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.

Just as she said she would, one afternoon several days before the Sewing Circle, Mrs. Meade sent Marybeth to buy material and notions for baby clothes.

Edward stayed behind, being too young to be depended on to behave himself in the store. But she put Christina in the carriage and headed towards the business district. They were firmly in the dog days of summer now, and the heat was making people sluggish and cranky.

Marybeth was becoming more familiar with the layout of the streets and she was able to find the stores she needed when she was sent on errands, but she still had to pay attention to where she was going so she wouldn't get lost. As she turned the corner onto the street where the store was located, she noticed a small crowd had gathered in front of it. As she drew closer she saw that the center of attention was a frowsy, overdressed older woman with impossibly red hair. Impossible not only because nobody ever had that particular shade naturally, but also because her utter lack of gray was at distinct variance with the aging in her face.

Marybeth averted her eyes away from the crowd. The woman was obviously a prostitute. She had seen prostitutes many times in her travels; all the cities and larger towns had them. She left them alone and they left her alone. No matter how desperate she'd ever been, she was never tempted to earn money the way they did--the idea of being passed from man to man was completely repulsive to her. Picking pockets was much more clean and tidy. She was, however, a little surprised to see such a woman here. This was reputed to be a respectable neighborhood.

Marybeth was closer to the store now, and she was starting to catch snatches of the conversation.

"Hey, Belle!"

"That your real color?"

"How much, Belle?"

"My mama says women like you..."

It was a crowd of older boys. Some of them were about Marybeth's own age, some were a little younger. The woman called "Belle" was trying to ignore them, and she had a patient, resigned look on her face.

Marybeth couldn't help feeling a little sorry for her. Belle might be a bad woman, but there was no call for those boys to harass her like that. Still, it wasn't any of her affair, and she kept pushing her carriage.

The boys' joking became more coarse and vulgar as they warmed up to their teasing, and some of the things they were saying made Marybeth blush to her hairline and be fervently grateful that her daughter was too little to understand such language. Furthermore, she was starting to feel her blood boiling with anger. None of them had noticed her pushing her baby, but Marybeth had learned how to efface herself to avoid attention and she was careful as she approached the store.

She was almost at the door when she saw one of the boys pick up something from the street and start tossing it up and down in his hand, looking at Belle speculatively. That was the last straw. Marybeth simply reacted.

She opened the door and with a glance at the storekeeper she pushed the carriage with the now-sleeping Christina inside. Backing out, she picked up a good-sized stick that she'd seen on the sidewalk and dragged it a little behind her. Then she approached the boys.

"Excuse me!" she yelled.

The gang turned and looked at her. So did Belle.

"Break it up, boys, leave her alone."

The boys started snickering at the lone girl challenging them.

"Who do you think you are, trying to order me around like that?" Said some boy who seemed to be the ringleader. He gave her an evil grin.

"Maybe she's one of Belle's girls," suggested another boy, and they all started to laugh at her.

Marybeth brandished her stick. "I said, break it up and leave her alone!"

"Ooh, she's got a weapon!" One boy said, laughing even harder.

"Now give it over, Missy--be real nice and give it to me," said the ringleader, advancing on Marybeth with his hand out to grab the stick.

"Don't come any closer," Marybeth warned.

The boy advanced two more steps.

"I mean it," Marybeth said.

"What are you trying to do--a little girl like you," he said as he took still another step closer, hand still outstretched.

With strength that came from fear and rage, Marybeth swung the stick like a baseball bat then heard a sickening crack and a howl of pain from the boy. He stumbled back, holding his wrist. He shouted at her, outraged, "What do you think you're doing, you crazy b--"

"Don't you dare call me a name!" Marybeth screamed back at him, shaking the stick at him.

One of the other boys took a step towards her, but she clenched the stick in both hands, whirled on him and said, "Don't try it." He stepped back again.

Panting heavily the ringleader hollered at Marybeth, "I think you broke it! Just you wait until I tell my Pa."

