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.

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Scarlett folded the check inside the letter and slipped it into the envelope. Turning the envelope over, she wrote the missive's destination--Careen's convent in Charleston. No--not Careen, but Sister Vincent Michael. The letter was for Sister. The check was a donation for the convent.

Several years previously, when Scarlett Butler and Suellen Benteen decided once and for all to divide their inheritance from their father, it had actually been Suellen's idea to give a donation to the convent. Scarlett had been so shocked at this unexpected burst of altruism from Suellen that she agreed without demur. After all, it stood to reason--had Careen married, there would have been three daughters among whom the O'Hara inheritance would have been divided. Besides, by this time, Scarlett and Suellen had reached a level of prosperity so they could easily afford it. Accordingly, they gave a generous gift to the convent and arranged for Gerald and Ellen O'Hara to be remembered in Masses on their death-days in perpetuity.

And after that, Scarlett would make an occasional donation whenever it crossed her mind to do so. As far as Scarlett was concerned, Careen had been easy enough to forget even when she lived in the world. But now that she had forsaken it and turned nun, well...

Scarlett was ashamed to admit that she could go for months on end and never give her littlest sister a passing thought. But once in a while she would write a letter to Sister Vincent Michael. And even less frequently she would receive a reply. The Rule of her convent was strict, even by cloistered standards--the nuns were encouraged to engage in spiritual exercises rather than in letter writing. But Scarlett saved every one of the letters she received. They reflected their writer--dreamy and otherworldly. But Sister had a knack, all unknowing--for Scarlett had never hinted of her problems with Rhett--of slipping in little proverbs and sayings that touched Scarlett and seemed to carry strength and comfort with them. Scarlett wasn't sure she even believed in God anymore. She had absorbed Rhett's skepticism in proportion that Ellen's teachings had slipped away. The rare times Scarlett thought of Him, it was as a vague, impersonal First Cause. But all the same, it pleased her to know that somewhere in a convent many miles away, some devout little nun was watching and praying for her.

From downstairs she heard the parlor door open and the sound of Ella and Frankie Bonnell in conversation as she walked with him to the front door. Frankie had been a frequent visitor to the mansion lately, and at first Scarlett had dismissed it as a continuation of the childhood friendship between them. But then it became apparent, that on Frankie's side at least, there was more than mere friendship. Scarlett saw the way he looked at Ella and with a feeling of shock, understood everything. She had seen that look directed at herself many times...

Scarlett didn't have anything against Frankie, any more than she had anything against Albert. They were both nice young men and she would respect Ella's choice when the time came that she would have to choose. But the shock came from the idea of Ella behaving like a belle, juggling beaux--quite unexpected. But it rather pleased Scarlett. She always carried a little kernel of fear, from something Rhett had said to her years ago--that she had not ensured Wade's and Ella's places in the social life of Atlanta. It was true, she hadn't. But by sheer luck, rather than design, they weren't doing so poorly. Probably what saved them was their close friendship with Beau Wilkes. Sometimes it seemed to Scarlett that Melly was reaching from beyond the grave, helping her children like some benign guardian angel or patron saint. And as they grew into adulthood it was becoming apparent the type of people they came from--at least on their fathers' sides. Yes, it seemed they would both do all right after all.

Scarlett rose from her desk, stretched and sighed. She would mail the letter tomorrow, but perhaps she could intercept Ella before they both went to bed. She wanted to talk to Ella about the Frankie-Albert triangle she was enmeshing herself in, but she was reluctant to pry. Therefore, she wasn't entirely sorry to hear Ella's bedroom door shut for the night. Of course, Scarlett could always just knock--Ella had never been secretive, but it had always been Scarlett who had to initiate personal conversations. She knew from experience that Ella would never refuse to answer any direct question. Well, there was always tomorrow...

Scarlett went downstairs to bid good night to the servants. Pork was there, of course. Then Dilcey--dignified Dilcey who always carried herself like a queen. She still kept house for the Wilkes', but she came home to the mansion every night to be with her husband. Next was Prissy, who had no more wit than she had at the age of twelve. Big Sam had been sent to Tara as caretaker--necessary now that the Benteens no longer lived there.

And of course, Atlas. Always Atlas.

