Disclaimer: Don't own anything, but owe bunches to Mitchell.
With her trunks packed to the rim, Scarlett took the short carriage ride down the Battery to her Aunt Eulalie's high-walled home. There was a surge of excitement in her breast for a change of scenery, for any change at all. She was bored of the morning promenades and tired of the tedious afternoons where she had nothing better to do than spy on people from her window or count the number of ships out on the bay. Rhett had gone last night, kissing her soundly with the sun and ocean sparkling behind him. He had not offered her any more morsels of advice, nothing to cement her plans into anything lasting or permanent, only whispering in her ear, again, his demand that she be in Charleston when he returned.
So Scarlett came to her aunt's house without any idea as to how long she would remain. If her visit proved too dull or her aunt too demanding she would brave the trains and seeing her mother and head home. This wasn't the longest she had been away from Tara, but she missed it dreadfully, missed the sweet bustle in the fields, the rolling, red hills of clay, and the piney, sweet quiet that wrapped around her at dusk. For the first time, she was beginning to sense what her pa had meant that the love of the land was in her blood. Living in Charleston, she knew she could never love the sea, never love the constantly swirling mass, the darkness of its depths, or the utter expanse of it. When Rhett had left, she had been grateful that she was not going with him, not bound to a single ship for weeks on end with nothing but water and sky to see. She would have missed the solidness of the earth beneath her feet and the comfort of houses and plants all around.
More so, she would have missed the chance to try and winnow her way into the hearts of these sea-loving, self-obsessed Charlestonians. Above all the inducements for going home to Georgia, was the thrill of winning at something that seemed impossible. At heart, she was a hunter, driven to stalk and steal and ultimately conquer her prey. It was the joy of the chase that kept her in Charleston, the instinct to triumph at all costs.
No sooner than she arrived, Eulalie and she set about a fearsome, feminine campaign to push open the doors that had been barred from her entering through them—with an occasional prod and visit by her Aunt Pauline. Their shared purpose gave them a sense of camaraderie which thinly masked their mutual distaste for one another, most of the time. Using all of her considerable charm, Scarlett slowly moved from the silent, pretty girl ignored in the background to the pleasant, sweet "deear" beside them. Understanding little about stuffy old men and even less about stuffy old women, she nevertheless charmed every fat matron and skinny miss, every frumpy grandpa and aloof husband that came into Eulalie's parlor. And come they did.
All ages and sexes walked through that jungle of a garden, vines snaking every which way and palms hanging low, and up to Eulalie's front door, claiming some reason for calling, feigning some excuse for a civil chat. In the beginning the callers arrived with reluctant feet and curious minds, but by the end of that first month, they departed with sympathetic hearts and satisfied smiles. What Scarlett did to gradually ingratiate herself into the bosom of Charleston's elite was no more than what she had been taught to do to win over beaux.
Perfectly she drew them in with her naive, doll face; pampered their egos with her dimpled compliments; and never hesitated to paint herself as a troubled, wretched innocent. Rhett was the villain, had always been the villain, and the society that had first vilified him found little trouble in tarring and feathering him a second, a third, or endless number of times. Every exclamation was false, every word uttered was forced—but it did not appear that way, or if it did, it was delivered with such artless, seductive tact that the recipient never minded. "I just don't know what came over me!" "Oh that is the most darling bonnet!" "What a brave soldier you must have been, I could have never been so courageous!"
The road she had chosen was not an easy path, though. What these hard-nosed, tight-lipped people thought about her and what they did about her were two different things. They tolerated, even secretly enjoyed and sought out Scarlett in the confines of her aunt's drawing room, but that was where their charity stopped. They never asked for her to return the courtesy of a friendly call, shunning her from their own doorsteps even while brushing up against her in Eulalie's home.
Scarlett worked hard, never breaking a sweat, never breaking face, never breaking. And these intractable men and women, these bellicose Charlestonians that had chosen secession over compromise, battle over obedience, and war over peace, started to falter, to make concessions. They smiled at her on the streets. They waved at her from their opened-windows. They told her secrets, not the important kind, but the secrets that are whispered in every sewing circle: she once loved him, so and so is expecting, this and that happened to them. Slowly, surprisingly these southerners of southerners started to surrender to a nameless belle from the backwoods of Georgia.
