(Consider this a continuation of chapter 4...)

~Souffle~

Rebekkah dragged Scarlett all around Charleston that day, from the noisy, vibrant town square to the pungent wharf, and back through street and street of stone walls. The unforgiving spring sun bore down upon her, burning the tip of her nose and the tender skin along her collarbones. The cobblestones pushed against the thin soles of her boots, rubbing blisters onto her soft heels. Rebekkah plowed forward, unaware of or indifferent to her discomfort. As they curved their way along a pebbled path with a sparkling ocean view, a sharp rock jammed through Scarlett's shoe leather and she squealed. Not bothering to slow down, Rebekkah peeked at her and barely suppressed a smirk.

"Come along, Miz' Scarlett," she commanded. "We best be on our way. We got lots more to see 'fore we done. I don' wanna disappoint Mista' Rhett when he ask me ef you received the true Charleston welcome."

Rebekkah strolled on without a backward glance and Scarlett hobbled after her, a thick hatred smothering her pain. She was sick and tired of everything in this miserable, mean town, and wanted to rage at everyone, especially this high and mighty monster who hadn't yet broken a sweat and had the audacity to sneer at her. But reining in all her annoyance, she resisted the urge to surrender and demand to go back to the hotel. She refused to show any sign of weakness to this pompous she-devil. Whoever this Rebekkah was, wherever she came from, and whomever she belonged to—she would not make Scarlett turn and hide with her tail between her legs.

And so, Scarlett endured, forcing herself to walk with her normal sway—each step excruciatingly agonizing—and to simper and dimple at the few Charlestonians who didn't know who she was, didn't care, or had forgotten, that number seeming to multiply as she flounced through the town.

"We must not cut as striking a pair as Rhett and I did yesterday," she thought, curtsying to an elderly gentleman who had readily tipped his hat at her. "They don't connect me with scandal."

Scarlett accepted her assumption as fact, allowing it to embolden her, to raise her confidence and her chin, never realizing the full truth of the matter—that even stodgy Charlestonians, the men in particular—couldn't squash the urge to study that arresting, intense face, to catch more than a sidelong glimpse of the alluring eyes and dazzling smile. Blindly uninterested, as oblivious to the unseen motivations of the people around her as she was to the pressures and forces behind the fast-approaching war, Scarlett took the uptake in kindness as the one, small reprieve during her sluggish trek.

When she finally returned to the hotel, when Rebekkah finally returned her, her tongue was leached of moisture, her back ached, and her legs throbbed, but she knew she had beaten Rebekkah, knew she had passed whatever test the irksome woman had decided to inflict upon her. She saw a glimmer of respect begrudgingly appear in Rebekkah's gaze, heard the faintest hint of kindness leak into her perfunctory voice. But she was too tired to care, at least for now.

"Here child, let me take off them terrible boots," she said, gently leading Scarlett by the elbow and sitting her on a chair. "And get you in some looser clothin'."

Scarlett allowed herself to be pampered, her sore limbs aching with weariness. Rebekkah started humming a throaty melody as she eased off Scarlett's boots and helped her out of her dress—the sight of the tattered hems making Scarlett glare and Rebekkah almost flinch.

"I'm a fine mender," she mumbled, that soft, sad song rising up again from her throat.

Scarlett's annoyance withered into the musical void. She closed her eyes and let Rebekkah's low voice steel over her, the strong, sure hands wiping the dust off her face, slathering some cooling balm on her feet, and smearing buttermilk cream on her over-warmed flesh. The last thing that went was Scarlett's stays, and she took in a long, luxurious breath, sighing as fresh air slithered in between her unrestricted breasts and down her belly.

"Now you get some rest, ma'am," Rebekkah urged, turning down the blankets and patting the bed. "I done wore you out today, but I promise. I won' do it again."

Scarlett yawned, tossing her hair carelessly behind her shoulder, and climbed into the bed. Rebekkah laid one of Scarlett's light, cotton nightgowns on the mattress beside her and slipped out of the room with as much sound as a ghost, draping the street-splattered dress across her arm.

She stared down at her nightgown, fingering the worn edges of the tiny cap sleeve. The last time she had worn this was two nights before her wedding. That seemed a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. Sometime between that twisting train ride and the taxing march through Charleston today, she had changed. She was still young and selfish and inexperienced, but she had already begun to discover that well of strength and resilience that would carry her through life, to learn that she had a will not only to survive, but to thrive, to know that she could trust herself—and apart from her mother and, possibly Mammy—no one else.

The realization saddened her, her drowsiness coloring her vision with even bluer hues. She missed her mother and Mammy, yearned for the nearness of another soul, the comfort of a touch that didn't also terrorize her with unnerving desires. Rebekkah could not be a substitute for what she had left behind. Rebekkah was something other, something upsetting and distressing in her own right. All those nauseating thoughts that Scarlett had kept at bay while she had brazenly hiked through town crashed through to the fore of her mind.

Before this morning's clap of awareness, Scarlett had known that slaves like Rebekkah existed, slaves who looked more like the men who owned the cotton than the men who picked the cotton. These souls were phantoms, materializing from the darkest corners of the privileged, glittery world she grew up in. These were shames of the husbands so great that not even behind solid bedroom doors or in hushed voices between lavender-clad matrons were they mentioned. The eyes of the silent wives were fixed on the bright and glorious, the charming and endurable, willfully blind to the ugly truth. But never ignorant of it, never fully forgetful of it.

