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.

Time went by and Marybeth started to notice a change in herself. For one thing, she was starting to feel safe again. At least, safe enough to stop carrying a knife in her boot; perhaps she didn't need it anymore. She had originally taken to carrying it after an incident that occurred not long after she'd run away from home. A street thug had robbed her. He had been bigger and stronger than she, and had forced her to give up all the money she had on her. After that incident she stole the knife and started carrying it for protection. She found that thugs were a cowardly lot and usually the mere sight of the knife was enough to deter her would-be attacker. Occasionally there had been times she'd been obliged to use physical force to protect herself, but only when she was cornered. Marybeth preferred to run--she was little, not much over five feet, but quick. Besides, she lacked the strength and experience to inflict anything more serious than a flesh wound, although she had inflicted a few flesh wounds on attackers who didn't think she was really serious with the knife. Then their shock at being stuck by such a little girl gave her the advantage of time enough to flee.

So there she sat, unarmed, in the upstairs room of the Meade's' house, poking fabric through the sewing machine and biting her lower lip with the effort of concentrating. It hadn't come easy to her, pumping the foot pedal at just the right speed while keeping the fabric moving smoothly and the seams at the same distance from the edge at all times. She was now capable of sewing a seam without bunching the fabric or running the stitches off the edge, but only if she gave it her undivided attention. But finish it she did, then snipped of the thread and looked up at the door.

"I gave her a little bit of mashed potatoes in the kitchen, but she's still hungry enough for more," said Mrs. Meade, who was standing in the doorway with Christina on her hip. The baby flashed Marybeth a drooling smile before holding her arms out to her.

Marybeth laughed and stood up, carefully draping her sewing over a chair before she took her baby. "Well, I'm glad, because I need a break from sewing."

Mrs. Meade followed her into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, while Marybeth was settling down into the stuffed chair to get comfortable.

"You're getting quite good at the sewing machine."

"Oh, I don't know that I'd say 'good', but I can sew straight."

"Just the same, you're good enough now that I'm going to take you with me to the next meeting of the Ladies Sewing Circle for the Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy."

"What?"

"It's going to be at Maybelle Picard's house," Mrs. Meade said smoothly, as if Marybeth hadn't interrupted. "You met her mother, Mrs. Merriwether, remember?"

"Yes, but I..."

"We'll be making baby clothes."

"But with so many ladies there, won't it be too crowded for one more? I can help by working on baby dresses here. I don't need to go there."

Mrs. Meade looked at her with surprise. "No, it won't be too crowded. Besides, I need you there, Marybeth. My eyes aren't what they used to be, and I can sure use you to help thread needles."

Marybeth doubted that she was the only female in Atlanta who was competent to thread a needle and she frowned, worriedly.

"What is it, Marybeth?"

"Isn't membership in the Circle limited to ladies? I'm not a lady. I'm your maid. People will say I'm getting uppity and I don't know my place," Marybeth said, bluntly.

"I may bring a guest if I please, and this pleases me. Anybody who doesn't like it can answer to me," said Mrs. Meade with an air of finality. "I'll send you to the store for fabric and notions in a few days."

There was no more arguing with her, but Marybeth was still disturbed. She had lived in Atlanta long enough now to understand Atlanta society and her own place in it. Furthermore, she was perfectly comfortable with her "place". She only wanted to make a living for herself and her children, not break into society. She quailed at the idea of exposing herself to gossip and rejection. The Atlanta society ladies were a touchy lot. Many of them were still living in the past, having never given up the fine opinions of themselves they had been raised with, over 20 years ago, before the war. She knew her mountain accent, although Southern, was wrong. She didn't know every etiquette rule and was sure to make mistakes. But whatever Marybeth's shortcomings were, Mrs. Meade was determined to do this thing, and she just had to make the best of it.

She can make me go this Sewing Circle, thought Marybeth, darkly, but she can't make me like it.