Scarlett wasn't even sure herself what possessed her to call her dog Atlas. But one day the name popped into her head, popped out of her mouth, and stuck. She didn't even really like the name. But there it was, and there he was named. And every time he saw his mistress, he would go into ecstasies of delight, wiggling, crouching, yipping happily until Scarlett would condescend to give him a few pats. She and Pork had trained him to be quiet on command, and while she spoke a few words to the servants about tomorrow's tasks, Atlas wiggled at her feet, struggling with all his strength not to bark. Instead, he made the most peculiar little squeaky noises, as if he were trying to refrain from barking with all his doggie might.

But at last she was finished with the servants, and she reached down to pat the dog. When she looked up, she was astonished to see Pork leaving the room.

"Pork," she called.

"Yas, Miz Scarlett?"

"Pork, aren't you forgetting something?"

Pork shook his head slowly and frowned as if trying very hard to remember something very important. "No'm, I ain' forgettin'." But Scarlett could swear he had a gleam in his eye.

Scarlett crouched down and gave Atlas a little shove. "Atlas needs to be 'walked' and put to bed."

"Oh, Miz Scarlett, I done walk him already."

What was going on here? Behind him, Dilcey was looking away, giving every indication of being minutely fascinated with the wallpaper, but she was forcing back a smile.

"And now you expect him to shut himself up in the back room?" Asked Scarlett sarcastically.

"Why Miz Scarlett, don' be silly. I jus' thought I saves you the trouble."

Dilcey was grinning widely now and Pork's lips twitched.

"Pork..." Scarlett warned.

"Well, Miz Scarlett, it's like this. Ev'y night you says 'Pork, put this dawg to bed'. An' I does that. Then, jest about midnight or thereabouts, he starts whimperin' and cryin'. And we hears you, Miz Scarlett. We hears you scurryin' down the stairs and you takes him upstairs wid you. So," he paused dramatically. "I thought I saves you the trouble."

"Why Pork," she said indignantly. "You and I both know I'm only doing that until he stops howling at night. It's only temporary."

"Of course, Miz Scarlett," replied Pork with false humility.

Scarlett put her hands on her hips. "I'm doing this for you, for all of us. So we can sleep!"

"Yes indeed, ma'am."

"I am! I am!"

At this, Pork could no longer contain himself. He chuckled, then broke into loud laughter. Dilcey joined him.

"Well, I never," Scarlett fumed, deeply insulted.

"Oh, Miz Scarlett," Pork gasped, wiping his eyes. "Don' you be mad, now. We was jus' havin' fun. I'll shut him up fo' you."

Scarlett handed Atlas over to Pork without another word. But their eyes met and Scarlett was unable to remain serious under the humor she still saw in his face. Quite surprising herself, Pork, and Dilcey, she suddenly started laughing as hard as they had. Loud and long she laughed and it felt good. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed over anything, but little by little she calmed down, gasped and said, "Never mind, Pork. I'll just take him upstairs with me now."

Pork and Dilcey threw each other knowing grins. Scarlett didn't care.

oOoOoOo

Marybeth didn't see Wade for a while after the night at the Wilkes'. Not that she expected--well actually, she wasn't sure what she expected. She thought about him a great deal and went about her tasks with a happy, quiet satisfaction and only daydreamed occasionally.

"If I didn't know better, I'd swear the girl was lovesick," remarked the Doctor to his wife one night.

Mrs. Meade shrugged but said nothing. Marybeth promised to tell her if she were sparking anybody. She simply had to trust that Marybeth would tell her as soon as there was something worthwhile to tell. But she couldn't help thinking that Wade Hamilton would be a good match for her. He was a gentleman and had the money to support her properly.

As for Marybeth, the self-doubt that plagued her that night after the Wilkes' seemed to have evaporated like fog under the hot sunshine. Someday she would tell him everything if necessary, but there was no need to torture herself now, after all. Besides, she was busy with her chores and housework, her children and Mrs. Meade.

Mrs. Meade progressed well and the Doctor was pleased. Bronchitis could be a perilous thing at her age. Her health was reasonably good to start with, but she simply didn't have the stamina of a young woman. But the day came when he let her out of bed for a while, and eventually she was allowed downstairs for longer and longer times.