"Fine, tell him. Go on, see what I care. Tell your pa you got beat by a girl."

At this, some of the boys smothered smiles. After all, it was true. Their leader was beat by a girl.

"Now, go home, all of you!"

The boys hesitated, looking at each other, but they started ambling away. Marybeth looked around. A crowd had gathered. She hadn't even noticed before. Belle was staring at her.

"You okay?" Marybeth asked.

"Yes. Thank you," Belle said.

"You're welcome," replied Marybeth curtly and walked into the store. Once inside she touched her sleeping daughter's head and tried to still her shaking hands. Then she realized she was still carrying the stick. She tucked it under the carriage. Now that it was all over she felt dizzy and nauseous. Somehow she managed to buy everything on Mrs. Meade's list, and she was unaware of the surreptitious, amused looks the shopkeeper was giving her.

She walked home, stick at the ready in case any of the boys thought about avenging their leader, but nobody bothered her. Belle was gone.

When she arrived home she approached Mrs. Meade and confessed the whole story. Mrs. Meade looked at her in dismay, but didn't speak until Marybeth was finished.

"Thank you for coming to me with this first, so I didn't have to hear it from somebody else. Marybeth, do you know what a prostitute is?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, that's what Belle Watling is. You shouldn't have talked to her. As for the rest--I don't even know where to begin. This will have to wait until the doctor comes home."

Mrs. Meade met her husband at the door late that night for a private word. He listened to her story, but he had already heard it at work. He went into the kitchen where a nervous Marybeth was washing dishes and crooked a finger at her.

"Come with me, Dandridge."

White-faced, Marybeth followed him into his study and stood on the carpet with her arms across her stomach. He leaned back against his desk and stroked his beard, looking at her for a few moments.

"You realize, young lady, that you behaved in a most unseemly manner today?"

Marybeth nodded. She was too frightened to speak.

"Not only unseemly, but dangerous. Fighting with boys, swinging a heavy stick around, yelling at the top of your voice, talking to Belle Watling. You made quite a spectacle of yourself, from everything I've heard, and several people made it a point to come tell me at my office."

Marybeth could only nod again. It was all true.

"If you are to continue living in this house, you must learn to conduct yourself in a more ladylike manner. No yelling, no fighting, and be more selective about who you associate with. I don't want to hear of any more didoes like that again. Do you understand?"

Marybeth managed to whisper, "Yes."

"Very good. You may go."

But Marybeth stayed, looking at the doctor. Swallowing hard, heart pounding, she managed to say, "But I couldn't just stand there and let that boy throw something at her. I just couldn't. It was just like that story from the Bible--the story of the woman taken in adultery--and I just couldn't let them do that."

Dr. Meade looked at her intently. "Then why didn't you get the shopkeeper to help you? He was there, and both of his sons were helping in the back room, too. They're there every day. Why would you even consider trying to take them on all by yourself?"

"I don't know. I just did."

"Dandridge, the Good Lord gave you a brain. He expects you to use it to think. They were too many for a lone girl--you should have gone for help. Furthermore, by your actions you have subjected us all to gossip and speculation. And, if they had all turned on you at once--I don't even want to imagine what would have happened. You have to think before you act--you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

He dismissed her then, but he was troubled. That night as he and his wife were getting into bed, he asked her what she planned to do with Marybeth.

"She might turn into quite a handful."

"Then I'll just have to train her up right--like a lady."

"So you're still going to let her stay?"

"Doctor Meade! How can you even insinuate such a thing! As if I would turn her and those babies out. I've taken her in, and it's obvious she needs a guiding hand. If we gave up on her now, what would become of the three of them? No, Doctor. They're my responsibility, and I'm going to stick with it."

Dr. Meade smiled in the darkness. He knew all along his wife would not put her out on the streets for this indiscretion. He just wanted to remind her of that.

"All the same, Doctor, it won't hurt her to worry for a few days. Maybe it will make an impression on her. So don't tell her what I just told you."