Disclaimer: 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.
"I'm glad you could come away for a buggy ride with me, Ella," Albert said as he slapped the reins on his horse.
"I've been busy with Aunt Pittypat."
"I know. And you're dear and sweet to help her. But today I'm taking you out and I intend for you to have a good time."
Ella smiled tightly and inclined her head towards him, and he whistled a merry tune with happy satisfaction.
The Fundraiser had ushered in a golden summer for Albert. Frankie was gone and he had Ella all to himself now. He called on her frequently, took her for buggy rides, escorted her to parties. She was sweet and innocent and true--exactly what he needed after the false and treacherous Camilla.
The summer was not quite as golden for Ella. The revelations at the Fundraiser had unlocked a restless uneasiness that time had not been able to soothe. She cared about Albert, she hastened to reassure herself--maybe even loved him. But quite without her volition, she found herself haunted. Haunted by the beautiful ghost of the said Camilla.
When she was with Albert, it was easy enough to forget her, for he was attentive and eager to please and he treated her with a deference that she found flattering. But she could not be with him all the time...
Ella found herself thinking about Camilla at the oddest times--while brushing Aunt Pittypat's hair, for instance. Or during dinner. Or while sitting on the veranda enjoying the evening breeze. Ella was the type of girl who reveled in life, wanted to enjoy every minute. But her naturally happy disposition was becoming increasingly more troubled by unwanted, intrusive thoughts.
Ella was still consumed by curiosity and Albert's confession had only served to make her insecure. Neither of them ever referred to Camilla again, but as time went on, she grew more beautiful, more gracious, more perfect--if only in Ella's imagination. She took on larger than life proportions and Ella despaired that she could ever compete. Nor was she able to forget. Camilla. Camilla. Camilla.
Camilla wasn't a ghost, Ella finally decided resentfully. Camilla was a vampire slowly sucking the joy out of her existence.
Forgive and forget. It was a maxim Ella had heard her whole life and with her whole heart she believed in it. But now it seemed to her that the things she'd been called on to forgive and forget up until this time were very small. Even then, perhaps she could have forgiven Camilla (somehow she cast no blame on Albert for the affair). But although she wanted to, she was unable to forget. This constant and unresolved tension could not continue forever, and it inevitably found an outlet. Slowly and without her even noticing it, Ella was beginning to grow self-righteous.
It was a natural enough development. After all--what kind of girl agreed to be a mistress? In Ella's experience, only girls like the ones at Belle. Or the occasional poor white who found herself in a fix with no husband. But it was inconceivable to Ella that a girl her own social class would find herself in that position. At least, she had never heard of such a thing. She didn't realize that among her peers, a girl who got in trouble would be hustled away as quickly as possible--and a story put out to explain her absence. She's visiting an Aunt in another state. Or She's gone away to school. Or She's been feeling poorly and a trip to the country is just what she needs.
But in the meantime, she didn't want to let on to Albert that she remembered or thought about that fateful conversation. She kept it inside, and it was consuming her.
oOoOoOo
Scarlett pulled the sheet and blanket up to Aunt Pittypat's chin and tiptoed out of the darkened room. She was sleeping over to help India give Miss James the night off.
She walked into the kitchen, nodded to India who was standing over the stove, and sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. India poured her some tea.
"She finally fell asleep," said Scarlett as she took a sip. "She keeps saying that-that. I just know she wants to tell us something but can't. It must be very frustrating for her to only be able to say one word."
"I'll ask Dr. Meade if he'll prescribe a bromide for her so she can sleep--he'll be here in the morning. But I'm not so sure she really thinks anymore," countered India. "He said there isn't any way of knowing if she's still in her right mind or if she even has a mind to speak of. Of course, she was getting senile even before the apoplexy."
"But what if she does think?" Mused Scarlett, with a faraway look. "What do you suppose she thinks about? Her past life? After all, it's not as if she did anything exciting or romantic. How interesting can her memories be?"
"How can you say that, Scarlett?" Asked India a little defensively--after all, she had never done anything exciting or romantic either. "She raised Melly and Charles, didn't she? She survived the War. She was surrounded by loving family and friends. She must have had enormous satisfaction over her life."