Mrs. Meade's friends came to visit--a steady stream of lady callers were in and out of the Meade residence. They inquired after her health and they would discuss endlessly all the illnesses that were going around Atlanta. Marybeth never understood the fascination old people had with illnesses and dying and found these conversations rather morbid. But Mrs. Merriwether, Mrs. Elsing, Mrs. Whiting and all those ladies of that age found them endlessly intriguing. Sometimes Mrs. Meade would praise Marybeth's care of her to these ladies, but that only made the girl uncomfortable. She didn't want compliments. She took care of Mrs. Meade partially because it was her job. But she also took care of Mrs. Meade because she liked her and was fond of her. But no praise was necessary.

Marybeth didn't know that Mrs. Meade's friends were inclined to be indulgent when they listened to these compliments. They weren't blind to Mrs. Meade's growing attachment to the girl and they understood. She had suffered the worst losses of all of them in the War--both her children. If Marybeth stood in for Phil and Darcy in Mrs. Meade's mind and brought her solace in her old age, her friends were willing to go along. And Marybeth had been very well behaved in these later months.

oOoOoOo

Elsie Wellburn sat in her mother's parlor long after all her beaux had gone home and picked savagely at her cuticles. Something was different lately--things had changed recently--and they weren't the types of changes Elsie liked.

She should have been savoring the evening that just passed. She had been "at home" to her friends, and a couple of girls had been to visit and nearly a dozen beaux. There had been laughter and lively chatter and two of her young men had stayed quite late, each trying to outstay the other, each hoping for some time alone with her. It was a triumph for her--but then, Elsie was used to triumphs.

But no--things were different. Take Frankie Bonnell, for instance. He was conspicuous by his absence. Not that Frankie had been her most ardent suitor by any measure--he enjoyed flirting with any unattached girl too much. But lately she had seen a change in him--he seemed to be drawing closer to Ella Kennedy. Frankie, who was almost as sought-after as Beau Wilkes! What could he possibly see in plain little Ella? But it seemed to be true.

And Beau Wilkes. She could excuse his absence tonight. It was the middle of the week and he was at school. He would probably be home this weekend--he nearly always came home the weekends. But even Elsie's vanity couldn't convince her that he came home to see her. If only she could make him come home for her.

But the most galling of all was Wade Hampton Hamilton. Yes, he had come tonight. Yes, he still looked at her admiringly. But there was a difference now. He no longer looked at her as if she were the center of his universe. He was quiet, as always, still polite as was his wont, but he didn't try to maneuver for a place near her, and there were several times she was positive that he wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. Admittedly, they were times when she was addressing her beaux all at once, but there was a time not that long ago that he would hang on her every utterance, whether it was addressed to the group at large or spoken to him alone.

Elsie knew exactly where to put the blame there--Marybeth Dandridge. She'd seen them dancing together under the trees, and there'd been no mistaking the early, tender bond developing between them.

Ella hadn't greatly overshot the mark when she said Wade's infatuation with Elsie was a type of habit. But Elsie had her own habits, too. Even though she had no intention of choosing Wade, he had been so reliable of a beau that she assumed she had his undying devotion. To lose this devotion to a nobody of unknown antecedents like Marybeth was more than Elsie could bear...

oOoOoOo

Marybeth was invited to the Picards for a party. Almost, she was growing weary of the constant round of dances and socials. She had always preferred the company of a few close friends--large groups tended to intimidate her and make her feel as though she were on display--but before her arrival in Atlanta she had never known people like this who had such an endless appetite for parties.

But at the same time she hoped to see Wade there. And as soon as she arrived, Ella sought her out and told her he had to stay late at the office, but he did plan to be there as soon as he could get away. And in due time, she heard his voice in the foyer--Raoul had opened the front door to him and she could hear them talking. She hurriedly patted her hair and smoothed her skirt. She was already sitting in a group with Ella and Jenny (whose exquisite politeness to each other did not mask the fact that their feud was still going on) and a few others. Marybeth did not want to look too eager by jumping up to greet him, but she still wanted his first sight of her to be a pretty one.

But before she could even make eye contact with him, Marybeth watched as Elsie swooped down on Wade, taking his hands, smiling up at him, batting her eyelashes. Marybeth was too far away to hear what they were saying, and she decided she didn't even want to know. She was aware of a painful, sharp clenching in the pit of her stomach. She'd felt it before--the night at the Wilkes'--but she was not jealous--not she! She would not own to such a petty emotion as jealousy. Wade didn't belong to her, after all, any more than she belonged to him. No words had been spoken between them, they had made no agreements. Their tie was a very tenuous one--a meaningful look, a tender moment while dancing. For all Marybeth knew, Wade had been moonlighted into looking at her the way he had. But no matter how things stood, she wasn't going to make a fool of herself by openly competing with Elsie. Concealing her emotions, she kept her attention on the friends she was with.

Ella caught Marybeth's eye and tried to telegraph a message of reassurance, but Marybeth didn't want reassurance. She tossed her head and smiled at the young man sitting on her right.

He said his name was Dante Martin, and that he was a cousin of Raoul Picard visiting from out of town. He sat next to Marybeth and chattered on about his family's wealth and connections. She thought he was rather conceited. Raoul was given to boasting of his family connections, too, but in the next minute he could turn it aside with a little joke. But Dante seemed inordinately pleased with himself. On the other hand, his chatter kept her from having to be too aware of Elsie's flirtation with Wade.

At one point Marybeth heard Elsie's tittering laugh and turned her head away as she felt her cheeks flame up. Marybeth was grateful that she was seated so as to be a little turned away from Elsie's group--her self-control was being strained as it was.

"Mademoiselle Marybeth, are you feeling well?" Dante asked with concern in his voice.

"Oh," Marybeth said, gesturing vaguely. "It's rather hot in here. The lamps, the people..."

"Allow me to take you outside for some fresh air?"

Marybeth nodded. She stood up and wavered uncertainly. The night was chilly and she should get her wrap. Mrs. Meade would never approve of her going outside for air at night in just her party dress--she might catch her death of cold. However, to get to her wrap she would have to pass by Elsie and see her smug face. Hoping Mrs. Meade would forgive her just this once, she left with Dante through the other door. He led her across the hall to the dining room, and opened the double doors that led to the back yard. He handed her down and she fanned herself, relieved to be away from everybody else.

"You are feeling better, I hope?" Dante asked.

"Yes, thank you," she answered as she sighed and closed her fan.

They strolled in the little garden for a bit and Dante continued to talk to her and Marybeth listened with half an ear. The cold air felt good against her bare arms and flushed face. She was trying to force herself to feel calm and reasonable and this effort took most of her concentration. But she nodded and murmured "yes, of course" at appropriate intervals.

She was only barely aware of the lull in his conversation, but her attention was drawn up shortly when he murmured a few words to her that she didn't understand--he was speaking in French. However, Marybeth realized uncomfortably, his meaning was clear. It became even more clear when he took her hand and kissed it. She pulled her hand away and tried to lighten the mood with a little laugh.

"I'm feeling much better now, Dante. We can go back to the party." And she turned to head back into the house.

But her progress was checked when he grabbed her arm, embraced her roughly and kissed her full on the mouth. And with some horror she realized that he was rather far gone in drink--she could taste it in his kiss and she could smell it on him.

Revolted, she pushed him away. "Have you lost your mind?" She demanded as she wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and pulled back her other hand to slap him.

He blocked her arm easily, grabbing her wrist. "Why else did you bring me out here, mademoiselle?" His tone was one of surprise, but she heard a smirk in his voice.

"Me!--bring you out here!" She yanked and yanked, but he wouldn't let go her arm.

"Now, don't pretend to be angry."

She tried to wrench her arm away, but he held it in a strong grip. "Let go of me! Let go this instant or I'll scream."

He grabbed her other arm and pinned them both against her sides. "No you won't. You won't want this to get around. And besides, you did come here with me alone of your own free will. Everyone saw you leave with me. And everyone will think you wanted this, too."

"They will not," she hissed as she struggled to free herself.

"It's your word against mine. And they've all known me much longer than they've known you."