No longer alone, no longer bored by the monotony of her honeymoon week, Scarlett's days moved along at rapid speed, with the same unreal spinning sensation as the period of her swift engagement. Eulalie had been a widow for so many years that she had constructed a frenetic, chaotic lifestyle so that she need never remember how lonely she really was. She drew Scarlett into her mindless busyness. They shopped needlessly, buying precious fabrics and lovely trinkets that wound up forgotten on overcrowded shelves or stuffed into overflowing closets. For hours upon hours they sewed hundreds of caps and blankets and handkerchiefs for the soldiers in training. At every meal they spent much too long at a much too full table. They walked about town once or twice a week, filling their ears with the buzz of the waking city—the constant, rising hum of the war everywhere and in everything. For that sound was always there, always vibrating beneath the surface of every conversation and every activity.
During these loud, pointless days Scarlett hardly remembered that she was a wife, hardly remembered that she had a husband. Although sometimes with the salty, sweet taste of fried fish on her tongue, when Eulalie and she would occasionally stop at a stand, she could not forget. It was the last real meal she had shared with Rhett, and a blush would sprout on her cheeks as she recalled that night. Her hands quivering as she undid his shirt, his dark, hungry look as she pulled him toward her, the slick of his hands on her skin, and the quiet, sweet supper that had followed. But whatever she usually forgot while the sun yet shined, she would remember in full force at night. The sheets were always too cool against her skin, her bed too lonely. The moonlight would streak in through the bay window of her bedroom and she would think only of Rhett, would wonder if he stared at the same milky sky and thought of her too.
With him gone, far beyond her reach or watch, she doubted everything. She doubted herself, and she doubted him. Her body ached for him more than her heart, and she didn't know what that meant. It was hard for her to dissemble her feelings. Did she miss him, or just his touch? How had he held the key to breaking through those walls of modesty and chastity, propped up by the gentle instruction of her mother and the constant nagging of Mammy, and so effortlessly reached down into that wild emotion hidden far within her core? She hardly knew him. And how many other keys, belonging to how many other women, did he have? Scarlett would cringe when she thought that he might be having nights like his nights with her, that he most probably was. A prickle of loss she could not describe and a disappointment she could not understand would sting across her chest, wounding her vanity and something so much more elemental in her.
So she would wake up in the mornings, tired and restless, and be pulled into Eulalie's world of frivolous commotion, gladly embracing the numbing pleasantries of the goings-on, automatically retrenching herself into her struggle of being received, respected, and beloved, choosing to forget what she could not understand or answer. And after only one month, it paid off. Eulalie came panting into her room one morning, waving a thick envelope, and telling Scarlett that they had been invited to the Willard's Spring Ball.
"I wasn't certain if they were hosting it this year—but it will be such a gala! They're charging for entrance, can you imagine? And all the proceeds are going to the army. I was so scared we wouldn't receive an invitation—I mean, I am always invited, but I just didn't know if they would slight me for the sake of avoiding you. It is tomorrow night and this is terribly late notice, but it is here. Oh, Scarlett, do you realize what this means?" She clasped her niece's hands in her spindly fingers and her pale eyes blazed with color. "This means you can start making calls, you can start returning the many kindnesses extended to you!"
Eulalie was gone, yelling for Isaac, and Isabelle, her maid, and Rebekkah to come upstairs immediately, and Scarlett sat, stunned and disappointed. She had been so bent on being accepted, so determined to succeed, that she had not stopped and thought about what she would be receiving for her prize. All her labors would be so that she could go and pay her respects to these annoying, war-crazed men and women? If she had to listen to one more Charlestonian brag about Fort Sumter, Secession, or the great Wade Hampton, she would scream. The taste of her victory was bittersweet in her mouth.
She turned out and looked at the window, barely able to see over the high-brick wall of her aunt's grounds. The obstructive view made her feel trapped. This place was a jailhouse, a drooping, green prison of moss and trees. Yesterday she had received her first letter from home. All her yearning for Tara had rushed back to her upon ripping open the envelope, most of her anger at her mother had been wiped away too as she had trailed her finger along the familiar, elegant handwriting of Ellen. And now with the hollowness of her success, she felt that same flash of longing for Tara, for a rambling vista and a sweet-smelling home. There was nothing keeping her here, she realized. Nothing but her own pride. She could change that.
