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Rhett closed the book. No matter how badly he wished to read the rest of her journal, he simply couldn't. He'd abandoned her when she had needed him most. He'd left behind Wade and Ella who had counted on him to be their father. In Ella's case he had been the only father she had ever known. Even if he had been angry with Scarlett, that was no excuse.

In the short span of a year those children had seen their mother have a miscarriage and become so ill they'd thought she would die, their small sister had broken her neck, and then their rock; their Aunt Melanie died. Then to compound all of that pain contained in their small bodies their stepfather had turned his back on their mother and walked away.

Poor Scarlett was convinced Wade hated her, but Rhett suspected that wasn't the case. Wade had always regarded his mother as a sort of goddess to be feared and worshipped, kept always at a distance. The boy might be upset with Scarlett's decisions, but if Rhett had to guess where the bulk of Wade's anger was directed he was inclined to think it might be at his arrogant stepfather.

Then there was Ella. He could hardly stand that. Ella had died thinking that he hadn't loved her as much as Bonnie. Whether that was true or not he should never have let something like that show. He'd loved Bonnie so much because she was so like Scarlett whose heart he could never reach. But Ella, she had been his little girl. Frank Kennedy's daughter that was true, she was. But who had been her father, indeed the only one she'd ever known. Rhett could feel his chest tighten; he had loved her too.

He could recall when Scarlett had been pregnant with her and later when he had returned to see Scarlett she had been absently holding Ella in her arms on the front steps. The first time he held Ella he could see that, though she had Frank Kennedy's coloring, she had Scarlett's nose and the same strawberry colored lips. Instead he'd told her the baby looked just like Frank, knowing that's what she would want to hear. What a lie, she was Scarlett with ginger hair and hazel eyes. Her features and laugh were all Scarlett. He looked down at the journal. How could he continue to read Scarlett's thoughts? If she wanted him to know anything surely she'd tell him.

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Scarlett paced. She did it because she could no longer sit still and pray that Bertie retrieved her journal. 'As God as my witness, if Bertie can retrieve that damned book, I'll burn it.' But she knew that was completely true. How could she burn that book? It would be like destroying a piece of herself. That journal had helped her see the errors and stumbling blocks that had littered her life. Through writing and reflecting she saw, with regret, that so many of the tragedies of her life could have been so easily avoided.

The most poignant piece of regret was Ashley Wilkes. Ashley was a childhood dream. She should have been able to place him on the shelf of abandoned childhood hopes and fantasies. When he had come to call on her that afternoon at Tara she had been a child, overwhelmed by a longing for the imagined. The sun slanting through the dogwood trees framing the house had provided Ashley with a golden halo, glinting off his blond head. She could still recall the boredom of that lazy late spring day. Her mother had a Frenchwoman coming from Alpharetta the following day to instruct her daughters in floral arranging. The hour prior to Ashley's arrival she had been brought so low as to resort to picking flowers for her lesson just to pass the time.

Scarlett had a small bouquet of the aforementioned flowers still in her lap as she sat on the front porch of Tara. Nearly 15 years later she could still recall that it was a bouquet of jack in the pulpit, pink ladies slippers, wild lily of the valley, and forget me not. Ashley had smiled at the picture she presented and spoke some lines.

"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember."

She had smiled at hearing the word love. That was what mattered most because she found herself suddenly and wildly in love with Ashley Wilkes.

Scarlett frowned at the memory. She had carried those lines engraved on her heart for years. She had known that they must have been from a poem or book that Ashley had read but she had never had a context for them. She had only taken them at face value, a line about flowers and love.

One night when she had been unable to sleep she had ventured into the library to ask Bertie if he knew where the line was from. He indeed had, it was after all written by a national British institution. He told her the overview of Hamlet. Scarlett's curiosity was peaked enough that she asked to see a copy of the play. To her extreme embarrassment she realized love was not the emotion, but instead the person to which Ophelia was referring. Once again she'd misunderstood Ashley Wilkes. Since then she'd read all of Shakespeare's comedies and Bertie had taken her to Stratford on the Avon in April for the Shakespearean Fair. They'd seen The Merry Wives of Windsor, which made her laugh. The other play they had seen was Much Ado about nothing, which though it made her laugh, reminded her of Rhett.

She sent books by the dozens to Wade and Beau. Scarlett was although pleased at the fact that she had slowly become a very well read woman. No one, she added subconsciously Rhett, could ever mock her ignorance again. She didn't enjoy all of what she read but she had become more willing to give each work a chance. Some she put down unfinished, others she devoured and sent to Wade with some little note jotted at the end. He read everything she sent and responded. At first the responses were terse and abrupt. But as the last few months had gone by he had shared his opinions on the books she sent. Finally last month he had sent her a book, The Three Musketeers in French. He had said he enjoyed it very much and hoped that she would like it too. She had read every page, touched that her son finally recognized that she was trying to build a bridge between them.

She wondered if Wade saw a connection between the daring do in the novel and the exploits of Rhett. She had only been to America once in the last year and that was to introduce Wade to Elizabeth Victoria. Wade at first had been horrified that she was keeping Bess from Rhett. No matter how much he hated Rhett he still thought it was wrong for a man not to know his child. They had argued quietly while Bess slept in the next room.

