if she should first berate the son, or comfort the mother.
"But…"
"Would you mind escorting back home?" Scarlett interrupted.
They stared at her. Scarlett batted her lashes innocently.
"Please... I feel faint, and am in need of someone strong to help me back home."
She did not really know why she chose to intervene, but once she did, there was no stopping her as she took be Phil's arm and he stared at her in confusion.
Mrs. Meade nodded, eyes widened, and Melly let out a little relieved smile.
She bowed lightly. She had said she was about to faint, but as she walked with Phil, she feared it would soon be obvious he was more leaning on her than she was leaning on him. Why, if it was so, she could imagine some people soon telling that she was setting her cap to Phil Meade now!
India Wilkes more certainly, when she recovered.
Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head. No, she had nothing to be ashamed of!
She could feel Rhett's gaze on her, guess the tilt of his head and his smirk, and she affected a deeper swoon. Well, she had chosen to do so, and now she would have it!
That boy had been foolish, and she was going to berate him if his mother could not!
"These were foolish words," She hissed. "Your mother needs you. She already lost a child. Don't make her lose another. What if you died?"
Phil Meade seemed to jump, stricken by her words, before straightening, his voice attempting a deeper, more mature tone.
"Then it'll be with honor, for I would fight for my country. I'll fight for glory, and the name 'Meade' shall be known."
"You'll do it for yourself, for already many boys died, and there are too many names to recall already. Why yours should be more remembered by others ? You're just a boy among others."
"But… Darcy…" The boy stuttered, his veneer of patriot having suddenly burnt like snow to the sun. He sputtered a moment, before temper got him and made him raise accusing eyes on her, an obvious attempt to dismiss her words. "So it's true, what some say… your husband… you did not care when he died !"
Her eyes narrowed. Who said that? Who?
"A gentleman wouldn't say such a thing."
He seemed about to say a lady wouldn't talk as she did, but his own sense of himself was fighting so hard to appear collected and condescending despite his trouble. He sputtered.
"But.. it's true, isn't it?"
Her brows knotted in a tight frown as she scowled, anger flaring after so many unfair comments.
"You know nothing about it. You talk about dying with honor, but who will comfort your mother when you die?" She hissed. "It won't bring your brother back. Nor would it bring back Charles…"
And how I would need him today, she thought.
She sighed, the image of the boy who married her coming behind her lids.
"I miss my husband. I perhaps did not know him as I should have. Yet, he was kind and he wanted to protect me. He did, in a way. But now, he's gone, and that protection can never be what if was. Honor is a poor thing to leave to the ones who care for you.
"I've lost many friends now," She added softly, still surprised it hurt no less. "And now I regret having taken from granted their presence, for I shall never once again see them. I shall never see them to be the friend they deserved. It is a debt that would never be paid, and I'm left with the weight of it."
At her side, Phil Meade's head lowered, an expression of shame and distress on his face. Gone was the bravado, and now the tears flowed freely.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hamilton," He muttered.
She shrugged. She did not need for him to be sorry. Not him.
"Be sorry. And be alive. Your parents deserve no less."
She had said her piece, and no there was nothing more to be said. She was satisfied after that, and prone to think good of herself.
Her thoughts had been weak, but she had kept her going. No call for attention, very few petty remarks, and no angry or, more mortifying, pathetic words. Though not truly cold and indifferent, she had not been overwhelmed by her emotions.
She allowed herself to think her performance had been satisfying for a first meeting.
She breathed out.
It would be better next time, she decided. With time, she would be stronger.
They continued walking silently, until finally they came in front of the house.
She entered, he stayed on the porch.
.
.
.
"I'm… having conflicted emotions about the war…" Melly said as they finally settled on their couch. "Well, I know it is right, for then why would our poor boys die for it? Yet… I can't help but have these thoughts, sometimes, that it shouldn't be, and there had to be another way. And Ashley said in his letters…"
Scarlett was weary to her bones. She had had to put Miss Pitty to bed when she returned, and bear her weak remonstrances and complaints about everything and nothing at all. The supper had been cold, with Randa gripping her fork and glaring until Melly came back, visibly weary herself.