One more day of pretending to care, one more night of enduring these fools who couldn't even say palm without sounding pretentious, and then she would go home. If it weren't for the ball, she would leave today. Her feet tapped and her hips swayed as, twirling, she stood up. Oh! Tomorrow night she would have fun, tomorrow night she would finally be in her element. She would dance and laugh and be admired. No more stodgy rules for her. No more retreating into the background so that she could be tolerated. Brazenly she would storm through that crowd and show them who she really was.
Giggling she threw back her head, her green eyes sparkling and her cheeks bleeding red. She only noticed Rebekkah standing at the door when she heard the clatter of scissors on the floor.
"Great balls of fire Rebekkah—you scared me!"
"Sorry ma'am," her maid said, bending down and picking up the scissors. "I didn' mean to."
Scarlett turned back toward the window, curtseying before her hazy reflection, and missed hearing Rebekkah mutter to herself, "But you done scared me."
~Souffle~
Scarlett had never before been to a dance like the Willard's Ball, and when she stepped through the cast-iron gate and onto the sprawling lawn, her heart sang with delight. Torches burned all around as sentinels of light, delicate, rainbow-colored lanterns hung from invisible wires above, and the stars twinkled brightly in the clear sky. The entire view was drenched in an iridescent glow that defied the black of night. A massive wooden floor had been laid out in the center of the lawn, hanging trees and fragrant bushes lined the reaches of the yard and the sea sparkled just beyond. Scarlett walked into this glowing wonder, this brilliant world away from the world, her pale green chiffon dress swaying in the breeze and knew that nothing could possibly go wrong for her tonight.
Eulalie flitted back to her side, still sporting the grimace that she had puckered when Scarlett had traipsed down the stairs dressed in her revealing green dress instead of the dull, grey one her aunt had told her to wear.
"They're all going to talk about you now. Is that what you want?" Eulalie rasped into her ear, darting her eyes nervously back and forth. "All our hard work is going to be for naught, because you want to show off."
"No one's going to care what I'm wearing and even if they do, I don't care."
"What would your husband say about you not bothering to cover up? I can see more of your skin than I can see of my own."
Scarlett knew her aunt must be peeved, if she was bringing up Rhett. But it did give her an idea. Eulalie would spoil everything if she kept badgering her the entire evening. Thank heavens Aunt Pauline had fallen sick, or they would both be nagging at her! Wrinkling her face into a pretty frown, she halted and touched her hand lightly on her aunt's.
"Oh, please Aunt 'Lalie, let's not bicker about this. I can't go back and change now. Why, I haven't swung in reel or waltzed in ages. I didn't dance at my own wedding. Rhett wouldn't have it. And now he's gone and I just want to enjoy tonight—I'll behave myself, I swear it."
Scarlett knew her plea had worked the minute she had placed the blame on Rhett. There were countless upsides to having such a detested man for a husband—no one looked too closely at her own misdeeds. What was wearing a scandalous dress to the indelible, unforgettable disgraces in Rhett's past? Deflated, Eulalie nodded and Scarlett waited long enough for her aunt to bustle away to some friends, before smiling smugly.
Humming sweetly to herself, she finally glanced at the dance card she had been handed upon her entrance. She had been disappointed that they used cards here because it would narrow the scope of her prowess, especially because as a husbandless matron someone had already filled out most of her slots.
Her eyes skipped down the card. None of the names stuck out to her, but she supposed they were probably all heavy, bumbling bachelors who would step on her toes the entire night. No one in Clayton County stood upon such ceremony, thank heaven!
The music swelled through the air and a stout gentleman with the most garish shirt frills flopping over his jutting girth, trundled toward her. He had a red face and a shocking streak of grey hair combed over his scalp. Bowing, he introduced himself and before she could reply, he encased her slender hand into his pudgy one and spun her out onto the dance floor. And, even with his stale breath in her face and his clammy hands on her skin, she escaped into the bliss of the fast, beating reel. The card, the partners, all of these drawbacks no longer mattered. Her body spun, her feet leapt, and her heart raced. She was thrilled to be at a ball, thrilled to look pretty, prettier than any other girl, thrilled be free.
