Mere days after she had chucked her bonnet at the senior Butler, Eleanor appeared at her aunt's doorstep, dejected and forlorn, to inform her of Rhett's imminent departure to West Point. She came dressed in a grey frock, though it darkened to black under the shadow of the veranda, and had she worn mourning crepe, Scarlett would not have batted an eye. Greeting her silently, she read the plea of those sad, hollow eyes, sat on a face that seemed aged ten years, and faced with the choice of assuming the role of wife or mother. Considering that the woman stood on these steps in submission, Scarlett needn't guess what she had chosen.
All her young life she had considered the two roles inseparable, for her own mother seemed to fill the gaps with her grace and quiet command. She was spoiled with familial serenity, doted and petted, and raised on the sweetness of communal bliss. Of course, there was Suellen, but such a trifle could not compare to the Butlers of Charleston. Never had she seen the twisted respect Stephen bore for Eleanor, the polite disillusionment, nor the tug-of-war that pulled her between father and son. Family had been one of the many simple things in life and, oh, how wonderful it would be to have it back—simplicity! But never could she return to such a thing with her knowledge now and begrudgingly, she liked it that way for she would never be so silly again.
Looking away, she felt guilty, an occurrence far and few between, but rightfully spent as she was certain that spiteful man had all but thrown his son from the house because of her refusal to his offer. So, it was only natural for her to say yes when Eleanor asked her to be there to see Rhett off, but then she had added:
"He would be so disappointed if you did not come."
Seeing her rigid belief in her words, Scarlett refrained from frowning.
"I'm sure you exaggerate. He couldn't care that much about me, but I'll come, nonetheless."
It was Eleanor's turn to frown, and she shook her head at the mess of it all.
So, in the parlor of the Butler plantation she waited, unable to make out the words of faint murmurs that came from the office, where the two stubborn men were making their final remarks. She could not distinguish one from the other—each low rumble bore a prideful and bullheaded quality that grew clear as the voices overtook each other, determined to be heard. Then, silence, and the door creaked, and she smoothed her skirts, her eyes keen on the shiny pairs of boots that arrived by the threshold. Both were quite surprised to find her sitting on their settee, looking indifferent despite what she knew. It seemed Mr. Butler had yet to forgive her for bonnet incident for he simply glared at her and left the room.
"Scarlett," Rhett said, with a cheeriness he did not feel, and kissed her hand. "I did not expect to see you here."
"I heard you were leaving to West Point earlier than intended."
"Indeed, though I had no say in the matter. But it must be nice for you to be rid of a cad like me," he teased, his voice light in contrast to his grave face.
She scowled. "Don't talk to me like that Rhett. I'll be tempted to leave."
"Only tempted? Dare I presume you have grown fond of me?"
"Oh, you know I have, why bother asking?"
All his defensive wiles were wiped away and he faltered for a moment, looking to her with those expectant eyes that she had grown accustomed to ignoring.
"No, I'm not sure I knew that. But it's too late to ponder it any longer, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're going back home soon, aren't you?"
Tara. So detached she was from home, she became driven to apathy and pushed the prospect of returning to the back of her mind. Her eyes misted as she recalled those rolling hills, the red clay vibrantly propped against the greenery, and her mother and father who, seemingly, would always be there to go back to. Even with the war, she assumed they would be there to embrace her, to take care of her.
With Rhett leaving she had no reason to stay and, though she did not realize, along with his departure left the distraction that saved her from thoughts of her circumstances, so precarious as it was. Her twinkling green eyes, yearning and warm, and those light lift of her lips were not lost on the man who studied her carefully before the pleasantry soured and he backed away as if wounded.
"Yes, you must be home sick. Or perhaps a beau you are particularly missing?"
"I am doing no such thing!"
"No need to get defensive, Scarlett. I'm sure your gentleman will see you soon," he said blithely and checked his pocket watch without any regard for her. "It seems I must go take my leave."
He turned away but she held onto his sleeve. "You're impossible! What are you angry for?"
"I don't know where you got that idea from. To be angry, I would have to care something for you."
"Oh," she uttered and let go of the coat sleeve, wondering why his careless words made her feel this way, constricting her breaths in a much more brutal way than her tight-laced stays. Her hurt and offense contorted her face into a grimace, and he felt the regret of his words come back to bite him (although he wondered if she did care for why else would she look this way?)
"I'm sorry, Scarlett, I didn't mean it."
He squeezed her hand, which warmed her body as if had taken her in an embrace. For some reason, she wished he had, and her glittering green eyes met his own, which held a shred of a reflection of his own feeling for her. A feeling not far from madness, for surely, he was mad to indulge in what he had dismissed so recklessly. It was a discovery so startling that he did not dare breath lest he blinked, and it was gone.
It was still there.
Without warning, his lips brushed her own, an act both had done on several occasions, but never with this degree of tenderness that made her dizzy and she slackened in his arms. Kissing was such a frivolous thing, it had been so unfeeling and indifferent, but now became something greater, a thing she feared to define for she was sure it would dismantle another piece of her simple world. But as his hands cradled her face and caressed her cheek she leaned into him, filling the empty space with his firm body, and completing this departure from propriety that, had she not been so occupied, would have horrified her.
He pulled away and she had felt so bereft; the sensation was wrongly snatched from her eager mouth. His own were temptingly glossy, as if he had bitten an apple—and tempted she was, eyeing the forbidden fruit. Her swift hands tugged at his lapels, and she kissed him again. Nipping on the soft skin, she hummed against him, and her arms went around his neck at a sensual pace. How warm he felt! When would she tire of it? Soon, she hoped, or else it would be abnormal, but she could not think with him rubbing her waist, her face, her lips… If she were not careful, she was sure she would drown in his affection.
He drew his face back and under the soft lamplight, he appeared content, his mouth curved just slightly at the corners. She blushed and pulled away, patting her skirt down and straightening her bodice—anything to save her the embarrassment. What possessed her to act so wantonly?
"What a nice memory to take with me to West Point."
"Oh, hush."
It was then that Eleanor Butler, with little Rosemary in tow, decided to walk into the parlor, and she eyed the disheveled appearance of the two, their faces flushed an unnatural color that could only be borne from a passionate embrace. Graciously, she chose to ignore it.
"It's time," she clipped, wishing that it weren't, and approached to lay a tender hand on his arm. "Be good, Rhett. If not for your father, but for me."
For a second, she saw a slight grimace on his face, yet he nodded and patted her hand with affection.
"I'll try, mother."
"Be good," she repeated before slipping away, unable to say her farewell.
"Do you have to leave again?" Rosemary whined, clutching at his trousers. "Just stay! Don't go back!"
"I must," he explained, yet he did not believe himself as he said it. Duty and honor held him by a bare thread; the 'musts' of life—of his father—slowly losing its grasp on him. Eleanor guided the girl out of the parlor, lest she'd begin to cry and break the fragile thread. They were alone once more.
He turned to her with hesitance, some lingering desire, and dare she say sadness. His hands did not reach for her, nor did she hold it out for him to grasp. No, she could not touch him again, or else she would become overwhelmed by sinful feelings she did not understand. His mouth, still warmed by her own, moved on that striking face though all she heard was the ringing voice in her head that never ceased to remind: 'He is leaving, he is leaving.'
So incessant was the voice that she barely heard the longing in his hushed, repressed 'Goodbye, Scarlett.'
Her rosy lips parted to utter some semblance of response, yet she could not.
She watched him bow, and when he raised his head back up, she wondered what it was that made him seem more handsome. Was it the all-white suit that gave him a proud, dignified air? He seemed like a strong pillar, not too far from the ones holding the Butler house afloat, yet she knew it was not that. She did not know, and she did not get to know for she did not remember much after that. Before she knew it, the room was stripped of his presence and the dullness returned. The cream walls seemed sickly in color, the simplicity of the carved furniture which had seemed elegant and charming now bore her, and the color of the drapes was only a speck of the brilliant green that held fast in her emerald eyes. He was gone.
Returning to her senses, she picked up her skirts and began to run, her petticoats sure to show but she did not give a damn. Her petticoat hiked up to her ankles, she stopped suddenly on the porch as she watched the scene unfold. A distant memory, rosy and cherished, was prodded with the sight of Rhett on that white stallion. Gold sun-kissed hair, Adonis, pale drowsy eyes. With an abruptness that threatened her to swoon, the delicateness of her memory was brutally replaced with the man before her. His all-white pressed suit, the jet-black hair, his fiery eyes.
She did not know what this meant for her, but she resented this bout of powerlessness. Seeing him ride off on that stallion, which deceived others to think him proper, she felt her simple world lose its final mark.
She did not know how much time had passed since Rhett had left for West Point. One moment she was in Charleston and in a blur of vague, foggy remembrances, she was home, at Tara. One city paralyzed in time, the latter, languidly moving (though not fast enough.) What was real anymore, she had no idea, and it made her restless, unable to fully settle into the antebellum routines of those around her. They all flounced, flirted, and frolicked, and she could not bear it. What did they know of the sounds of shelling, the distant gunfire, the wounded men? Sweetly, slowly, like molasses, they all moved like ghosts to her—the haunts of the old world.
She moved through the actions of a careless southern belle, though a part of her heart retreated into itself, shut like a rusted tin can, and refused to take part. How could she when she knew of fear and mortality? How could she bear pretending? She had allowed it for only a second and it was the moment she first arrived at Tara with her nose pressed against the pleated bodice of her mother's dress, inhaling the sweet tonic of lemon verbena.
And then, she would remember, and the scent would sour, and she needed to lie down.
Ellen had walked into the parlor as she sat contemplating such things. She was ill-prepared for the semblance between mother and child. Her eyes drained of spirit—did she really look like that? Since when?
Discomforted from her stupor, Ellen spoke.
"Charles and Melanie Hamilton have come from Atlanta to visit. We shall go call on them tomorrow, right after I've sorted through the books."
Suellen (hateful girl!) put down her embroidery and sneered, "Scarlett surely doesn't want to go because Ashley Wilkes likes Melanie Hamilton and not her."
Scarlett did not budge. As if she hadn't despised Melanie. As if she hadn't loved Ashley.
Ellen frowned, stirring from her long-lived dormancy. Not for long though, there had been a mere spark demanding her to step up to right things, but it fizzled out, and she was gone to her memory once more.
"Scarlett are you well?" she asked. "You do not have to come if you do not wish to."
Something dreadful filled her stomach as she thought of seeing Ashley, but surely it must have been dread of seeing him and Melanie together. If she saw him, perhaps she'd be able to slip back into that white virginal gown, ruffled and girlish, back to that spoiled, careless girl whose biggest worries involved the freckling of magnolia skin or the loss of affection from her beaus.
Yes, she needed to see Ashley and perhaps the mess would be fixed.
"I'll come," she voiced softly and returned to her thoughts.
Suellen stared bewildered and turned to her mother, who bore the same face and she shook her head, picking at her embroidery once more.
Scarlett had been woolgathering on a chaise when a white handkerchief landed delicately on her lap, its blue embroidered letters the first thing that caught her eyes. An indignant grunt drew her eyes up to the face of her Mammy who was not so pleased by the discovery.
"Now who that handkerchief belong to?"
"Why, just some beau, no big deal."
"There's no RKB 'round here. Who's he? Some white trash?
"Mammy!" she admonished. "He's not white trash!"
"Well?"
She fidgeted in her seat, wondering if she should tell her the truth. But the woman always caught her in a lie, and she conceded.
"I got it in Charleston. From a Mr. Rhett Butler."
She had been in the middle of unpacking her nightgowns when she stopped mid-action and stared at her through the reflection of the mirror. Her dark face was stuck in a state of shock, and she wondered if his reputation was far worse than she had thought it to be.
"Stephen Butler's son? Oh no, Miz Scarlett. Now you just askin' for trouble."
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Don't act so innocent now. Bad news, that boy. Always been a willful chile, just like you. He'll make a mess outta things. From Charleston down the whole South."
"Not yet," she replied, unable to hold her tongue. Her black beady eyes narrowed, and she approached the girl with a chastising look, full of question. She did not recognize the spoiled child she had helped raise. There was some voodoo going on, no doubt about it, and it was some business she had no interest in stirring.
"Not yet—and what's that mean? He done something bad to you?"
"Certainly not!"
