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.

A/N Sorry I haven't uploaded in a while. The whole end-of-the-school-year-crazies, you understand.

Scarlett's avoidance of Rhett continued during the entire length of his stay in Atlanta. She knew it was craven and despised herself for it--after all, she was the same Scarlett O'Hara who faced down Yankees and famine and social ruin--but she simply didn't have the courage to go home when she knew Rhett would be there, and that was that.

Besides, it was so easy to avoid him nowadays! She could plead her duties at the store and her responsibilities to Aunt Pittypat; and to be perfectly honest with herself, she wasn't sorry to have excuses not to see him. The less time she spent with him the fewer opportunities he had to spurn her. And she didn't have to play the grand lady when he wasn't watching her. All in all, she was rather enjoying this visit, at least in comparison with his others--she knew he was in Atlanta and that was enough for her. With grim humor, she reflected that if she'd had such a handy form of escape from him and his coldness years ago, she would have availed herself of it. But of course, that wasn't completely true, either. After all--nobody owned her, and she was free to come and go as she pleased. She could have gone home to Tara any time, only she was always afraid she would miss one of his visits...

On the few occasions she felt guilt over her neglecting to be a good hostess, she reasoned that it wasn't as if he wanted to see her...

But Rhett wasn't as insensible to her absence as she imagined him to be. They still lived in the same house, whether Scarlett chose to be there or not. Even if he were completely indifferent he couldn't help but notice she was usually gone. Actually, he felt the lack of her presence acutely. Time seemed to weigh heavily on him--there was only so much he could do at the bank, no matter how busy he made himself look by pushing papers around. There were only so many business associates in town; only so many times he could dine with them at the Atlanta Hotel. Besides, the allure of gadding about was fading rapidly.

He even found he had less to talk about to Belle, old companion that she was, although that poor and faithful soul never complained to him about his lack of attention to her. Not that she would ever complain--she knew how precarious her own position was in Rhett's life and was unwilling to jeopardize it by acting the part of the jealous, shrewish other woman.

But he was dismayed to realize that the alterations he'd seen in his last two visits were nothing compared to the way things were now. All the old traditions of the mansion had undergone a sea change in his last absence. And until they were gone, he never realized he and Scarlett even had traditions. Traditions were for the Old Guard--not free thinkers like the Butlers. But it was clear to him now--as much as Scarlett had changed during their marriage, he had undergone his own changes. Without realizing it, he had largely conformed himself to Scarlett's ways--and this had been the routine of their marriage up until the death of Melanie Wilkes.

Before his marriage to Scarlett, he lived the freewheeling life of a confirmed bachelor--eating when and what he pleased, sleeping when he was tired, staying up all night carousing if he took it into his head to do so. But until now, he never realized what a civilizing influence Scarlett had been over him. Or if not Scarlett herself, then Mammy. Scarlett had brought that formidable old Negro woman with her into their marriage and under Mammy's efficient control, meals became regular occasions, with the china and silver presented just so, wholesome home-cooked food at the ready--to boot, all the quiet little rituals of a well managed house. Wade and Ella and Bonnie had bedtimes and wake-up times and life had a routine and regularity that his bachelor days had utterly lacked. And without his realizing it, he throve in that life--at least until Bonnie's death.

Rhett had brought Scarlett money and security, but Scarlett had brought Rhett stability.

After Mammy returned to Tara, Scarlett continued the routine of the mansion, up until recently. But now, without her at the helm anymore, Rhett saw all too plainly how quickly things were changing all around him.

Mealtimes, for instance. Suppertime at the Butler mansion quickly degenerated into chaos after Aunt Pittypat's stroke. Gone were the days when the china and silver were set out like clockwork. Gone were the meals with more than one course, where everybody sat down together to eat and converse. Scarlett frequently ate at Pittypat's house these days, and so did Ella. Or else they ate in the kitchen--picking at something that had been kept warm for them by the servants. Wade was too busy at work most days for regular meals. He often sent the secretary out for a sandwich to eat at the office, or else he came home late to eat in the kitchen or had Cookie make a tray for him which he would eat at his desk in his bedroom, surrounded by massive law books and loose papers kept in some order that only he could decipher. Other nights, less frequently, he was invited to dine at the Meades' by that girl who had him completely under her spell.

So Rhett did see Scarlett, but not often enough. He visited Aunt Pittypat one afternoon and she was there. Only this time she didn't leave Pittypat's side, and Rhett wasn't able to maneuver her alone. Then once day he drove by the store, just to catch a glimpse of her through the window. But it was humiliating to have to resort to such juvenile tricks, and he grew so angry he decided to confront Scarlett that very evening.

Somehow she beat him to it.

Scarlett came home that night around seven, and as she handed her hat to Prissy, Rhett came strolling out of the parlor, where he had been debating with himself whether to go to Belle's.

Scarlett didn't seem startled to see him, but she didn't look happy, either. Nevertheless, she gave him a tight smile and said," You haven't had a decent meal since you arrived here. Tomorrow night I'll have Cookie make a real supper and we'll all eat together in the dining room. If that suits you."

He was caught off guard by her suggestion, and truth to be told, it rather took the wind out of his sails that she preempted his complaint. Unable, now, to take her to task all full of righteous indignation, he could merely nod. Then Scarlett smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand.

"Oh no--I shouldn't have said that. Wade said he was expected at the Meades' tomorrow. Too bad. He did tell me this morning, but I forgot. Well, never mind. It will be you and Ella and me." Then she nodded to him gravely and plodded up the stairs.

Rhett looked forward to that supper all the next day.

Unfortunately, Scarlett had a trying day with Aunt Pitty. The old lady had been agitated and frantic for hours in her frustration over being unable to talk. She kept India, Scarlett and Ella busy trying to calm her, trying to understand her garbled "that-that-that" chatter. So when they were finally home and supper served on the fine china, silver and linens, it was clear that Scarlett, despite her sincere efforts to be an engaging and great Lady, was ready to sink with exhaustion. Ella, true to form, was able to keep up a constant stream of chatter, but Ella had youth and energy on her side. Rhett found himself almost pitying Scarlett as she made the valiant attempt to be hostess, when she could barely keep her eyes open. He had hoped for some time alone with her after supper, some time alone where he could test her and prod her and figure out just how deep these new changes went. But rather than keep her awake after the meal by persuading her to join him in the parlor, he told her he had to meet with friends in town. It wasn't true, nor did Scarlett believe it, but she nodded gratefully and climbed the stairs to her room with a tired wave and a mumbled, "G'night, Rhett".

By chance, he happened to see her again at breakfast the following morning. She was back to being dignified, greeted him accordingly, and apologized for the previous evening.

Rhett stared at her hard before speaking. "Scarlett, you're wearing yourself out nursing Pittypat."

"She needs me, Rhett," Scarlett answered with a shrug before she popped a forkful of scrambled eggs in her mouth.

"She has other family."

Scarlett swallowed the eggs and looked away, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. Then she took a sip of her coffee and looked down at her plate. "Aunt Pittypat needs me."

That's when it dawned on Rhett--something that had been nagging at him since he returned to learn of Aunt Pittypat's illness. The change in Scarlett was deeper than the mere dissolution of her wonted routine. Scarlett was becoming a Hamilton again. Seeing her in Aunt Pittypat's house, bustling about and making herself comfortably at home, it reminded him of the olden days of the War when he first came to really know her. And now she had gone full circle. After all, he met her at Twelve Oaks--the Wilkes' plantation--and cemented his friendship (for lack of a better word) with her under the chaperonage of Pittypat Hamilton, while Scarlett lived with her and Melanie. Her life and her fate, the very first time she met Rhett and even her eldest child were inextricably bound to that family, and it seemed she was coming home at last.