For most of the evening she let herself go, surrendering to the music, allowing herself to be swallowed up in the eddy of bodies and the heat of the dance. One shriveled man after another approached her, some refined, some rascally, all eager to press their dried, wrinkled hands against her soft, silken body, too old to bother holding back their tongues, mumbling things that flushed her skin more than the exhilaration of the dance. And in spite of herself, Scarlett giggled at their ribald small talk, swatting at them with her dainty hands and batting her bristly lashes at them. All night she played the belle for them, these men whose bodies were slow and decrepit but whose minds were fresh, as eager for touch as the smooth-faced young men that jealously watched their elders fondle the woman they longed to caress. Soon all the staid matrons and contemptuous maidens noticed what their envious husbands and beaux had already seen, how despite her crippled partners, Mrs. Rhett Butler was the undisputed belle of the ball. And from the pure satisfaction on her face, she knew it.
Harsh whispers broke out, but they glided past Scarlett as the spring breeze. She saw the nasty glares, felt the disapproval, and she didn't care. If all her efforts had been for this single night, for this single dance—so be it. How sweet were the strains of triumph! Perhaps she would stay for a little longer, perhaps she would ride the tide of this triumph until it completely crashed. Perhaps she could stay for one week more.
~Souffle~
The quadrant changed. Scarlett spun around, still laughing and blushing from the lusty whisperings of her partner, and glanced up at the man who had just accepted her arm. Instantly her grin rounded into a gasp. "Charles Hamilton," she exclaimed, before the rhythm of the reel pulled her into a different direction. She caught a glimpse of his golden curls, his beet-red face, and his garbled smile as she bounced down the aisle. Distracted she twisted her ankle, the one she had sprained the last time she had seen Charles, and for the rest of the reel it throbbed.
When the dance wound to a close, she had her partner lead her off the dance floor and to a bench tucked away in a cool corner of the lawn. She would have to sit the next few out. Wobbling slightly, she slid elegantly down, smoothing down the wispy fabric of her dress, ensuring that her hoops had not popped out from beneath the folds. She smiled prettily and convinced her rickety dance partner to leave her to her solitude. Reluctantly he did as she demurely commanded. Scarlett watched him hobble away and spied her aunt clucking away in the distant corner. Eulalie's black tartan dress and hay-colored hair always so recognizable and she sighed with relief that she didn't have to hear her gossipy nonsense tonight.
She rolled her ankle a few times and pulled a small fan from her satchel. The scent of Cyprus filled the humid night air and the sound of waves crashing against the unseen beach hummed as a constant accompaniment to the symphony of low voices. She relaxed into the twilight shade of her corner and suddenly Charles Hamilton appeared before her. She had expected as much and looked at him with open curiosity. It hadn't even been two months since she had almost married him but it might as well have been two years. Whatever trifling thing they had shared, was completely dissolved. How odd that he should be the first person from Georgia that she should see since coming to South Caroline. How odd that she should be glad to see him.
Flicking open the fan, she ran her guarded gaze over his lanky body. The Confederate grey suited him; the weeks of training had done him good. He had filled out some, through the shoulders and chest, and his golden curls were flecked with bright yellow, his ruddy cheeks tanned by the sun. But he did not carry himself with the same assuredness as all the other soldiers at the ball—which there were dozens—tall, strapping men whose sleek bodies moved across the dance floor with the same lethal grace with which they would move across the battlefield, their smiles ready and their spirits rearing for the war to begin. Scarlett had watched them for the entire evening, coveting the spot of every plain, pallid girl who danced with the good-looking men in grey. She had even heard that the famous Wade Hampton had come, though she couldn't pick him out from the teeming crowd, and wished she could change her card to dance with him. That would be the capstone to her victory.
Charles had been mumbling to her, most of his murmuring explanation rolling over her mind, but she heard him mention the commander's name, and sweetly interrupted him. "Wade Hampton? You know him well then?"
"Yes," Charles said, a sudden pride on his face. "As I was saying Miss…Mrs. Butler, I am his personal aide de camp. He was a good friend of my father's, and he asked me to be his right-hand man when he discovered that I wasn't, well that I wasn't married."
"Why would he care that you were married, Mr. Hamilton," she asked, unabashed. Charles' blush was red enough for the both of them.