Marybeth's mind worked feverishly. Surely that couldn't be true, could it? Would everybody really think she wanted Dante, like this, in the back yard? Looking around quickly she realized they were behind the Picard's shed-- and out of sight of the house. So angry was she at Elsie and so jealous she hadn't paid attention to where Dante was leading her. Marybeth hadn't been this careless in a long time--and now she was paying for it.

He pushed her back against the wall of the shed none too gently, and she hit the back of her head against it, dazing her momentarily. He pressed against her then and buried his face roughly against her throat.

She realized this was no longer a game. He was serious--and of what he meant to do she wanted no part. She started fighting him like a thing possessed, struggling to get away, trying to hit him, trying to kick his shins or stomp on his feet, her mind incapable of any thought other than not again--never again.

Suddenly she remembered something her friend Ester had advised her once, something she could do if a man got fresh with her. Marybeth hadn't quite believed her at the time, didn't see how it would work, but now in her desperation decided to try it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she steeled herself and with all her might brought her knee upward...

She didn't know if she hit her target or not, but all of a sudden Dante was yanked off her. Marybeth had a glimpse of Wade Hampton grabbing her attacker before she slid strengthlessly to the ground, rocking with her hands over her face. She heard rather than saw the two men fighting. Then she heard a familiar voice.

"Wade, what's going on?"

"Ella, take Miss Marybeth into the house."

Ella did as she was asked and helped Marybeth to her feet. Frankie Bonnell was Marybeth's other elbow, but she shrank from his touch. Over her head, Ella shook her head at Frankie and slipped an arm around Marybeth's waist. She took her into the house and sat her down in one of the chairs at the dining room table. She didn't like how Marybeth looked, white to the lips and shaking.

"Are you hurt, Marybeth?" Ella asked.

Marybeth was trembling violently now, but she shook her head. She hitched her dress back up over her shoulder and smoothed down her bodice.

"What can I do?" Asked Frankie, who had followed the two girls inside. Wade and Dante were still in the yard, but Wade had gotten the better of him.

You can go away and stop looking at me, thought Marybeth.

"Frankie, you better get Mr. Picard and bring him here."

"Bring Rene Picard, not Raoul." Wade said. He was standing in the doorway now, and he had Dante firmly by the upper arm.

Marybeth turned away from Wade, too embarrassed to be seen by him. This was a Wade she had never seen before, taking control, calmly and confidently giving orders. But she was too distraught to think it all through.

Frankie nodded and went to find Mr. Picard. He had seen Wade like that before. As a boy Frankie had fought Wade--because he said Captain Butler had never fought in the War. Frankie won that fight, but not by much. Joe Whiting had flat-out lost when he fought Wade. They were all friends now, but Frankie knew that Wade, for all his outward calmness, would fight if provoked sorely enough.

When Frankie left, Wade ordered Dante into one of the chairs at the edge of the room and crouched down by Marybeth.

"Are you hurt, Miss Marybeth?"

Marybeth refused to look at him. If Dante were right and Wade thought she had invited such treatment, she couldn't bear to see it in his eyes. But she shook her head, no.

"You see?" Dante yelled, angrily. "She says it herself she wasn't hurt."

"Shut your filthy mouth, Dante," ordered Wade quietly, but there was no mistaking the anger in his voice. He was gentle when he spoke to Marybeth. "You don't want to stay for the rest of the party, do you? Ella will get your wrap for you and I'll take you home." When Marybeth looked at Ella fearfully, he hastened to reassure her. "She'll come with us, won't you, Ella?"

Marybeth reached up and pulled Ella to her. "I don't want anyone to know about this," she whispered to her. "I don't want people talking about me. If you leave too, it will look odd. You stay."

"Are you certain?" Ella asked, worried for her friend.

Marybeth nodded, but she still wouldn't look at Wade. Ella left to find Marybeth's wrap. As soon as she stepped out of the room, Frankie returned with Mr. Picard. Rene took in Marybeth huddled miserably in one chair, Dante in another. Both Wade and Dante sported colorful bruises. But before either one could talk, Ella came racing back in with Marybeth's wrap.

"I'm taking Marybeth Dandridge home," Wade stated. "Frankie, would you tell Mr. Picard what happened?"

Wade took her out the back entrance so she wouldn't have to face the curious stares of the other guests. She was still white faced, but she walked steadily enough and he didn't offer her his arm, didn't attempt to touch her in any way as they walked silently through the streets.