Scarlett had known, had heard theses rumors, but until Rebekkah, it had never stared her in the face and challenged her. And now she would have to partake of the bitterness daily. Now she would have to relive the infamy of someone else's sins every time she wanted her hair curled or her corset cinched. The reality of Rebekkah's origins clawed at her, slashing at Scarlett's sense of the good and beautiful

The fact that Rhett could not be the father, Rebekkah's age made that impossible, did little to sponge the vinegar from the wound. That worry was not what had sickened Scarlett this morning, what had been festering in her mind ever since, gouging out holes in the thin fabric of her relationship with her mysterious husband. Rebekkah was not Rhett's offspring, but she was his blood, and Scarlett wanted to know, felt the continuous scratching in her brain of the need to know: What else might be in Rhett's blood?

Clearly he must resemble his father—have his dark hair and eyes, his toothy smile, and his thin, straight nose. Those must be Butler traits. They were so defined, so blatantly inherited. But what else were Butler men prone to do? Rhett had already told her, blithely unashamedly, that he had frequented low women.? Would he continue to visit brothels, to fall or force himself onto any woman if he desired her? And if he did—what would Scarlett do about it? Could she hold her head high and pretend not to care?

After last night, she didn't think that would be possible. Sharing something she considered her own, even if she didn't love it, even if it had only been lent to her, or even if she hated it, had never been something she could happily do. Complete possession was always her mindset. As a child, whenever she had received a gift, no matter how trifling or abhorrent she had deemed it, she would still refuse to let Suellen or Careen play with it, until she had broken it or it was a tarnished beyond repair.

Whatever she felt about Rhett, whatever lurked in her heart, she considered him hers. She wasn't willing to share him. But he wasn't a toy, and he wasn't a boy that she could manipulate, either. He was a man she didn't understand. He was a man who might be a man just like his father. Something moved in her veins at the thought of him being with any woman—willing or unwilling—other than herself again. It was vicious and vile, a dormant serpent that would rise up and strike, aiming to kill and wreak vengeance.

The violence of the emotion startled her and she gripped at the bed, her fingers twisting the nightgown into her palm. She couldn't think like that. She'd scream if she thought like that. She must learn to forget it—for she knew, she could never bring it up with Rhett. Somehow it would make her less of a lady, less like her mother. And she couldn't lose that hope of one day becoming like her mother. To lose that hope would be the same as losing her past, of losing Ellen. Oh no, she wouldn't lose all that—she wouldn't lose herself. Not for Rhett. Not for anyone.

Scarlett lifted the nightgown and pressed it into her face. Her nostrils filled up with the scents of pine and Mammy's soap and her mother's lemon verbena perfume. She fell back onto the bed, hugging it to her bosom. The afternoon was warm, but she pulled the sheets up to her chin, the clean fabric cooling her fevered skin. Oblong shadows crept across the floor towards her and her eyes began to droop. With the nightgown tucked under her cheek, she instantly fell asleep, the smells and memories of home, of Tara, of the source of her strength, saturating her senses and mind.

~Souffle~

That endless, stuffy afternoon, it was no surprise that she had a dream about home. It started out like a dream she used to have as a young girl—with her, a child, standing on the porch in her mother's too long, too big dress, the hoop skirt bubbling around her and pushing up to her small, undefined chest. When she had been young, her mother would then come out of the house and gently scold her for borrowing her clothes without asking, and Scarlett would break down and cry, apologizing at the top of her lungs that she was naughty and not good like her mother.

But this time, when Ellen came out, feathery and pleasant as a bird, the child Scarlett didn't dissolve into tears, she calmly stared at her mother, and refused to feel ashamed.

"Fiddle-dee-dee, mother," she giggled, the sound echoing in the stillness of the dream world. "I know things that you'll never understand."

And then to her horror and delight, her limbs started to stretch out, her hips to widen, and her breasts to expand. She watched in wonder as her body instantly transformed from girl to woman, and with eyes wide she slowly turned her head back to her mother, only Ellen wasn't standing at her side—Rebekkah was.

"What you think you understand? You still a girl."

Rebekkah shook her head, her lips turned down in a familiar mock frown. Scarlett was on the verge of giving her some smart retort when she heard something rumble, and quickly cast her eyes out over the cotton fields.

Dark peaks of thunder clouds were rolling out across the sky faster than she had ever seen. The low growl on the horizon was quickly growing into a terrible, earth-shattering roar. A flash of lightning split through the air and a wall of rain plummeted down. The red clay became a great, rushing red river, the spindly pines shooting up in the distance bent wildly back and forth, and the cotton fields flooded into cotton swamps.

Water sliced sideways under the porch and pelted Scarlett. She whipped her head back to where her mother had been, to where Rebekkah had stood, but no one was there now. She lifted her sodden skirts and tried to go into the house, but the door was locked. She jiggled at the knob and pounded at the door, blinking the splashes of rain out of her eyes and yelling with all the breath she possessed. No one could hear her above the howling of the wind. She gave up and rested her forehead against her hand, leaning against the locked door.

"I won't be licked," she said in a low voice. "I won't surrender."

She lifted her head, turned around, and with her eyes burning, faced the storm.

Note: Thanks for the reviews. Oh, Rebekkah, Rebekkah.