Finally Wade acknowledged that Rhett had taken Bonnie away from Scarlett and perhaps he would try to take Elizabeth. Wade never called her Bess; he thought the name sounded common. Scarlett could see that Wade was slowly coming around to her way of thinking. Wade had lost Bonnie and Ella. He lost Melanie and Rhett. He was done with losing the people he cared about. If his mother believed it was best for Elizabeth to be a secret, then so be it. But, he'd warned her that one day there might be a day of reckoning and it might very well be unpleasant.

Scarlett cringed. The days of reckoning might have very well arrived. If the journal reached the press every detail would come out. Lord Robert would obviously give the journal to whoever could do the most damage with it… Her breath caught in her throat. RHETT.

She'd been with Rhett when Lord Robert had first been looking for her. Maybe he hadn't been looking for her, perhaps he had instead been checking to see if she was with Rhett. What if he had stolen the journal before accosting her in the stairwell?

Her eyes closed trying to recall every detail of the encounter. Then it came to her. Lord Robert was normally the most fastidious of dressers. Every piece of clothing starched and wrinkle free. Every item on his body was the epitome of fashion. What was it that was straining to come to the surface of her thoughts, something that had been off about Lord Robert's appearance? There had been something inside his coat that broke the normally smooth contours of his coat. Was it something rectangular and thick? Her journal. He already had her journal when he'd confronted her. He had been at Rhett's room. What if the journal hadn't left the estate with Lord Robert? What if he'd given to Rhett?

The thought exploded in her brain, Rhett had the journal. Lord Robert had given the journal where it would do the most damage. Rhett, who would not rest till he took his daughter back. Rhett, who now had the ammunition to take Bess. Perhaps Lord Robert had thought that Rhett would blackmail her with the journal, thus removing her from the Prince's life. Without Scarlett in the way Lord Robert could further insinuate himself into the Prince's life.

Disregarding the fact that she had no shoes and her shirtsleeves were undone, Scarlett darted out the study door leading to her own rooms. She had to reach Rhett's room before it was too late.

Rhett had gotten up several times fully intending to go to Scarlett's rooms and return her journal. Each time he had gotten just as far as the door to the hall when he'd reconsider and sit back down. Finally he surrendered to curiosity and reopened her journal.

I have now fully been entrusted to Prince Albert's care. He has asked me to travel with him till we tire of one another. Thus far we are the greatest of friends and find the arrangement suits us both. The books from many of his estates were in need of an analytical touch. Slowly I've been sorting them out. Prince Albert says he is forever in my debt as he is sure he was being robbed blind. He was. He offered me a title this New Year's Day. He was sure he could convince his mother to gift me with an Irish title. I politely declined. What would pa say to the idea of his Katie Scarlett being titled? Ha, I know what he'd say and none of it complimentary. Instead I told him we would simply refer to me as Madame, the French word for Mrs.

It was too late now, Rhett would read on and pay the piper later. He had to know what she'd been feeling and thinking. He wanted to know her better. Later he would simply return the journal to her and perhaps deny reading anything past her name. After all one little white lie wouldn't hurt their newfound trust. In fact it would be the right thing to do. Scarlett wouldn't have to know that part of his new found understanding of her came from her own words.

Last night Prince Albert took me to a recitation by Francis Turner Palgrave. She is gathering together the poems of John Keats for publication as one large volume. I am, unfortunately, not overly familiar with Keats or any poet for that matter. Or so I thought. The first half dozen poems were fine enough, though I wasn't feeling as fit as I would have liked. My stomach is lately in revolt and I find it difficult to sit as my ribs and back are aching. Then Miss Palgrave invited a gentleman to the front of the assembly to read the next poem. She apologized but said that it was truly a poem that must be read by a man as her voice could simply not do it justice…or some such nonsense.

Then he began to recite and I realized that though I know nothing of poetry, I knew the poem. It was a piece that Rhett had read to me one night from a book he'd bought to send to his sister.

We were in New Orleans and I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and finally Rhett jokingly swore at me and told me this is the bed I'd made so would I please sleep in it. I apologized and reluctantly told him what was on my mind. I was simply anxious about where we would live. I was worried about Ella who would never know her father and Wade losing another father.

I felt strange sharing my worries with Rhett but he was so easy to talk to how could I not. He rose from bed only to return moments later with a parcel that he unwrapped, tossing the brown paper to the side of the bed.

Rhett lit a candle and paged through the book till he found what it was he was looking for. He didn't bother to tell me the author, probably realizing I wouldn't care. The words were haunting and many of the elegant phrases stayed with me.

Rhett's brow crinkled in thought. He tried to recall what the poem was that had so caught Scarlett's attention all those years ago. The book was easy, it was an anthology of Romance Poets. He thought his sister Rosemary would enjoy it. Finally the poem he'd read to her aloud rose from the depths of memory. It was Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci. He looked down at the journal again. Scarlett had copied out the lines in her journal and he read thinking back to the night he'd read the poem to her in New Orleans.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched knight, Alone and palely loitering;
the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched knight, So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose, Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd, On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the glom, with horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

The above poem is La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats.