Chapter 1

Ashley was home, to the joy of all those residing at Aunt Pittypat's house. He was back, and it seemed for a moment that all the sorrows and joys of the war were forgotten in the warmth of Christmas with the County boys at the Hamilton's. Scarlett wanted to cry of happiness, hold his hand constantly, assuring herself that he was home after two long years of separation. Oh, how her heart rejoiced! Every thought must have his name sweetening it, every expression must be stored safely in memory, every change in his demeanour must be noted and adored. She was too happy to be jealous that Melanie was doing precisely what she longed to do, and too glad to be resentful.

Surely, she could get a few minutes with Ashley to draw him in a corner and talk? Yes, of course, he would say. And then she would draw him into long conversations. "Do you remember the moonlight from Tara?" she would ask. "Do you remember the sweet fragrance of Mrs. Calvert's honeydew, which were as dear to her as her sons?" All their conversations would begin with the words, "Do you remember...?" And she would talk to him about their shared childhood in the County, of the carefree days of their youth, the bridal paths they raced across, the time she had sprained her ankle and Ashley had carried her in his arms in the twilight, the first time the Tarleton boys had failed . . .

And then in his eyes would appear an expression, unguarded and free as the time when he was free to love without the shadow of Melanie Hamilton hanging over him and soon would burst from his lips an impassioned speech of love, as fervent and fiery as her own had been on the day of the barbeque. That would be enough. His love would be enough to live on, and in her youthful idealism she could hardly stay jealous of Melanie.

In her driving determination to win Ashley, war as good as forgotten. Well, the war was going to come to an end soon enough anyway, why, Ashley and the boys were confident that it would! And then Scarlett would be happy, finally, keeping their secret love in her heart, sweetly reminiscing those few secret glances and tender words he would surely bestow on her later. But suddenly, an image came to her from the previous night, when Melly, as usual, was looking at Ashley with adoring eyes in the parlour as the other boys started talking about the war.

Scarlett had not been paying attention as usual, content in looking at Ashley's face, etching in her memory every turn of countenance and quirk of brow as he spoke to Melanie. But there was a queer light in his eyes, a certain tenderness that softened his gray face. Scarlett had always dreamed, in the sweet golden days of the Georgia before war, that she was Mrs. Ashley Wilkes. In the hazy, golden light of the past she had dreamed the dreams of girlhood, where Ashley would stare at her with this expression while softly kissing her hand, in a quiet orchard. It was a rare, pure expression on his face, fresh and sweet as the sunshine of harvest seasons in Tara, not marred by the usual guilty and disquieted lines that often appeared when he was with Melanie. He almost looked like he loved Melanie. And she wondered, with some fear, what if Ashley really loved Melanie? "Of course not," she thought, "he is just being a gentleman, why, if he thought about his love and looked at her now, in front of all the people everyone would know and then it would break Melly's heart and he would hardly be able to hold back from kissing her! Oh, poor Ashley, always so honourable, he was probably suffering like her, having to conceal his love like her!"

"But then," a logical voice in her head asked, (sounding rather like a certain scoundrel she couldn't quite recall), "why wouldn't he seek you? Why didn't he glance even once at you, telling you something with his eyes? He had an opportunity the day before yesterday." But she banished those traitorous thoughts from her head. Poor Ashley, he probably had his own reasons, who was she to question him? But the seeds of doubt had been sown in her mind, and would not leave her. The radiant happiness of Ashley's arrival faded a little, reminding her of other worrying thoughts.

Lately, she had seen his eyes seemed to glaze over at a fixed point, a sombre expression marking his brow. He talked at length, laughed frequently and dominated the conversation more completely than she had ever seen him do before, but he seemed to say very little. He told them jokes and funny stories about friends, talked gaily about makeshifts, making light of hunger and long marches in the rain, and described in detail how General Lee had looked when he rode by on the retreat from Gettysburg. But it seemed to Scarlett that he was talking feverishly to keep them from asking questions he did not want to answer. When she saw his eyes falter and drop before the long, troubled gaze of his father, a faint worry and bewilderment rose in her as to what was hidden in Ashley's heart. And she pondered about all this at night, alone in her bed.

The weeks had passed like a dream, vibrant and colourful, with a shimmering, fleeting beauty to it. Now Ashley was going back to fight in the sleet and snow in Virginia among hunger, hardship and death, away from the warmth of their care and the security of the house. Scarlett waited for Ashley to come down, heart pounding, but face determined, the precious sash in hand. She was bitterly resenting every moment he spent with Melanie in the bedroom. Finally, she heard his footsteps come down. When his eyes met hers, his expression was grave, with a bit of self-hatred and shame.

The bright new sheen of the grey coat was sadly at variance with the worn and patched butternut trousers and the scarred boots, but if he had been clothed in silver armour, he could not have looked more the shining knight to her. "Ashley," she begged abruptly, "may I go to the train with you?

"Please don't. Father and the girls will be there. And anyway, I'd rather remember you saying good-by to me here than shivering at the depot. There's so much to memories."

"Then I won't go," she said. "See, Ashley! I've another present for you." She wrapped the bright lengths about his slender waist, above his belt, and tied the ends in a lover's knot. Melanie might have given him his new coat but this sash was her gift, her own secret guerdon for him to wear into battle, something that would make him remember her every time he looked at it.

"It's beautiful," he repeated, fingering the fringe. "But I know you've cut up a dress or a shawl to make it. You shouldn't have done it, Scarlett. Pretty things are too hard to get these days."

"Oh, Ashley, I'd—I'd do anything for you!"

"Would you?" he questioned, and his brows seemed to rise above that pit of misery he carried in his heart, which he alone knew. "Scarlett, look after Melanie for me, will you? She is so fragile; she'll wear herself down. Will you promise me? If I were killed-"

A chill fell to her heart. "No! Ashley, you mustn't say such a thing Ashley-now say a prayer, quick!"

His mood lightened, and he simply said, "You do it for me." But Scarlett's mind was frozen in fear, the images of Ashley lying dead in the snow, far away from her; it was too much.

He continued, his eyes looking past her, not seeing her at all. "When the end comes, I shall be far away from here, even if I am alive, too far away to look out for Melanie."

"Surely, you don't think we will lose? Everyone speaks about how strong General Lee is—"

"They were lies, comforting lies everyone repeats on furlough like any other soldier. They are bringing troops by the thousands, Scarlett, strangers from the Continent who will fight for bread and water, Germans, Poles and wild Irishmen who speak no English. When I see the Yankees, I see only defeat and misery; bare feet leaving blood onto the snow of Virginia, our people divided, our way of life ruined. This is the beginning of the death of the South."

Scarlett didn't care about the world. All she knew was that Ashley must be safe. How could she let him go? Let the world crumble to dust, she thought frantically. Let her be safe with Ashley!

"Ashley! How-how can I be brave about it? I can't let you go!"

"You must." His tone had changed; it carried some tormented urgency. "For how will I stand it?"

He leaned close and took her cheek in his hand. "Scarlett! Scarlett! You are so fine and strong and good. So beautiful, not just your sweet face, my dear, but all of you, your body and your mind and your soul. I like to think that perhaps I know you better than most people and that I can see beautiful things buried deep in you that others are too careless and too hurried to notice." She thought he was going to kiss her, but he only dropped his hands. Then, she heard the carriage. The sound of clattering horse hooves filled her with terror. He was going. He was going, away from the safety of their house, away from her, perhaps forever, without a kiss! Her tears blurred her vision and time seemed to move too quickly as she stumbled across the hall to Ashley, who was wearing the hat she had inveigled from Rhett. She turned to him, tugging at his sash.

"Kiss me," she choked. "Kiss be good-bye."

He leaned in, arms around her and his lips touched hers, gently. But then he stiffened; the arm dropped and he only said, "No. No, this is wrong."

His eyes didn't meet hers. A sudden chill swept through her heart, as if forewarning something. Why did his eyes look guilty? Why was his tone so cold?

"What? Oh Ashley, -"

"I cannot do this anymore, dear. I see that the matter has not been cleared up, as I had hoped. I-I do not love you, Scarlett. What I feel for you is not love, and has never been - it has not the selfless purity of feeling I sometimes see in your eye, as you imagine love to be. My love for you fills me with disgust for myself. I love Melanie. You were right that day in the library, Scarlett, I am a coward and a deeply hypocritical man -I admit it. I cannot be faithful to Melanie nor can I fulfill this base longing for your-beauty and charms, and this-this comforting infatuation for your spirit, which I know very well I neither understand nor do I wish to claim and cherish for myself. You are as unattainable as fire for which I feel a shallow attraction for, which when fulfilled will only burn me up make me miserable. I have not spoken for fear of hurting you deeply, (and for another rather selfish reason, which fills me with shame now) and because this shallow guise of a gentlemen society forces every man to hide his inner depravity-but no longer. My honour is of true understanding and reason, not of Plato's shallow timocracy, and so I state again; I am a cad for hurting you, and am ready to face the violence of your hatred for it is what I deserve, so that you shall not ruin your life chasing for a dream-for me. Go, Scarlett, love someone who has more courage to be honest than I, someone of your spirit and determination, someone like you."

She felt a deep, twisting pain at his words. All she heard was, "I don't love you" again and again, and she could only slap him in the rage and tears, wanting to blot out his sorrowful eyes from her mind and the departing kiss he left on her forehead seemed out of pity. She vaguely wondered why the earth wouldn't swallow her up. Everything was lost, everything was gone and only the blinding haze of pain was left. The door opened and Ashley walked out into the feeble sunlight of winter. A gust of frosty air swept through the house, and it seemed to pierce every pore of her skin. Scarlett was left shivering at the door as Ashley departed. Gone were the girlish dreams of golden summers spent with Ashley in Twelve Oaks, buried as deep as the dead Confederates in the snow.

His eyes still carried well wishes for her, the expression of a lifelong friend parting.