Rhett knew Scarlett would scoff at this suggestion if he told her. She saw herself as inalterably bound to Tara and the O'Haras. But Carreen was Sister Vincent Michael now, living in the cloister and dead to worldly concerns. And Suellen and Scarlett were never close friends; they were much too alike--selfish, demanding, and bullheaded women, Rhett thought with amusement. No, despite how Scarlett saw herself, Rhett could see she was more bound than ever to Charlie's family. And although he never aspired to be one of them (even though he was tied to them through the distant kinship of his marriage to Scarlett), for the first time in many years, he felt himself to be shut out. And set adrift. For who did he have, after all?

Well, there was his frail, elderly mother, for one. She loved him no matter what he did--he was always able to count on her. Then there was Rosemary. She loved him almost as much as Mother did, but she was busy with her own family and too much of a lady to be a confidant--especially for the type of confidences he had to share. Then there was his paramour, Belle Watling. They had been through much together, Heaven above knew, but he could never publicly acknowledge her.

Wade and Ella cared about him, certainly, but he couldn't help but feel they were only children, after all--he helped raise them, and they could never be his equals. And Scarlett was slipping away from him once again--not a willful choice on her part, not this time, but rather that the tide of life was carrying her away...

oOoOoOo

It was time for Albert to return to University, and he made no secret about his reluctance to be leaving. Ella accepted this reluctance to leave as a compliment to her, but her own feelings were much more ambivalent.

After his first flush of triumph, when it had seemed daring and defiant to kiss Ella (because he had won her, after all) he hadn't tried to kiss her again. Not when they were alone in the parlor, not when they were alone in his buggy, or even in the twilight shadows when they were alone by chance at some party or other. And Ella, confused by this behavior, felt nearly driven to distraction.

If I were beautiful like Camilla he wouldn't hesitate, she would think gloomily. I bet girls like Camilla are forever fending off liberties and unwanted attention. And then she would feel herself torn, once again, in many directions--the desire to be a lady (she couldn't entirely abandon her upbringing); the desire to be loved passionately; and, most painful of all, the desire to be rid of the thought of the said Camilla.

Sometimes Ella thought there was something wrong with herself that she couldn't feel more happy. When she looked at her situation honestly and with the detachment of an outsider, she really couldn't fault Albert's attentiveness--he did everything right. He was a frequent caller at the mansion, several nights per week. He was engaging with the servants, friendly with her brother and deferential to Mother. Furthermore, he never seemed preoccupied when he was with her, but wrote her beautiful poetry, led her on the dance floor, took her hand or her arm when they were out together and in all other ways was a perfect suitor. But it wasn't quite enough for Ella. She wanted something more...more romance...more passion.

The subject of Frankie was never brought up between them. In fact, Ella sometimes wondered if Albert even remembered that whole interlude anymore, for he never referred to it, either directly or indirectly. But he never broached the subject of her saving her affections for only him, either.

So here they were on the evening before his departure, and they walked through the azalea garden, now bare of it's lovely flowers although the abundant green leaves remained. The garden, the still balmy air, and the darkening shadows were all ripe for romance and for once Albert rose to the occasion.

Well away from the glare of the light pouring from the windows of the house, he stopped their progress and took her hands. "You've made me so happy this summer, Ella," he whispered.

She lowered her eyes demurely, if a tad automatically. This is it! she thought. He's going to ask me for some understanding. He's going to ask me to wait for him. But somehow she wasn't as excited as she thought she would be. She felt no dizziness at his touch, no heart-flutterings--actually, she felt quite matter-of-fact. Dismayed by this unwelcome realization, she rapidly tried to explain her lack of enthusiasm away. I've been working very hard with Aunt Pitty, and then there's this relentless heat. I really do feel quite enervated. Yes, that's it--the heat is getting to me.

"I'll miss you when I'm gone," he said. "But it won't be so many weeks until Christmas holiday." Then he drew her arm through his and continued walking.

Ella walked alongside him, waiting for him to say something else. But as the seconds and minutes ground by, and he betrayed no inclination to resume his loverlike discourse, her confusion mounted. What's happening? Does he want me to wait for him or not? She replayed his last words to her in her mind, searching for some indication of his intentions, but came up empty.

Does he want me to wait? Obviously not. But then why did he say I made him happy? What's the matter with him that he won't speak up? What's the matter with me that he won't speak up?