"He wanted a gentleman who could give his full attention to him, without the pressures and worry of a wife or children back at home."
"So do you go everywhere that the commander does?"
"Yes ma'am, everywhere. That's why I'm here tonight—since its earnings will help to finance his legion. He's paid for most of it out of his own pocket, though. Of course, tonight he couldn't pass up the opportunity to socialize a bit. He also gave many of the local boys a furlough to come to this ball as it'll probably be the last one they'll be able to attend for awhile, at least until the war is over."
"I see," she said, with a dimple, as uninterested in the war as she had ever been. To her it was a nuisance, that noise in the background that she had become accustomed to but would prefer to never hear again. She smiled brilliantly at Charles, aware of the effect that it would have on him.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Butler for…for rambling on," he stammered. "I must be boring you with all my talk of camp and my commander."
"You have no idea how good it is to hear your Georgian accent, Mr. Hamilton. It's as if I have a piece of home suddenly right beside my ear. So you can talk all you want, and I'll just close my eyes and pretend I'm at Tara."
"I might say the same thing to you. I never knew how much I could miss a certain voice. But are…are you enjoying Charleston in general, Mrs. Butler? It is very different than Georgia."
"I am doing fine, thank you, but I do miss home."
"And where is Mr. Butler this evening? I cannot imagine he would leave you alone for this long."
"Mr. Butler is actually Captain Butler, and has been out at sea for the past month. He plans to run blockade for the Confederacy. I am staying with my aunt while he is away."
Charles began biting his lip and twisting his fingers. He appeared to be hesitating over something; though what it could be she had no idea. Watching the perspiration spring up along his brow, the tremor in his body as he internally debated something, she impersonally wondered how things would have turned out if she had married him. Would he have been so fumbling even after marriage?
"Truth be told, I'm going to be in Charleston also for the next week," he admitted at last. "And Melanie and, and India and Honey will be coming in for a visit. Honey insisted—not that we are, but that is beside the point—she begged Melanie and India to take the trip, since I will be away from camp for a whole ten days. They'll be staying with some of our cousins, who live just down the Ashley River. I won't be on a real furlough, but I'll have more time on my hands. I'm sure Melanie would love to come and pay you a call during their visit. Would it be too much to ask—would you mind if she called on you? They'll be arriving at the depot in the late morning. You may not know this, but Melanie always set such a store about you, Mrs. Butler."
The fan drooped languidly in Scarlett's hand, her brain stirring. She hesitated against her earlier resolve to stay in Charleston for another week. The idea seemed less exciting when she wasn't spinning gloriously around on the dance floor—and now this? Melanie Hamilton—no Melanie Wilkes—would be bad enough, but Honey and India Wilkes with her would be unendurable. Charles hung on her reply, though, his calf-like face beaming with hope, and her deeply-ingrained sense of hospitably won over her personal dislike.
"That sounds lovely," she said falsely.
Charles nearly swooned and she struggled to suppress a scowl. Thankfully he did not linger too long and vex her further by babbling at her. He proudly announced that his commander needed to leave and needed him to leave also. With a floppy bow, he excused himself and Scarlett frowned at him as he disappeared around a curved gravel path.
"Out of all my former beaux," she silently moped, "he's the one I have to see again. And out of all Georgians—I'm going to have to see his sister and the Wilkes' sisters!"
Sulking still, she noticed a handsome soldier watching her from across the lawn. The pout instantly evaporated from off her face and she blushed. His pointed admiration was undeniable, and goose pimples prickled along her arms. The soldier was long and lean, a mess of thick sandy hair on his head, and a bronze tan to match. The slant of his cheekbones alone told her he came from good family. He started pushing through the crowd toward her hidden corner and she fanned herself, elegantly averting her gaze and pretending not to see his approach. When his shadow crossed over her she coyly glanced at him through her veil of lashes.
Up close, the soldier was even more attractive. The bold colors of his face shone out with a disquieting brightness. His eyes were the deepest blue, his lips a dark crimson, and his complexion a soft, inviting gold. He smiled at her, white teeth flashing, and her heart dropped. There was something unsettling about the way he smiled down at her, something that suddenly put her on edge. He spoke, and she knew why.
"It's a beautiful night, Mrs. Butler, almost as beautiful as you."