"But she never really lived," Scarlett insisted, oblivious to India's mounting distress. "She never had anything that was all her own and not just shared or borrowed from somebody else's life." As she brooded over her tea, she didn't notice that India's eyes had narrowed dangerously.
But when India spoke, her voice was even and controlled. "It's true that Aunt Pittypat never had a husband or children of her own. She doesn't even own this house and never has. And I suppose that to some people, such a life must not have a lot of value. But on the other hand, she was surrounded by friends who loved her and petted her. She had the utter devotion of those two borrowed children, Charlie and Melly. She never had an enemy in the world. Even Uncle Henry wasn't her enemy--at least he didn't think so. And when she dies, whether it's tonight or ten years in the future, she will be remembered by everybody who knew her as a sweet, if petted, darling. She won't leave behind even one person who will remember her with rancor. Of how many people can that be said? Not me, I admit it. And certainly not you, Scarlett."
"My, aren't we outspoken tonight?" Asked Scarlett, stung.
India shrugged. "We both made our share of enemies--I refuse to sweeten the bald facts with sugar. And if Aunt Pitty's life was bland by your standards, at least it wasn't bitter. And I think she earned her untroubling memories. If some of us suffer on our deathbeds one day, it will be because we brought it upon ourselves through our own selfishness."
Scarlett's hands were trembling now with the effort of not smacking India's smug face. "Are you trying to tell me something, India Wilkes? That if I had been a better person Rhett would stay in Atlanta more often? Oh, don't look surprised. It's what the whole town thinks. --Or you think Bonnie would still be alive if I had been kind and unselfish like Melanie Wilkes?"
India met her eyes. "Why Scarlett, you go too far. I won't insult your intelligence by pretending that I didn't feel some satisfaction over your marital troubles. But as for what happened to Bonnie--do you really think I'm a fiend who would wish a child's death?"
"No, of course not." Scarlett said low, although her eyes flashed.
India folded her hands on the table and leaned forward, looking for all the world like a schoolmarm with a difficult pupil. "However, you did manage to spread your share of misery in your time. Don't deny it." Still in that same calm voice.
At this point, Scarlett decided to retreat to high moral ground. "We promised Dr. Meade we wouldn't fight over Aunt Pittypat's sickbed."
"We're not at Aunt Pitty's sickbed, are we?" Then India smiled slyly. "And besides, it wouldn't be the first time we were liars, would it, Scarlett? I lied when I said Ashley was holding you at the mill like a lover--when I could see quite plainly there was nothing more than friendship in his embrace. But then you lied when you said you had no loverlike feelings toward my brother, so we're even, aren't we?"
But Scarlett was finished. "I don't have to listen to this," she said, and pushed her chair back and stood up.
"That's right, Scarlett O'Hara," India taunted dryly. "Run away. Justify yourself. Deny any responsibility. That's what I can't stand about you. You always think about what you want--and never about other people's rights. I loved Stuart Tarleton, all those years ago, and you didn't . If you had really, truly loved him, I could have forgiven you for charming him away from me, but you cared nothing for him. And then taking Charles from Honey when you didn't love him, either..."
Scarlett's hands balled into fists. "How dare you..." she said, voice shaking.
But India was unperturbed by Scarlett's rage. She continued to sit and speak as calmly as if she were discussing the weather or a new hat. She tilted her head to the side. "Do you remember back in the War years, before you came to live here in Atlanta? How you used to come over to Twelve Oaks to call on us? Your excuse was because we were Charlie's family, but I know you wanted to hear news about...somebody else. And yet, did you ever stop to think what your visits were for my sister? She loved Charlie, she was thrilled to be marrying him! What do you think it was like for her to have to entertain Charlie's wife? And when Wade came along, don't you think it was torture for her to have to look at your baby knowing he should have been hers?" Then her voice changed, became pensive. "Have you ever really looked at your son? He's the very image of Charlie."
