Atlanta! Scarlett's green eyes snapped at the beautiful commotion bumping and jostling against their carriage as they rode through the humming thoroughfare on their way to the hotel. Everywhere she cast her gaze a fresh, new sight greeted her: naked lumber soaring through the air on massive levers for the construction of some glorious building, a laughing cluster of soldiers in pristine grey waiting outside the train depot, the hollers and whistles and thick perfumed air of an outdoor market, the bright, rainbow array of carts presenting colorful delights and exotic flavors. The late afternoon light threw a golden hue over everything.
"Oh! Have you ever seen so many things all at once?" she exclaimed to her husband, pounding on his arm, wearing a careless grin which only the whole and young and free may capture. Rhett chuckled and gathered her delicate, beating fists into his hands, kissing the tops of the knuckles. Scarlett squealed at the appearance of an artillery wagon, wondering at the size of the horses which pulled the canon along, completely indifferent to her husband's affection. He watched her with an indulgent air which she would have found charming if she had been able to find out anything about him at all, distracted as she was by the booming bustle of the biggest city she had ever visited.
As they arrived at the hotel and ascended the stairs to their rooms, she prattled on about her personal connection to Atlanta and the birthday she shared with the town. "Now mind, I know it was only rechristened on my birth year, but as my pa always says, a little bit of embellishment never hurt a soul."
She smiled at the silliness of her pa, tossing aside her bonnet onto a velveteen sofa. The main apartment of the suite was decorated with elegance and finery, marked by deep woods and polished surfaces. She trailed her hand along a marble-topped credenza, humming a tune, recalling the blustery farewell of her pa as they departed Tara this morning. The entire household had turned up to wave a white hanky and pray for their safe travels, but Gerald's bemoaning of the "only man at Tara with any sense" abandoning him for the open seas stood out from the more muted goodbyes.
"You know, Rhett," Scarlett said, looking out a large bay window to explore their view, "I do believe pa would trade all three of his daughters for a son."
"Then he would be a fool."
"Pa is a fool," she laughed, her attention moving onto the passersby below. The clothes on the women here were brighter, happier. Scarlett was brighter, happier. She laughed again.
Absorbed by the scenic streets, she startled when strong arms braced around her waist and the warm breath of her husband tickled her ear. The seizure of fright immediately melted as his lips danced across her neck, nipping at her earlobe and slicking across her jawline. She leaned back against his chest, blushing when the full intent of his embrace became clear. His hands slid down her abdomen, a flash of cool air sped up her legs as her skirts were lifted, and in a gasp, she and her husband were one.
"Heaven help me, darling," he muttered huskily against her cheek a few moments later. Scarlett could not see his face. She had not seen his face during the entire interlude. He had remained behind her. He remained there now. It had all been so strange—and exciting. Standing, she clutched the window sill, sweaty, winded, and clothed. Rhett curved around her. She wanted to know his mood. What on earth had come over him? He had been practically silent on the train down from Jonesboro and had hardly said a word during the short trip from the depot. And now he refused to release her, their bodies still tepidly connected, a tremble in his arms.
"Why must heaven help you?" she asked, reaching up to touch his unseen expression—doubting it would help much to study his implacable face.
His reply was to begin to move within her. She cried his name, from shock as much as from pleasure. So soon? So soon again? She had yet to catch her breath. "Rhett," she exclaimed for the second time. He answered this call with roving hands which dipped beneath her bust line. Exhilaration shot through Scarlett, mixed with exasperation. But somewhere swiftly she lost herself in his passion. The familiar thrill drove modesty from her mind and inhibition from the experience. She watched her breath fog up the glass and the glisten of sweat puddle on the sill beneath her fingertips. This time when he had finished, when she had flown, Rhett spun her around by the shoulders. His look was fierce, but his kiss was gentle.
"Heaven help me," he brushed aside a loose strand from her face, "because I need you, my dear, destructive wife. I need you more than you can possibly understand."
He kissed her again, possessive and hungry, his mouth almost rough, his touch almost angry. And then he was gone. He bowed away and blew out the suite door, claiming he would be readying in his adjacent chamber and meet her for their supper with Mrs. Wilkes at a quarter past the hour. Scarlett blinked at the shut door, her fingertips touching her bruised lips. How many months had she wanted to hear that he loved her? How long must she wait for him to say it? Why, after all the waiting and wanting, couldn't he tell her?