The fan slipped from Scarlett's hand and floated noiselessly to the ground. That voice! She knew it well, though she hadn't heard it in a month.
"Permit me," the man drawled, gracefully swooping down and picking up her fan. And she heard it again—Rhett's distinct but clearly not unique voice: the pleasant, modulated tone of a gentleman, overlaid with the flat, resonance of the coastal accent. The voice she had last heard as a whisper in her ear. Speechless she stared up at the soldier. He could only be one person. It was the last man she would have thought would ever seek her out.
The night suddenly thickened. A hot, sticky wind blew across her face, a billow to the heat on her cheeks. The soldier held out her fan to her and slowly she took it.
"I apologize if I startled you," he said, jarring her once more. "I thought I perceived you limping earlier and when I saw that you were alone, I could not resist coming to your aide. I did not want you to be stranded on this lonesome bench if you were injured."
"Thank you," she said automatically. "But I am fine."
His eyes rippled strangely in the lanterns' light as he roved them over her face and body. The examination was somehow politely insulting. She shifted back, uncertain of his motives and unsure of herself.
"I am glad to hear that. Are you planning on dancing again—I believe the next set will be the final one of the night."
At that moment, Scarlett wanted to do anything to get away from this man with the misplaced voice. Everything he was saying sounded polite, each syllable enunciated with smooth civility, but for some reason it grated on her. His manners were in some way too perfect, completely devoid of kindness. Her annoyance helped her catch hold of her tongue.
"I believe I am well enough to dance. I think I shall move to a more obvious spot on the floor so that my partner might find me." She started to rise. "Please excuse me."
"No need to go far, Mrs. Butler, serendipity is on our side. I am your final dance partner." He stepped back and extended his arm to her. "Shall we?"
Scarlett balked at him, her eyes wide with alarm. The fan slipped again from her fingers. He leaned down and picked it up, sliding it into his pocket. "For safe keeping," he said, patting his jacket. He did not offer her his arm this time, but slickly wove it through her elbow and escorted her toward the dance floor. Scarlett's feet stumbled along the grass as he discretely swept her along and quietly muttered to her, his eyes scanning the crowd, "I wasn't certain how to make an introduction and I appear to have failed at making a good first impression. Not that it matters what our personal opinions of each other are." He glanced at her. "Perhaps I am getting ahead of myself, though. I haven't actually told you my name."
"I know who you are," she said warily. "I just don't know what you are doing."
Right then, the melody of the final waltz sang out into the night sky. The tender notes streamed into her veins, the call of the dance pulsed in her heart. Throwing caution to the wind, ignoring that whisper of alarm in her head, she twirled out of Rockwell's hold and took his hand. It was so much smoother than Rhett's, so much softer. Her blood pounded, pounded with the wonder, pounded with worry, and pounded with a whirlwind of excitement. The crowd parted, a wave of shocked expressions blinking across the sea of faces, as Mrs. Rhett Butler and Mr. Rockwell Butler spun onto the wooden floor.
~Souffle~
Rockwell expertly waltzed across the floor, holding Scarlett in that perfect limbo between intimacy and civility. The hushed disapproval of their appearance filled the stuffy night with an extra layer of suffocation and sweat stung across Scarlett's face, droplets of moisture glistening above her lips and along her hairline. For the first few minutes they danced in the tangible silence, until Rockwell narrowed his deep, cerulean eyes at her and tilted his head.
"You are younger than I thought you would be, Scarlett—May I call you Scarlett? I would feel unfriendly calling you anything else."
"Should you be calling me anything at all?"
"I am not your enemy, madam. I am not even my brother's. For all that we despise each other; we are equally indifferent to each other."
"Are you indifferent to me also?"
"That remains to be seen."
"You sound like him, you know."
"I hope you mean my voice sounds like him, and not my speech."
"That remains to be seen," she answered saucily.
For the first time, a real grin split across his face, not the courtesy, frigid smile of before, but a genuine expression of amusement. An unanticipated flutter of attraction beat within Scarlett's stomach. She flushed from the surprise and the shame.
"Is that a no, then?" he asked, smiling still.
"Is what a no?"
"May I call you Scarlett or would you prefer me to maintain formality?"
"I don't care what you call me. I only care why you chose to dance with me."