She had just replied to Scarlett's question about Mrs. Meade, and added her own worry that no cry could be obtained from her, and now came that sudden reflection, that seemed to astonish her as much as it did others.
"It doesn't matter what Ashley thinks," Scarlett bit. Ashley was a coward, too afraid of life to be considered. "What do you think, you goose? What would you think if you had your Mr. Goldin killed in the battlefield? Or…"
"No!" Melly cried, before shrinking. "… but then I should not ask him to go… oh dear, how could I ask him to go? For him to fight for a war where on the other side, he has friends, family? You're right, dear, I got it easy, and it is not fair of me to doubt when I don't have any loved one to lose in this war anymore. You're right to make me remember poor Charles. What terrible sister you must think I am… oh, please don't hate me!"
That was not what she meant.
She lowered her head in shame. She too had been guilty in not thinking about Charles as she should have.
"And now I made you all sad!" Melly insisted. "There, my darling, I'm so, so sorry!"
She patted Scarlett's hand for a moment, but it seemed only to worsen her retreat.
She sighed heavily, her head turning as she reflected on it.
"I can't help but admire that poor boy. Phil Meade. So courageous. If I had a son, I would like him to be that."
"If you had a son, you would like him alive," Scarlett snapped. "No son of mine would ever go to the war. I'd sooner cripple Wade myself than let him do such a foolish thing."
"Scarlett, you don't think so!"
"I do!"
"You would make a coward out of him then," Randa intervened darkly. "A coward to his friends, to himself."
She held her chin up.
"Then, a coward, he will be. But a coward that would be alive."
Randa's cheeks reddened, her eyes flaring.
"How can you be so thoughtless? What do you know of war, Scarlett? You've lost nothing to it. Not a brother, nor a lover. My brothers went to the war. They're dead now, but at least I know they fought for what they believed in."
She got up, staring at Randa darkly. How dared she?
"I've lost Charles, who wanted to be a protector. I've lost your brothers, who were my childhood companions before they were my suitors. Because of that stupid, useless war which makes no sense to me, and shouldn't make sense to you, yet you continue to say it does, because else, what's the point? What's the point in all these deaths? What's the point of this war?
"It has no point at all," she whispered, her breathing ragging. "No point at all, but a foolish bellow of pride. Ah, this is our way of life, and we'll keep it! Foolish, foolish, fool-"
A slap cut her, swift and hard across her cheek. With a savage strength of instinct, she slapped back, her vision turning red as she saw Randa seemed about to pounce on her.
"Stop it, stop it!" Melanie cried, horrified. "They are all dead! Is that how we honor the dead, by fighting amongst ourselves?"
Scarlett breathed out. Sobered, but not vanquished.
"You're right. It is useless. And I'm right too. I'm losing you too. But I will not lose Wade."
She took her son and put him to bed, before taking refuge in her room.
Yet, she was dismayed to see she was not alone in it.
There was her baby sister, waiting for her, so terribly pale. Shaking so she seemed like a little girl.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
Oh no. Carreen cried.
"Oh, I shall never love again!"
Her little body fell on the bed, where she let out heartbreaking sobs that went to her sister's heart.
But what could she do?
She thanked God at least there was no one else in the room, for she felt more lucid, her thoughts clearer. As she approached, Scarlett thought of her mother, and the calm, soothing accent of her voice. Ellen O'Hara, a woman with her strengths and weaknesses, not the image of perfection that no one would ever hope to reach. A woman she could learn from, and not just admire.
Ellen O'Hara also could break, just as much as Carreen. Just as much as she.
The question turned around, and she felt more at ease.
What would she, Scarlett, want to hear? How would she want to be comforted? What words would she want to hear?
She looked at Carreen and saw the girl she had been, the girl that had been grieving for a love that couldn't be, and then she knew.
She opened her arms and let her come nestle on her breast, her hands holding on to her shoulder blades. She rocked her lightly, like a baby, and put her chin on the top of her head until the words came.
