Margaret Mitchell owns "Gone With the Wind" and all its characters. I own a handful of OC's and a story idea. Book-verse. Not "Scarlett" compliant.

"In addition to cooking meals, keeping the fire burning in the stove and hauling water, Mrs. Dandridge, the parlor and kitchen must be cleaned every day. Betsy and I usually do our sewing and mending in the evenings before it gets too dark, " Mrs. Meade was explaining to Marybeth as she walked her through the house, showing her where everything was kept.

"Then, of course, there are the weekly chores, washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, baking on Wednesday and Saturday. We clean house from top to bottom on Thursday, including sweeping and dusting. Marketing is done Friday morning and I make my social calls on Friday afternoon.

"The dishes are kept here--the dining room linens here--the silverware in here--and the pots and pans here. Follow Betsy's lead; she's been with us since before the War, and she runs the house in tiptop form."

Marybeth nodded at Betsy, who gave her a look of mingled pride at Mrs. Meade's praise, and warning in case Marybeth had any notions of challenging her authority in the domestic realm.

"Dr. Meade's study is here," Mrs. Meade was continuing her monologue. "Betsy will continue to clean that room--I'm afraid my husband keeps his books and papers strewn around, and she's used to his routine--knows what not to touch. You've seen the parlor already. I'll take you upstairs and show you where we keep the spare linens and candles. You've seen the sewing machine? Have you ever used one?"

Marybeth shook her head 'no'.

"I'll teach you how to use it, then. It will save you an enormous amount of time, especially with sewing for those two babies."

As they were walking downstairs again, Mrs. Meade said, "Naturally, we keep the Sabbath with church attendance and Bible reading and rest. Sometimes we may visit or receive visitors. In a nutshell, that's our routine. As I said, follow Betsy's lead."

And that's what Marybeth did. With Edward at her heels and Christina in sight, she moved among the various rooms, doing her tasks. Betsy watched her like a hawk and the first several days working alongside her were a constant stream of correction and criticism. Marybeth went to bed those nights worried she wouldn't keep her job, afraid that Betsy would go to Mrs. Meade with her complaints. So each day she would redouble her efforts and she tried desperately to please them both.

Mrs. Meade hadn't any complaints about Marybeth and she saw how hard she worked. But she would not intervene between the older black woman and the younger white girl. If Marybeth were to succeed in the Meade household, it was up to her to learn how to work harmoniously with Betsy. Slowly, Betsy's complaints lessened in frequency, but Marybeth never lost the sense of how closely she was being watched.

One morning she nursed Christina in the kitchen as Betsy kneaded the bread dough. They were each performing their tasks quietly, but then Betsy started to sing in her deep alto:

My latest sun is sinking fast

My race is nearly won

My strongest trial now has past

My triumph has begun.

Marybeth smiled as she listened to the song. After she had run away from home, but before she arrived in Atlanta, she had lived for several months on a farm with a family whose chief delight had been in music and singing. She had learned numerous hymns during that time--her own upbringing had been Catholic, so the sacred songs of her childhood had mostly been in Latin. Marybeth knew this song well, and joined in the chorus:

Oh come, angel band

Come and around me stand

Bear me away on your snow-white wings

To my immortal home

Betsy turned at the sound of Marybeth's soprano voice joining in, but Christina stopped nursing, startled at the sudden noise her mother had made. Marybeth grinned at Betsy, shrugged and guided Christina's mouth back to her breast. Betsy started to smile back before she remembered her own dignity, but she resumed her singing and kneading.

Later that day, Marybeth was cleaning the parlor and she paused after she ran the duster carefully over two daguerreotypes that were placed side by side. They were of two handsome young men in Confederate uniforms. She picked up one to look at more closely. He had kind eyes and a look of pride and determination. She put it down carefully and picked up the other. He looked like a mere child, younger than Marybeth was now.

"Mrs. Dandridge?"

Marybeth jumped, clutching the picture. The look on Mrs. Meade's face made her flush; she was afraid she had done something terribly wrong. She stammered, "I-I'm sorry, I-I was just looking--looking at these pictures--I didn't mean to pry into things that don't concern me."

Mrs. Meade walked over to Marybeth and took the picture from her hand gently and looked at it sadly.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Meade," Marybeth repeated, twisting the duster in her hands. "It's just--they look like such nice boys--and I wanted to see up close--who are they?"

Mrs. Meade put the picture down gently and turned to Marybeth with a brave smile. "This is Darcy," she said, gesturing to the first picture, " and this is Phil," she said, gesturing to the one she had taken from Marybeth. She sighed a little. "Our two sons...both killed in the War." Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Marybeth put her hand to her mouth, then impulsively reached out to pat Mrs. Meade's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you sad."

"My dear, you didn't make me sad--I look at these pictures every day, and I remember that they died as heroes." She turned to look at Edward, who was dangling a toy in and out of Christina's reach, making her laugh. "Mrs. Dandridge, if I could only give you one piece of advice, cherish every day you're given with your children. You have this posthumous reminder of your life with your late husband. Every day you have with them is a gift."

Marybeth's heart caught in her throat, partly because she was reminded of the lie she told about the children's paternity, and partly because she remembered how frightened she had recently been for Christina. She shook her head, unable to speak.

"Mrs. Dandridge, don't look so tragic! I don't pine my life away for my sons. I miss them terribly, of course, but I still have Dr. Meade to love."

Marybeth looked away from her then, willing herself not to cry. She wouldn't cry.

"Mrs. Dandridge," said Mrs. Meade severely, "look at me."

Marybeth looked back at her.

"You simply have to be strong enough to carry the burdens you're given in this life. Now. No more sentimental nonsense out of you. Get back to your dusting." Mrs. Meade looked at her kindly for a moment, patted the children's heads, then turned and left the room.

As soon as she left the room, Marybeth flew to her children, caught them up and hugged and kissed them as if her life depended on it. But still she did not cry.

It was several days later when Mrs. Meade received two visitors. Two old friends had come to call. They introduced themselves to Marybeth as Mrs. Elsing and Mrs. Wellburn; they were mother and daughter. Marybeth seated them in the parlor, brought Mrs. Meade to them and then brought in the tea and cakes. She served the ladies, eyes down and wearing a carefully blank expression.

"Captain Butler has left town again," said Mrs. Elsing.

"Already? But he was only here a week this time," replied Mrs. Meade.

Fanny Wellburn sniffed. "If he stays in Atlanta for more than three months in a year altogether, I'll eat my hat. And Scarlett never goes with him. She just stays in that monstrosity of a house between times. She rarely even goes to Tara."

"I declare, I just don't know what to make of that marriage anymore," said Mrs. Meade as Marybeth withdrew from the parlor and shut the door.

I know what to make of it Mrs. Meade, thought Marybeth. That Captain Butler fellow is just a lowdown varmint, like all men. Admittedly, they're handy to have around if you need something heavy moved, and supposedly male protection is a good thing to have, although I've always found that a girl needs more protection from them than from anything else. Well, maybe a limited amount of cordial civility to a man wasn't too harmful, because then it would be easier to persuade him to carry your heavy stuff around if necessary, but let a girl fall in love with one of them and she was finished.

That's not true, a little voice teased. What about William? He wasn't a lowdown varmint. Marybeth tried to push the thought away. William was the only boy she ever loved, but he wasn't the father of either of her children. In fact, William was lost to her forever thanks to Christina's father. Marybeth still missed him terribly, but she was through with men. It was enough for her to work and support Edward and Christina. Let other girls flirt and court and get married. Marybeth was through.