"Fiddle-dee-dee," she said aloud, shaking off the unpleasant worry. "He must love me! I know it!"
And humming, she scampered to her bed chamber, forcing her mind to put off wondering why her husband had sounded so broken when had admitted that he needed her.
~0~
Melanie Hamilton Wilkes was a ninny. This certainty hardened in Scarlett the longer she stayed in the girl's childhood home. There was nothing masculine or striking about the place, nothing to stir the blood or excite the senses. It was as quiet as a library—and as boring as one, too. A palace for the plain. Rhett loomed larger than life in the feminine home. His mere presence seemed to contradict and mock the very walls. It certainly flustered the inhabitants. Melanie could barely meet Scarlett's husband's eye, and her voice shook when she gathered the courage to speak directly to her manly guest. But if Melly was a ninny—her Aunt Pittypat Hamilton was the queen of ninnies. A short, stubby cherub of an old maid whose breathless voice and timid manners made Scarlett want to scream three minutes into the first course of the meal. By dessert, Scarlett had to purposefully keep her jaw from going slack from ennui.
The after-supper conversation lagged in interest and flow; all the news from the county and updates from town had been covered over the course of the meal, and the three women and Rhett couldn't find common ground upon which to converse, apart from war talk. And who in her right mind wanted to discuss battlefield strategies?
Scarlett subtly used her burgeoning belly as reason for her taciturn behavior, receding into the overstuffed cushions of a lounge chair, fanning herself with a music sheet, and enjoying the scent of honeysuckle wafting through the open window. She nearly dozed in the soft glow of the twilight lamps and the soft fabric of the chair. Everything in this tidy mansion was soft. Soft voices. Soft faces. Soft bodies and minds.
Miss Pittypat knitted and nodded at nothing in particular while Rhett and Melanie spoke of some book—a book of all things. Scarlett was roused from her sleepiness at the mention of the word "love." She sat up and tried to catch the meaning of the discussion.
"Oh, no, Captain Butler, I must disagree with you about his intentions. I think it is very understandable how Jane could forgive him so easily for his deceit."
"I believe that is more of a reflection on your generous nature, Mrs. Wilkes, than proof of Rochester's merit as a man deserving of mercy."
Melanie blushed, looking somewhat lovely. She did not bow her head in embarrassment, however, but picked up the same thread of this cryptic conversation, her voice rising in confidence. Scarlett creased her brow in consternation and inched to the edge of her chair.
"Flattery aside, Captain Butler, I would argue that the main thesis of the novel is that we cannot judge our fellow human beings because we cannot know the secret sorrows of their hearts. That it is for us to forgive and for God to do the rest."
"I might be able to counter your logic, but I wouldn't dream of contradicting your sentiment. The world would undoubtedly be a more peaceful place to live if women forgave men as readily as Miss Eyre forgave Rochester. Of course, what would wives talk about in their sewing circles if they had no complaints against their husbands?"
Rhett smiled warmly, not a hint of mockery in his gentle teasing, and Melanie laughed in a quiet but pretty way. Her aunt joined her in a bashful giggle, daringly accusing Rhett that he was a handful and a half. Scarlett rocked back into her chair and crossed her arms. She hated the feeling of standing on the outside looking in. What was all this nonsense anyway? Silly debates about silly people in silly novels. Scarlett reminded herself—not for the first time this evening—that the reason for her harsh judgment on Melanie, Melanie's kin and Melanie's home had nothing to do with jealousy. Rhett was putting on a good face. That was all. He had done it for her mother, right up until he had stopped being the perfect southern gentleman.
The conversation had streamed along to music, but Scarlett hadn't been paying any mind, and spoke over their voices to give her opinion. "If I were Mr. Rochester's wife, I wouldn't forgive him simply because he was my husband. I would expect him to make amends, and if he didn't, he shouldn't expect to sleep safely in his bed."
Scarlett smiled at her clever turn of phrase, but quickly lost that air of smugness when she noticed the expressions of the surrounding company. Melanie and her aunt wore faces of maroon mortification, with a hint of pity, and Rhett—oh, she hated that particular smirk of his more than all the rest of his nasty grins combined. A malicious humor brightened his dark eyes and he drawlingly replied:
"You are too right, pet, no one ever defends Mrs. Rochester's point of view. I think it is brave of you to identify with her, as one wife to another."