Her brain was in complete tumult. Nothing tonight--no, nothing this whole summer--had gone the way she planned it--or had even gone the way she deemed romance was supposed to go. She chose him over Frankie because she cared about him more--that was the right thing to do, wasn't it?--and she thought Albert cared about her in return. But her choice had brought her precious little joy and despairingly she wondered if she'd made a mistake.

Ella glanced up at the sky. It was dark purple now and the time was slipping away. But she dreaded sending him to University with their situation so ambiguous. Feeling quite desperate, she cast about in her mind for a reason to detain him,

Sighing deeply, she suggested, "Why don't we go back and sit on the veranda?" And she nudged him in that direction. As they headed back to the house, her mind raced, considering and discarding various schemes to steer the conversation into the direction she wanted. They were almost within the light when she spoke. "Did you hear Betty Allen and Arthur Todd are courting?" She was nearly sick with disgust at her own use of this clumsy feminine tactic, but it the best she could think of. At least, she consoled herself, she'd kept her voice calm.

But he didn't seem to see through it. "Is that right?" He answered politely.

Feeling vaguely rebuffed, but refusing to give up, she added, "Yes. And Frances Dickenson and Thomas Bolling announced their engagement."

"Hm..." Again, he sounded polite, but not very interested. They were on the veranda now, and he held a chair for her to be seated before he took the chair next to her.

Ella waited for him to say more, and then when he didn't, she said, "How romantic it all is, isn't it?"

"Romantic? Oh yes, of course it is."

Sighing again. They must really be in love."

"Hm..."

Then he was quiet again. Ella waited and waited, but he seemed content to just sit like a lump (so she thought), staring into the now blackened garden.

"You're really going to be gone a long time," Ella hinted, then laughed nervously before she fell into silence. She couldn't say another word--sick as she was at her own tricks, it was an even worse mortification to realize her hints and tricks hadn't worked at all. At that moment she wished he'd just go home and leave her to her humiliation. She'd give him one more minute, she decided, then plead a headache. Then he'd have to leave and she could escape to her room...

Then, like an afterthought, Albert said, "Oh, would you like it if we waited for each other? Just say the word and I won't see any other girl while I'm gone."

At that moment, Ella forgot her own lack of enthusiasm from earlier in the evening when she thought he was going to declare himself. Instead, she grew indignant. What right did he have to be so blasé? He shouldn't be offering her his loyalty in such an offhand manner--he should be begging for favors and she should be dispensing them like a queen. Full of injured vanity, she thought, Oh no, Mister Albert Whiting. You don't get Ella this easily. Would I like it? As if I would throw myself at a man! But she mastered her rage and tossed her head.

"Well now, I'm sure I don't see any reason for us to refuse all social contacts while you're so far away. After all, it will be four long months before you come back and all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, right? And besides, you may be invited to a dinner party and of course men and girls must be seated two by two like Noah's Ark. You wouldn't want to disappoint your poor future dinner partner, would you?"

"If you think it's best, Ella." And he lapsed into silence once more.

By this time Ella had a genuine headache. She remembered clearly the first day he called on her when his last term was over. He admitted he should have spoken about his feelings sooner. He confessed to poor judgment in leaving her alone and unattached. He gave every indication that he wanted her for himself alone. But now she realized that he not only never mentioned Frankie anymore, he also kept silent about the status of their own courtship.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples and proceeded to plead illness. Straightaway Albert left (without a kiss goodbye, although Ella would have slapped him if he'd tried), and she climbed upstairs to collapse onto her own bed. She didn't know what to think anymore. But she was slowly filling up with real resentment against Albert and his lack of forwardness. What had she done wrong? Why couldn't her courtship with Albert be simple and straightforward like, well--like Wade's and Marybeth's, for instance. To her mind, theirs was the perfect romance. He was not backward in showing his love for her, and she repaid his love in spades. Why couldn't Ella have that? Why were some people lucky enough to have uncomplicated romances and other people had to suffer for love?

This is kind of a transitional arc before I can move forward with the storyline—just needed to clear some things up.