She was nauseous, ashamed. Wade kept a careful distance from her, and she didn't know if it was because he believed she was innocent and didn't want to frighten her further or because he now found her so distasteful that he didn't want to touch her even to help her across the street. She didn't want to give him the chance to distain her, so she didn't attempt to talk to him. And he was quiet, too, as they walked.

Wade guided her through the dark streets of Atlanta to the Meades' home. Outwardly he was calm and courteous, but inwardly he was seething with wrath.

Wade possessed a deep vein of chivalrous sentiment. Although he hadn't even admitted it to Uncle Rhett, one of his reasons for taking up law was his belief in the idea of justice. He hoped to set aside part of his practice to defend the poor--those who had no legal recourse against unscrupulous people who would try to cheat or defraud them. He hated bullies with the deepest contempt and grew angry when he heard stories of the terrible things some persons were capable of doing to those they deemed weaker than themselves--such as the mistreatment of children or the outraging of women.

He had heard some ugly stories from Dante--this wasn't the first time he had visited his Picard cousins in Atlanta, but it was the first time Marybeth would have met him. Wade was not so prudish that he couldn't laugh at a coarse joke told among grown men. But when voices grew quiet and sly, and the conversation turned to this or that girl, then Wade grew uneasy and refused to participate in such talk. He knew that Beau didn't like that type of talk, either. Things he could laugh at in general were much more offensive when they were about a particular person--or persons.

Raoul shrugged these stories off.

"Cousin Dante has always been a bit of a braggart," he would assert, with a tinge of contempt in his voice. Wade deemed that Raoul wasn't overly fond of his cousin.

Nor was Wade overly analytical about human behavior, but he knew his distaste for tale mongering stemmed from that time long ago. As he walked in silence with Marybeth, his mind wandered back in time--he had been at or around the age of ten when he overheard two of his mother's wealthy white-trashy friends gossiping. They either didn't realize Wade was in hearing distance, or they didn't see any reason to keep such talk away from young ears. But they had been discussing how his mother had been caught with Uncle Ashley. And the women gave each other knowing looks.

Wade didn't fully understand the implication of this conversation until much later, and then he burned with shame for her. He hoped it was just idle gossip, and if anybody had said anything directly to his face, he would have fought for his mother's honor regardless of the facts. But sometimes he wondered...Mother had always been an enigma to him. She wasn't quite like the other mothers, she wasn't cuddly and warm, she wasn't like Aunt Melly, for instance. And although he hated to admit it to himself, there were other signs that pointed to some truth in that rumor.

For instance, Mother had become very "sick" shortly after the rumor started. Wade knew now that "sick" was a euphemism for private female ailments that weren't discussed in mixed company. Maybe she had been pregnant and miscarried--that happened sometimes, that a baby died long before it was supposed to be born. And then there was the business about his mother's and stepfather's separate bedrooms. Uncle Rhett was a man of lusty appetites. It seemed very unlike him to accept such a living arrangement.

However, Wade didn't like to dwell on that for too long.

Wade carried the knowledge of this rumor in a little compartment in his mind and purposefully avoided thinking about it whenever he could. What the truth of the matter was, somehow he didn't really want to know. But he fervently hoped that Cousin Beau never heard about it. Beau idolized his father and Wade didn't know what it would do to him to suspect that Uncle Ashley had ever been untrue to Aunt Melly. At the very least, Beau would never hear about it from him.

Wade peered over at Marybeth as they walked. He liked her, respected her, was even starting to care for her. He was concerned when he saw the interest Dante was taking in her and concern turned to worry when he saw her leave with him--when they didn't return in a reasonable amount of time, Wade followed them. He was wrung inwardly when he thought about her trying to fight Dante off on her own. She was no match for Dante--unless she managed to escape, she would not have been able to fend him off forever. Her talk and behavior was modest and ladylike--Dante had no call to treat her like--well, like one of Belle Watling's girls...

Marybeth was outwardly calm, but she wondered sadly if Wade would ever respect her, or care for her now. A shaft of pain and sorrow shot through her and she struggled to blank all thoughts of Wade out of her mind. She didn't want to care for him if he didn't care for her…