Scarlett could say nothing in response. There wasn't a single fact she knew about the novel. She nodded curtly, her composure faltering at Melly's more pained expression.
The newlyweds did not linger after this exchange. In the entryway, Scarlett handed off the envelope from Rosemary, stating outright that it contained a letter from Rhett's sister to Charles. Melanie turned pink at the mention of her brother's admirer, thanking Scarlett for the safe delivery of such sweet sentiments and strangling her in an unnecessary hug. "Great balls of fire! A person would think I'd given her a letter from her own husband!" she silently huffed, smothering the outburst with a strained smile. She rallied her good graces as she exited, petting and twittering as a good southern guest ought to do, declaring her adoration of the home, the food, and the company, and vowing to see her again before she traveled further south. Melanie immediately snapped up her offer, and somehow Scarlett was committed to joining Melanie at the hospital the next day.
In the carriage ride back to the hotel, Scarlett griped about the plans foisted on her, her mood as dark as it had been light earlier in the day.
"She didn't even blink at me when I mentioned, well, when I mentioned the baby. She said I could sit down and help the soldiers just by smiling at them." Scarlett threw her head into the cushiony rest. "And to think I will have to pretend to care about Charles!"
Rhett listened to her with mild interest, asking in a thoughtful tone, after she had complained for another few minutes, if she considered Mrs. Wilkes her friend.
"What do you mean? Of course I do. She was the only kind person in all of Charleston." Scarlett blew out her breath. "Granted, I do like her better when you aren't around."
Rhett barked, a grin spreading over his olive face. "Dare I hope you are jealous of my attention?"
"Don't be a cad. I don't fancy looking like I have hay for brains is all. What was that tomfoolery about anyhow?"
"Tomfoolery being another word for literature?"
"I can read, you know. I choose to spend my time on worthier pursuits."
"Such as visiting sick soldiers in the hospital?"
"Among other things."
She refused to squirm under his satirical eye, and daintily dusted off her unruffled skirts. He chuckled softly to himself. Damn him and his stupid jokes.
"While I know you do not really care to learn the finer plot points of Jane Eyre, my dear, I wonder if you might be interested to discover that in the novel, Mrs. Rochester is a madwoman who tries to burn her husband while he sleeps in his bed."
Scarlett frowned. "Who wants to read a book like that?"
"A shocking number of people, apparently."
"Why waste time on nonsense stories?"
"Some tripe about broadening the mind."
Scarlett deigned to roll her eyes. "I stand by what I said. Real or not, I bet that Mr. Rochester deserved whatever his wife did to him."
"Ha! You would empathize with the mad wife."
"If the wife was so mad, why did he marry her in the first place?"
"Perhaps Rochester was a little mad, too."
Rhett had been lounging at the opposite end of the seat but closed the distance between them with his usual grace. Outside the carriage the full moon swam in the late summer sky. Scarlett sank deeper into the seat cushions, not really in a temper to gratify her husband's appetites, or her own. He lifted his hand and skidded his thumb from her temple to her chin, tilting her there to catch more moonbeams on her face. He was searching for something in her expression. From time to time, he would study her in this way. She never knew if he found what he was looking for, or what it was he sought. He dropped his hand from her chin and turned the other way.
The silver etching of the moon on his pagan profile softened her annoyance. Instinctively she reached out and stroked his stubbled cheek. Rhett grasped her hand tightly in his fist and met her gaze, a strange smile on his full lips.
"Or perhaps," he breathed into her palm and kissed the soft dimpled skin there, "he simply fell madly in love."
Note: Thanks for all the prods. I know this was short, as my initial intention with this chapter was to involve their entire visit to Atlanta. But this was full of steam and fluff and I thought, why not? It's a sweet little treat for some holiday cheer. And I really needed the escape. In all frankness, I've had a terrible time of it lately.
I chose to take down my other post, not because I didn't feel support or didn't feel it was an important topic, but having posted it and discussed it, I wanted to move my thoughts to a more private arena, and not to detract from the story. Thank you so much for those of you who read my personal message and responded with such warmth.