"This is my first dance of the night. I only arrived a half hour ago," he replied. "Helena is still at home with our sick child and you were the sole Mrs. Butler here."
"There are other married ladies here that would have done—and who you wouldn't have had to trick into dancing with you."
"You think I tricked you?"
"I think I would have remembered if the name Butler had been written on my dance card."
"I noticed you long before you noticed me, and I thought I saw you favoring your left foot. As a service, I preemptively informed your last dance partner that you would be unavailable for the final set. "
She frowned at him. In addition to his voice, he must have also inherited Rhett's knack for observation. That made him doubly odious, and dangerous.
"Have I upset you?"
"Not more than you already have."
He laughed unexpectedly—not quite Rhett's cackle, but close enough to it to unnerve her some more.
"You are very frank for a southern belle, Scarlett. Will you tell me what it was that made you scowl at me just now?"
"I was thinking that I would have rather sat out than owe you any gratitude."
"If you do owe me anything, your debt will be paid in full if you tell me who that boy was that was speaking to you before I approached you. He looked familiar."
"That was Charles Hamilton. He's from Atlanta."
"Ah, he's a former beau. And what is Mr. Hamilton doing in Hampton's Legion?"
"His father knew the commander, I think."
"What luck for him."
"Did you ask me to dance to ask me about Charles Hamilton?"
"Not exactly," he smiled. "I could not think of another time when we would have the occasion to speak."
"I cannot think of a need for us to ever have an occasion to speak."
"Clearly." He flicked his gaze down her swaying body. "Just as clearly as you are my brother's wife."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing malicious, I assure you."
"I don't know if I believe a word you are saying, Mr.—"
"Please, if I am to call you Scarlett, you must call me Rockwell."
"Very well, Rockwell. I don't trust anything that is coming out of your mouth. Won't Mrs. Rockwell Butler be upset when she learns you danced with me? Won't all of Charleston be offended?"
"You are not my brother."
"No, but I am his wife."
"A misfortune I am beginning to believe is entirely your fault."
"Is that so?"
"I thought Rhett must have compromised you to make you marry him. I certainly have heard rumors in that vein, and at first blush, you look innocent enough to be taken advantage of by him." His embrace tightened slightly around her waist. "But I do not believe that is the case any longer."
Flustered it took her a moment to realize that the music had ended and the guests were spilling off the dance floor and heading toward the cast-iron gates. The bustling throngs skirted around them. Rockwell took her by the elbow, oblivious or unconcerned by the crowd's reaction, and escorted her back to her secluded bench.
The Cyprus trees flapped above them, the dank plants encased them. Scarlett spotted Eulalie's pale face amongst the exiting masses—her expression so hard it might have been carved out of marble. Perhaps she would have to leave town tomorrow after all. She darted her gaze back to Rockwell. At best, he had diluted her success.
"So are you going to tell me why did you want to dance with me—or talk to me?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"I wanted to dance with you because you are beautiful, though not in the usual way," he said blandly. "I suppose I must confess to that. But I wanted to speak with you regardless of your beauty."
"Oh?"
Suddenly he leaned down, his breath tickling her skin. "Beware of your husband, my dear sister. He will give you the world so that he can take your soul—and he'll laugh while he's doing it. And so, take my advice, as one who once loved him: Never believe a word he says to you."
Scarlett shuddered as Rockwell pulled back. He stared down at her and she flushed up at him. From head to toe he seemed to embody all that was southern and gentlemanly and brave—the grey uniform having been designed with him in mind. Yet she had a distinct impression that he was not what he appeared to be. Maybe it was her experience with Rhett, maybe it was her history with Ashley. Either way her gut twisted when she looked up at him, confusing her.
Eulalie stalked up to them then. Her clear eyes snapped to Rockwell, and snapped back to Scarlett. Whatever her aunt felt, it was not confusion.
Note: Reviews much, much appreciated. I wonder if I have lost some of you along the way? Part of me thinks, wrap it up, wrap it up, but then I just can't. So next chapter will be...ummm...interesting. I wanted Melly in the story, and so I remembered that Charlie was in SC...and he didn't get sick until about 5-6 weeks after he had left, and so I wanted him to be removed from camp...and my point is I hope it wasn't too contrived.