"Why you sanctimonious--" Scarlett spluttered. "--You--you horrid--you--you--"
"Bitch?" India supplied helpfully.
Scarlett knew India was mocking her and became livid. "I have been here every day helping you take care of Aunt Pitty. We've worked side by side sharing the work evenly."
"Why Scarlett, I know that. I'm very grateful for your help with PItty." Still in that calm, imperturbable voice.
But that imperturbable voice only served to make Scarlett wild. "And after all that, all the thanks I get--all you can say--is to dredge up the past? You're sick, India Wilkes! Warped with the rage of 20 years. If you never got married, it's your own fault. You're not hideous looking or deformed. You could have gone out and found you some widower who wouldn't be so choosy looking for a second mother to his children. But you didn't--you sat around, giving yourself airs about your lost Stu and brooding. There's nothing I can do to change the past, and I know I was no angel. But come off it, India! What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? I'm sorry." And Scarlett leaned forward and pounded the table with her fist. "I'm sorry--" pound! "I'm sorry--" pound! pound!
Scarlett was quite flushed now, her hair coming loose with messy tendrils around her face that she didn't even bother to push back. India sat and stared at her with those plain, inscrutable eyes. Then she smiled--a genuine smile without a hint of mockery in it--and leaned back in her chair. "Thank you, Scarlett. That's all I wanted to hear--an apology."
Scarlett stared at her, winded and dumbfounded.
"Don't gape, Scarlett. You'll never hear another word from me on the subject for as long as I live. Word of a Wilkes. You don't doubt me, do you?"
"No," Scarlett said. Oddly, she realized it was true.
"Drink your tea before it gets cold," India commanded. "Then go lie down. I'll take the first shift tonight." And with that she closed her eyes and folded her hands across her stomach.
oOoOoOo
"Careful now, Ella. Don't spill it."
Scarlett and Ella were preparing to give Pittypat a bed bath, and Ella had brought the hot water upstairs in a heavy iron pot, the weight of which made her arms shake a little with the strain.
"There," Ella replied as she eased the pot onto the table next to Pittypat's bed. "See Mother? I didn't spill a drop." Then she straightened up, looked at the door and squealed. "Uncle Rhett!"
Scarlett whirled around. Sure enough, there in the doorway stood Rhett--he had climbed the stairs silently with his light, Indian-like tread. But before she could react, Ella had trotted around the bed and thrown herself into her stepfather's arms to give him a smacking kiss.
Rhett squeezed Ella and patted her, then gently unwound her arms from his neck. "What's going on, Scarlett?"
He fully expected another one of her demure, diffident "great lady" responses. But instead she took him by surprise by marching up to him boldly, taking his hand without so much as a by-your-leave and pulling him out of Aunt Pittypat's bedroom and into the unused one next door. When he glanced around quickly, he realized it was Scarlett's room from the War years and when she was married to Frank.
"Aunt Pittypat had apoplexy." Scarlett crossed her arms and said abruptly. "She's doing better than she was, but we have to help her around the clock. We were just about to bathe her."
"What do you have to do with all this? I never thought you liked Pittypat very much."
Scarlett shrugged, pushed a stray hair behind her ear. "It just seemed like the right thing to do. I really don't know." Then she looked up at him with a wry smile. "India and I have been doing most of the nursing."
"Why Scarlett!" Rhett was too surprised to dissemble or make a sarcastic remark.
Then Scarlett grinned outright. "And we haven't killed each other yet, although we have come close."
That mischievous grin was so cute, Rhett nearly smiled back at her, but he recovered himself. He cast about for something to say, but she interrupted him.
"We have to bathe Pitty before the water gets cold, so you better run along home. You can't be around when a lady is taking a bath, after all. I'll see if India will excuse me early this evening." Two brisk pats on his arm, and she was gone. He heard the door to Aunt Pittypat's room shut and click.
Run along home? He thought. Did she just tell me to run along home? A surge of indignation welled up--but it was tinged with amusement. That was the most natural he had seen Scarlett for so many years. He wasn't chasing her, she wasn't chasing him--they had talked the way normal people talk. Reluctantly he realized--he liked it.