But her eyes could not lie. The memory of a warm embrace would not be suppressed. Her eyes shone with clandestine delight, a positively indecent curve to her sultry lips.
Mammy tutted, "You be asking for trouble."
"Fiddle-dee-dee, he's harmless, Mammy!"
Oh, what a pretty lie! As harmless as a panther!
"Don't give me them excuses, I ain't listening," she grumbled and trudged her way out of the bedroom, the white cotton fluttering as it hung off her shoulder. Scarlett turned her eyes back to the handkerchief that sat on her lap and her fingers, out of their own accord, grazed the soft cotton. Her mouth lifted into a reluctant smile as she recalled how it came to her possession.
"Rhett, you said we were picking flowers."
He laughed and she wavered with the carefree sound.
"And that is exactly what we are doing, my dear," he remarked, the 'dear' rolling off the tongue naturally now, and she perked up at being the one to cause such a change. Then she nearly tripped on a branch and remembered her irritation.
"Well, I don't see why you dragged me to a forest. A girl ought to be cautious—"
"Scarlett, life is bland without a little adventure!" he exclaimed in a way that was downright boyish and she laughed. "And don't get me started on cautiousness. Haven't I told you that if I wanted to compromise you, I need not drag you to a dusty forest to do so?"
"You're vile," yet the insult was lyrical with her lilting voice. Leaning down, she mindlessly picked at a dandelion and blew at it, her heart light as the specks of feathered seeds twirled in the air with the gentle breeze. She glanced up to see his affectionate gaze, the kind that made her wonder, almost hope, yet as always, she denied it as soon as she thought it.
Her fingers picked at the handkerchief between her hands which wrapped around a tuft of wildflowers. Peeking up again, he was still staring—intense, searching, passionate. Could it be…?
No, it was not possible. But what would she care if he did? He was not the man she loved, and soon she would see Ashley. Yet the knowledge of that fact settled dreadfully in her stomach, and she grimaced, throwing the handkerchief across the other side of her room.
"Oh, Scarlett, how wonderful you look!"
One could recognize that undeniably sincere voice from anywhere. To her surprise, Scarlett did not loathe it, nor the threaded arms between the two cousins, ones that have been linked since birth.
The last time Scarlett had seen Melanie was when she was heavy with Ashley's child, her face glistening with sweat and her skin a sickly pallor that surely no living person could ever bear. But, now in front of her, she was bright-faced and rosy-cheeked once more, her mousy, girlish features made beautiful by the kindness of her smile or the love in her eyes. The latter could be credited to the man beside her, whom Scarlett dully noted, was happier than she had seen in a while. She had stared at him queerly, waiting for the ache in her chest to swell with the adoring love that had come naturally to her for years since she was fourteen.
It did not come. Oh, an ache was there, minute yet meddlesome, for she did not know the cause. Her heart longed for something that escaped her and how it needled her! What could it be, if not Ashley? She peeked and prodded at the source, yet the heart would not speak, and she was left clueless to deal with unknown passions.
The ache persisted as they sat in the library, Scarlett perched right at the spot Rhett Butler had been on their fateful first meeting. She allowed herself some seconds to think of that odious man. Was he being good like his mother had asked of him? (How she doubted it). Or perhaps he was getting that present he had so fervently promised Rosemary—the porcelain doll fitted in delicate lace and soft-colored silks that held a certain likeness to a particular mentor. Or perhaps, she dimly hoped, he was thinking of her, and she attributed these fanciful hopes to her vanity.
But her vanity could not mask the memory of his kisses, ones that brought a becoming blush to her cheeks. It had embarrassed her to recall it, and even more so that she recalled enjoying it, but she resigned herself to the undebatable fact that she did want it, perhaps even more. Whatever more entailed, she did not know, and when she did allow her imagination to ponder upon it, she went down on one knee and prayed fervently for forgiveness.
Ashley's droning voice rose slightly, breaking her away from her thoughts, and she looked up again with barely concealed disinterest.
"Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will; To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield," he recited, as if he was the creator himself.