"This is what it feels, the loss of one's love," She murmured, her voice echoing, almost strange to her ears. "To feel it burn your heart. To feel, yet not to touch, not to hope. You're in a place lingering, waiting, mourning for something that isn't to be, for he is gone. And yet, he's here. You feel him. Don't wait for him, little girl. Don't. Don't become his shadow. Don't bury yourself for him. You are better than that. You are worth more than that. You're a strong girl, a O'Hara girl, and you're going to live after that."
She pushed her lightly and cupped her cheeks, feeling the tears soaking her palms, sticking her to her sister's skin. She tried to smile.
"There, dear heart… you are strong. He is gone but you are not. You will live and go on, and we shall all be proud of you."
Tears continued flowing.
"I feel so torn, Scarlett!"
She kissed her brow, and it felt as if someone was doing it also for her. She felt the fresh kiss bring her relief, and it made her breathe out more easily.
"Sleep. It will all be better tomorrow. And if it's not better tomorrow, then it shall be the day after. I promise you."
Carreen's nails hurt, gripping her like this, but she resolved not to say anything.
"Stay with me, Scarlett... If you leave now...!"
She nodded.
"I will, baby. Now, sleep."
"Sing to me, Scarlett!"
She pushed her lightly, before breaking in a smile.
"My, you're quite exigent! Fine, but only because it is for you."
She hummed for a moment, trying to remember a song, until one came to mind. The words began in a whisper, and finally she found her voice, mournful yet stronger.
.
Fare you well my dear, I must be gone
And leave you for a while
If I roam away I'll come back again
Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear
Though I roam ten thousand miles
So fair though art my bonny lass
So deep in love am I
But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love
Till the stars fall from the sky my dear
Till the stars fall from the sky
The sea will never run dry, my dear
Nor the rocks never melt with the sun
But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love
Till all these things be done my dear
Till all these things be done
O yonder doth sit that little turtle dove
He doth sit on yonder high tree
A making a moan for the loss of his love
As I will do for thee my dear
As I will do for thee*
.
She let the last words linger, before adding softly.
"He loved you, Carreen."
He better had, for her sister had a gentle, sweet heart. She deserved it.
Carreen let out a loud sob, her body trembling in saccades.
"Thank you. I... I needed to hear someone say so."
.
.
.
"Please do prepare a tray with biscuits and water for my sister. She would need it in a few hours."
"Miss Melly asked it, Ma'am. She said you would need a cup as well."
Scarlett bit her lip, a slight frown marring her forehead. It wasn't often she thought, that she actually took effort to do such gestures for others, and she was a little vexed such thought had already been acted on by someone else.
Oh, Melly! Always fussing !
She breathed out and sighed. Well, at least that was done.
"Add some hot chocolate, then. I believe we have some of it still, and Carreen does love sweet things."
"Do you think Mr. Butler could procure us some more?"
Daggers were sent to Cheyenne through slits where glinted dangerously green eyes.
"No, of course, Miz. I shuldn't have asked."
Scarlett examined her for a moment, before dismissing her. It wasn't Cheyenne she was angry with.
"Thank you, Cheyenne," she said, in a softer tone.
"How is Carreen?"
She turned. Randa was staring at her, both hands gathered on the end of her bodice. Color raised to her cheeks, but Scarlett nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Heartbroken, but finally asleep. She loved Brent, the poor thing. As we all did."
Randa's eyes went up, met hers.
"Your eyes are red."
She turned her head away, her lower lip turning up.
"I'm not heartless."
"I know," Randa replied softly. "What I said earlier… what I did .. I did not mean it. I'm sorry."
"It's alright."
The floor trembled under Randa's stamp as she seemed to break.
Oh no, not again! Scarlett thought in dismay.
"It's not!" Randa cried. "I always say that women have to stick together, to respect themselves more, and yet, what am I doing? I've slapped you! I've insulted you! Why are you always so forgiving? You should be red with anger with what I just did !"
"Lord no!" Scarlett retorted, offended. "I'm already red enough nowadays and it's unbearable. I won't ruin my complexion for the likes of you."
They stared at each other, before erupting into a laugh. But soon enough, it turned into a sob, grief seeming to decide to break Randa once again, leaving Scarlett catch her and guide her to the next couch.
The auburn-haired woman straightened and took a deep breath, her lids heavy and her hands gripping Scarlett's skirts tightly.
"Thank you, Scarlett."
She dismissed it.
"Fiddle-dee-dee, you're silly. You're thanking me for nothing."
Randa let out a disbelieving snort.
"Your propensity to be distracted and to distract others over trivialities is astonishing. A talent, really. I have to wonder often if it is conscious or not, but… But I needed it. Others would have urged me to cry, to talk about… about.."
"No, don't cry. I can't handle any more crying for today."
A giggle escaped Randa's lips, almost delirious. Her head fell abruptly, and Scarlett reflected that it seemed as if the thread had been holding it up all of this time had just been just. Her brow darkened as she began to whisper feverishly onto Scarlett's shoulder.
"What you said… I thought it too. I thought it too, but when that happened… it feels like betrayal, you know? And they can't fight back. And I want to shout at the top of my voice, because they chose to do so, so leave me, to leave our family. And yet… I remember how we celebrated when they decided, how we praised them, our boys, so brave and strong… we thought it was just a little adventure, and they would come back, as fiery as before. But they did not! They did not! "
Wrath lit her eyes, before it finally broke her and she dissolved in sobs, embracing Scarlett fiercely. It was uncomfortable, really, and Scarlett awkwardly patted her back, before finally settling on keeping a firm hold on her friend's shoulders. It seemed to be what was needed, for Randa's grip eased, and allowed for a more comfortable position.
Perhaps, she thought, it was not as much as finding the right gestures to soothe and stop the tears as to finally let the other find their own solution in the grieving. Perhaps it was not to be forced, whether was for the one who grieved and the one who wanted to bring comfort.
"Do you remember, Scarlett, the day Stuart and Brent fought with Tony Fontaine ?"
It made her smile.
"They always were so easy to trigger," She recalled fondly. "The County should never be the same without the Tarleton boys to liven it up."
"My brothers were idiots. But they were mine. They were our idiots." Randa whispered. "Dear Lord, what is left of the Tarletons?"
"Women. And they are far tougher than men. Isn't your mother proof of that?"
"Yes, indeed, she is."
Randa raised her head, the chin resting on Scarlett's shoulder.
"It's… almost wise, what you say."
"Dear God, no! Now that would be quite a terrible thing."
Mischief glinted back weakly in Randa's eyes.
"I said almost. I saw how you reacted to your Mister Butler…"
"I did not!"
"You did."
"I was cool and collected."
"You were eating him with your eyes."
"I was mightily glaring at him!"
"Which is far from being cool and collected."
Scarlett stared. They laughed with tears in their eyes. She shrugged, the shoulders shaking.
"Fine enough. It seems like I'm not as strong as I thought I was… What a terrible thing!"
"My sister Hetty used to say strength does not come at once."
"Where did she learn that?"
"She said from books."
She thought of Ashley. Ashley and his books, and his gentlemanly behaviors, meticulous gestures coming from an old story of chivalry and romance, and a dream that perhaps never was. She thought of his pitying condescension toward those who ignored the things he knew, had no interest in the things he admired. She thought of this fear of life he had once expressed to her, and she was tempted to snort with scorn.
That man and his pretty words, coming from books. A coward that had proven unhelpful in the end, though she had thought she could change him. Books indeed? Had they even helped him in other ways than in fleeing a reality he was not strong enough to face?
"Indeed ! I shall not think anyone can truly learn something only from a book. It has to be tried and hit on."
"So that's why you're so headstrong!"
"I sure hit my head many times!" She jested.
"And did you learn?"
"Only that I don't like banging my head against a wall. I want to live and not to worry."
"Would that it be possible."
They stared together ahead, marveling in the peacefulness of the living room when all the world seemed upside down.
"We are told not to worry, to be kind, beautiful and submissive. But how does that help us? How did that help me, you, Melly, or even... Hetty? What has become of her, she who was the calmest of the family?"
Scarlett squeezed her friend's hand.
"She'll come back. She's a Tarleton woman. She's strong."
Randa sighed.
"But how would she be welcomed?"
She could not answer that, for any reply would be inadequate, and could only bring worry. What was the fate of a woman that had fled the security of her family for a man? Could she even return?
She remembered the girl, that indeed had always been calm and gentle, sometimes a bit cheeky, but weren't all the Tarletons like that? What could have brought her to such extent?
Could it be she suffered the restraints as well and tried to find an escape to it?
After a moment, Randa tried to talk.
"I should have known you would say something like that. Back there. You always say something thoughtless when he's here. Or when you try too hard to appear something else than you are. I suppose, here, it was both. My mother used to have a horse, you know. Would raise its tail and head every time there was someone new, or someone he didn't like. But the worst came when there were too many things to think of at the same time, people, new place, new food or whatever. You would ask him to go right, he would go left, then look pretty sheepish about it when he didn't get his reward."
Now, Scarlett was really offended.
"A horse, really? Are you comparing me to a horse ?"
"Oh, you're much prettier, I assure you."
"That is a great relief, indeed."
She sighed.
"I'm sorry."
"You wanted to show him how good of a friend you were, didn't you?"
Scarlett tried to deny it, but the words failed her. She shrugged with irritation.
"If it was, it would have been for nothing, for he barely paid attention to me anyway."
"Lovers are blind, it's said," Randa remarked softly. "Don't worry, I don't think he saw anything. I think he was very much discomposed by your distant attitude and too much in his own misery to notice."
"Rhett is never discomposed at anything!" She protested. "And it's not a matter of not trying! He just doesn't care!"
"Very blind, indeed," Randa mumbled.
"What did you say?"
"I'm saying your hearing is in need of checking, darling"
"What makes you think so?"
" The fact that you can't hear the deafening beat of your own heart begging for him to look at you. 'look at me, Rhett Butler! Look at me!"
"It's not funny!"
"It is! It was the only thing that was funny about this whole day, so you better let me laugh at it."
"… you're annoying."
"I know."
Scarlett huffed and crossed her arms.
"I thought myself ready. I thought myself prepared."
"Hetty used to say no one is ever ready. You can prepare yourself for whatever is coming, yet when it comes to it, you either fight or flee."
"I have to fight. I can't… I can't let him have me. I know there are women who love without asking in return... But I can't be that kind of woman… If I do… with how he treats others…"
"You think he would crush you. You think you would lose every respect you might have for yourself."
She nodded. Now, it was not a matter of not wanting to trap him and be despised by him. It was a matter of choosing herself. It was a matter to be safe, to be sane. He was the one that brings her true happiness. But he was also the one that could destroy her without repair, and she could not allow that.
She could not regret laying with him, for it had brought her Wade. There was also some rebellious strike in her that felt pride on the fact that she chose to go to him, unsettled him even, and was no mere silly girl being abducted to a man's passion. She had chosen, taken, and in the end, it was her choice alone.
And she chose to say no. No to the same games, where she was running toward him, only for him to run and pester her. No to the painful hope that came and went like a twinkling light in a tunnel. No to her own impulses to go to him, to forget her wrath and her grief.
This time, I won't say no for you because I'm afraid you'll despise me, she thought. I'll say no for me. I won't go to you anymore. The joy is only too brief, and the grief too sharp!
Oh, but how lonely she felt !
She felt Randa's hand on hers.
"That's alright. I'll help you. Just don't say it to Melly, she might get jealous!"
This made Scarlett's lip twitch. Suddenly, it felt easier to breathe, to be strong. Her shoulders relaxed.
"Don't try to be nice and soothing. When you try, it doesn't work. It's too much. It's overbearing," Randa insisted. "I shall pinch you when you're overbearing. That's how good of a friend I am."
"And I shall pinch you when you're being a brute. Because you are a brute."
Randa's broken chuckle rumbled low.
"That's a deal, then."
Now, all seemed all right, even when all definitely wasn't. So many things still lingered, but Scarlett knew they couldn't cry at everything that passed them over. It was no way to live, and they had to move on. She wanted to move on and dismiss it all.
Would that anyone let her!
"Scarlett…" Randa began after some time, her eyes intense. "You need to be wary. Rhett Butler, he…"
"I'm happy you are reconciled!"
Melly's cry unsettled them both, sending them into each other's arms, until they laughed at such ridiculousness.
How good it felt indeed, to be able to laugh, even in tragedy!
"She's easy to be angry at, but not to so for a long time," Randa commented laconically. "She's a strong one. And I've been… too rash and hostile. But we've decided to work on that. 'Tis better than to say sorry all the time."
"Indeed, she certainly needs to work on that. Oh, do stop poking me, Randa!"
.
.
.
As she came to bed, Scarlett met Suellen upstairs, and the girl stood abruptly when she saw her, her head lowered but cheeks flushed as she gripped on a book.
There was something in her eyes, in the trembling lids and flaring nostrils, something desperate and nervous. It called to her as a familiar face, almost begging her to ask, begging for some soothing. Yet, it made her curious, for there was something obviously begging to be said, something scandalous perhaps, and it came to her mind swiftly that Suellen may have a new beau.
A silly thought certainly, but as it settled, it seemed she could see the signs of it glaring at her.
Well, that would have to wait. she was too weary to suffer any confidence for now.
"Suellen? Where were you ?"
The moment she asked, her expression shut down swiftly, teary eyes becoming hard and revengeful.
"Does it concern you?"
She turned away.
Shrugging, Scarlett thought of it no more and went to bed, nestling by Carreen's side in search of some warmth.
.
.
.
It was no time for Melly to go to bed as she saw her betrothed's form waiting for her near the garden, his long body crouched, leaning on a bush.
She understood it all.
How defeated he seemed, her poor darling !
"Edward!" She cried running to his side, kneeling until she could cradle his face between her hands. "Your friend?"
He looked at her, and she saw the tears in his eyes, saw the fight in them as he couldn't bear to let her see them. Flustered by her own brazenness, she put her forehead on his and closed her eyes.
"Edward… stop fighting." She pleaded. "I'm sorry, darling… Oh, my love, I'm sorry ! What can I do?"
This seemed to break him, and he gathered her in his arms, pressing her on his chest so very tightly she felt like a ragged doll. From there, she could feel him all, all his rage, his powerlessness and grief, and it shook her to the core.
"I wish... I wish I could have done something. Anything. I wish... there's something that could be done, to avenge him... What barbary… what waste! It disgusts me to the core, to think all that blood shall be shed and it will never be enough ! I hate it. I hate them! Why should people kill one another in such a way, when life is already hard enough without that? It makes me sick how many died, how many find glory in it when there's truly none to be found!"
Was he sick of her? Came the dangerous thought. Was he? Did he blame her and her people?
She had believed in it. She believed in it, she corrected herself, feeling a little ashamed. And yet… yes, she too felt about it, grieved about it, and when she saw him grieved, it made her so… so…
Angry at the world. Angry at everyone.
She gasped. He raised his head and examined her quietly. Then, a heavy sigh left him.
"Oh, Melly! You're trembling... You're afraid, I see it. Every gentle picture you might have had of me has to crumble by now, hasn't it? I'm no prince, no gentleman. I'm only a man, and I'm angry, and I wish the whole world would disappear!"
She did not open her eyes. Did not reply. He nodded, all color leaving him.
"You say nothing. You're right. It is quite a terrible thing, a horrifying feeling, certainly so foreign to you."
No, she could not let him believe that. She could not! Even if no lady should say such a thing, she could not!
There, she met him, and he gulped.
"Stop it! I understand. I understand the wrath, the feeling of hopelessness. More than you think I do!" Her eyes were fierce, the usually soft candles blowing the same fire as his, and as she shut it again, tears fell on her face. She nestled on his chest, desperate. "Oh, not you! Don't hide! Let me in! If I was trembling, it's because I was angry for you, my love, my Edward. It's because I am afraid for you! I don't want to lose you. "
"Have I not lost you?"
Her shoulders fell in relief.
"How would you have? My silly darling, you're but a man, just like I'm but a woman. My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense."
He stared at her, bewildered, until he could finally believe his eyes, believe in the fierce faith that was glowing on her face, the tender brown alight with a flame.
He smiled. "I love you, my bookish little woman."
She blushed, lowering her head.
"It's from Anne Bradstreet. To... my dear and loving husband."
He kissed her knuckles.
"I quite like that."
She let out a little amused smile.
"You're trying to distract me, you flatterer. But I know better."
He sighed and played with her fingers.
"I can't hide anything from you, it seems."
"I do hope you can't," She jested lightly, her voice breaking. "There, if one day you're lost, turn to me. Say: m-my Melly, what shall I do now? And I shall tell you what you think is right but wouldn't dare say it yourself."
He nodded, in awe.
"Could you... Could you do the same for me?" She said shyly. "There are so many people who don't dare to do that, and from you, I want… I want more."
"Melanie, you'll just have to say the words, and I'll do it."
He put her little hand on his beating heart.
"The world is changing, Melanie. But as long as you're with me, I feel at least there's something good in it."
He put a little kiss on her forehead, and she smiled, content, closing her eyes in bliss with the faith of loving and being loved as equally as she wanted. There was no storm, only a rosy view without cloud.
The weather startled them both out of their embrace, with the surprise of the thunder, followed quickly by sudden rain. They looked at each other, bewildered, before laughing at their disheveled appearance as the drops fell over their faces.
It was a ridiculous situation, indeed, and Melly was the first to recover. She sensibly resolved it was time to separate, and he nodded.
Until next time.
.
.
.
Hetty was famished and weary, and her heart shuddered quickly in her chest, pulse throbbing her poor temples. And yet, she could see it now! Fairhill, so dear to her heart!
Fairhill! Land of horses and the wild at heart!
Soon, she would embrace Camilla and muss Randa's hair. Perhaps Thomas, Brent and Stuart would be there as well, and Boyd…
Oh, she had seen his name among the dead, but she couldn't believe it. Certainly, it was a mistake!
Boyd had always liked to hide. He would be the last to be found.
They will forgive her, she thought. She was coming home, after all. If she was not a son, she was definitely a prodigal daughter.
As she walked forward, the wind blew sharp and shrill, like a baby's cry. She dismissed it and went on. She was an unmarried girl, who had had her first foolishness, her first fancy.
A few more steps, and she'd be home.
Home to Camilla, Randa, Mama, Papa and everyone! Home to the peace, home to her life!
As she stepped into the house, the slaves looked at her as if she was a ghost, which was to be expected, she reflected. She had stated her name loudly, yet her voice had cracked from the lack of water. If there was still something of Hetty Tarleton in her, she knew also that the delicate girl with red hair and pale skin could scarcely be found in the battered woman with sunburned hair and tanned skin.
And yet, she had been raised to be a lady, like the others. She had learned how to walk properly, talk properly, be kind and slightly witty as such as could be tolerated.
She was stronger, as much as experiences can make people become so. She knew her mother would respect that, for she respected strength before all. But was she still Hetty Tarleton?
We were never prepared, she thought.
This was not how to survive. She had been raised a plant, when she would have needed the armor of a tree bark, and thorns to scare the unworthy. For it was certainly an unworthy that abandoned her. A rake who had promised her love and adventure and left her running for it. She had given herself for a song, but now the song had ended, and she couldn't pay the artist. She did not want to pay!
She had already paid enough. Her ears still ached. If she wanted a song now, it would be she that would play.
Love was beautiful in the books. It was powerful and true, a tale of two incomplete pieces coming together, and fitting perfectly.
It was a very handsome dream, and everything that was attached to it was unreal. She would not think of it.
She was coming home. She was coming to her senses.
She was all bruised skins and palpitations.
And then the door opened, and the saw the living room, with all these dear, familiar faces. She took a step forward and smiled, her voice breaking as she cried.
"Hello everyone. I'm home."
But all she met was blank stares. Blanks stares from bloodshed eyes. Ahead, she could hear a horse crying.
A storm was coming.
/
/
As always, I do not own Gone with the Wind, nor the references cited.
* The song is an English that I discovered while searching, and I thought it suited it well the moment. If you're interested in American songs (and as marvellous), there is also the site "americanrevolution", from which I hesitated over many.
See you soon!