Great balls of fire, what was he going on about? How did Melanie seem so entranced? And Ashley? Had he always been so boring? Yes, he had—she recalled how she would ignore his pretty, incomprehensible utterances in exchange for his proximity. But despite the proximity, he married Melanie. She confessed to him, threw a vase because of him, met a scoundrel because of him, and yet he still married Melanie.
Annoyed by her reflections, she spoke. "This is dreadfully dull. Must you go on?"
He looked to her, frowning, and his eyes full of pity. Or did she mistake it with superiority? The two blurred together and very soon the distinction did not matter; she abhorred both sentiments that belittled and mocked her intelligence. For a moment, she convinced herself she detested him, and the epiphany was met with fervent opposition from her long-snatched heart.
Looking at Ashley, she forced herself to feel something more passionate than fondness. But those gray, misty eyes did nothing to inspire the same love as before. Like foggy windowpanes, she could not see him clearly, for his eyes were always so soft when he looked at her. Though never at her mind, no, but her shadow. How he loved her shadow—the passionate yet pure silhouette that he's surely read in all the gallivants with his prose and poetry.
And now saw him as he was, without furnishing and without embellishment. The realization crept up behind her and pounced. Oh God! He was Ashley, her childhood friend, dull and dreamy, and the fact that she had willfully ignored until this moment: a man so unfit, so incongruous for someone of her character.
Surely it was not that possible to fall out of love with someone so fast. Just a few weeks ago she swore she loved him, so much that she'd played nurse at Melanie's bedside. She did not consider her days at Charleston, her talks with Rhett, his touches, and his tenderness that dashed her conviction for her beloved. No, these were two separate men and two separate matters.
He was torn out of his dreamlike state when those green eyes landed upon him. Eyes that had held a precious adoration he had come to expect with every glance and attention—an adoration that was no longer there. It had nearly made him slump against the chair, the strength knocked right out of him at the sea of lovelessness that had always been so giving, so plentiful. And he had drunk from the fountain, flattered by its perpetuity. Then it had gone. Never did he expect it to leave him dry so soon, if at all. What scared him most was that her eyes continued to glimmer defiantly, as if the loss of love hadn't dampened her spirit as it did to his. Resigned, he admitted to himself that she had always been the stronger of the two.
She challenged him. "You look quite pale Ashley. Perhaps you are ill?"
Silently mourning the loss, he felt tired all of a sudden. He was not made for challenges. Melanie took to his side and exclaimed, "Oh, Ashley! Scarlett is right! You must lay down."
He never could fight both of them. Rising with faux dignity, he allowed one last look to that lovingly crafted face before walking through the library doors and shutting them behind him, never to resurface.
"I suppose he ate something that didn't agree with him. Poor dear," Melanie remarked, and for once Scarlett was not bothered by the fact that the woman loved Ashley, truly and deeply.
"But, Scarlett, I've heard from your sisters that you visited Charleston recently. Did you enjoy your stay?"
"Why—I, it was pleasant enough," she sputtered, without knowing the cause.
"Of course, I do not doubt you had fun. You are so lively, how could you not?"
"Thank you Melly," she mumbled meekly, uncharacteristically. She did not even know what she had been thankful for, the words had merely escaped her lips.
"Oh, do not thank me, please. I just admire your spirit so."
Melanie smiled then and the grace and kindness were not too far detached from her own mother's demeanor. How many times in the past had she bestowed her with such kindness, only for her to thwart and curse every bit of civility and sisterly affection? Too many times to count and if she were to linger on it any longer, the guilt would pester her.
"Thank you, Melly," she whispered again, yet twice was not quite enough.
"Are you going to the barbeque on Sunday? Charles and I had come down for it and it would be nice to see you there. Don't you remember how lovely the last one was?"
Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Her last one had marked the beginning of the war, the very destruction of that loveliness that nurtured that reminiscent look on Melanie's face. She was not sure if she could face the ghosts of the South at the culmination of their pride, of their arrogance. But there was something potent and volatile, awaiting her recognition. It loomed large over her head, dangling temptingly, and ready to alter her world as that barbeque had not so long ago. It was waiting, like a panther. Creeping up and ready to pounce.
Author's Note: Felix culpa means 'happy fault' or 'fortunate fall'; a mistake with happy consequences. The line Ashley read is from Alfred Lord Tennyson's Ulysses.