A crease appeared on her forehead as she walked into the sick room, followed by a frown as she took in the sight before her. No wonder Melanie had looked at her so guiltily! The man had Wade seated on his lap, and while she could not see his rugged face, she could see her child's timid smile, clearly fascinated with the man who boasted of grand adventures, which were greatly embellished with events Scarlett didn't think possible. Pirate familial relations, sailing through warships, and excursions in Havana, London, and Paris—the man had quite a ridiculous imagination.
"If you are able to entertain a child, I assume you are now capable of making yourself useful?"
"Wade is hardly a difficult child to entertain, and Mrs. Wilkes insisted I rested more."
"So, you talked to Melly," she grumbled, remembering the kind words she had to say towards the man, unfailingly seeing the best in him, even though the sentiment seemed gravely displaced to Scarlett.
"Why Scarlett, he must have done it to protect himself, yesterday he told me he fought on our side!" she had said, with unsettling admiration—an admiration that had somehow touched her son. For some reason, she did not accept the simple explanation that would ease her conscience of letting him stay, because the man seemed a scoundrel, for while he was all smiles, acted with the utmost politeness, and could be outrageously charming, she felt that he hardly meant any of it.
"Yes, and she is certainly the more amiable of you two."
Her mouth agape, she sputtered, "You—You are rude!"
He laughed, which passed on to a delightful Wade, unaware of the discourse.
"Was I the one forcing injured men out of bed to do their bidding?"
"Bidding!" she exclaimed. "You were the one who offered the proposition, I merely agreed to your terms. Last time I checked, you are a willing participant."
An amused smile crossed his face and he glanced up at her, wondering if he had ever encountered such a shade of green in his life.
"Ah, you've got me there. But surely a few days more rest would do no harm?"
"A few days makes a great deal of difference when you have a whole household to feed and fields of cotton to pick."
He let out a theatrical sigh. "How the Southland has fallen—its women reduced to picking cotton."
"Yes," she ground her teeth, "because you men haven't got anything more important to do, so you drag us down with you."
"Where is your sense of patriotism?" he asked, with mock offense.
"What use is that when me and my kin are starving and penniless?"
"I was right to assume that you had sense. I suppose these are the truest words I've heard in weeks."
She frowned. This man made absolutely no sense.
"Don't change the subject. I want you to—"
"Yes, I know," he interrupted, chuckling. "I will join you tomorrow."
Every head in the O'Hara household whipped to the entranceway of the kitchen as the reclusive patient walked in, and while suspicious, were eager to know the mystery behind the man. Scarlett's secrecy and Melanie's words of praise had only stoked the flame, though such things hardly prepared them for the actual subject of their curiosity.
Careen and Suellen were taken aback by how much vigor the man seemed to possess, without the weariness or trauma that struck every other soldier housed under their roof. He seemed a man with the energy of the good days, yet his roguish face, unlike any gentleman they have seen, had warned them of his power.
"Oh, do sit, Captain Butler," Melanie insisted, with a kind smile. Scarlett frowned, wondering what else Melly learned of the man without telling her.
"Captain?" she asked, jeeringly.
"Yes. I ran the blockade early in the war. Mrs. Wilkes informed me you lived in Atlanta briefly. It is likely my stock had been supplied there."
"How noble of you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton," he laughed. "Your compliment rings with the truest sincerity."
Scarlett merely glared and ate the meager helpings off her plate. She observed his countenance maliciously, waiting for his features to contort with displeasure, or his nose to turn up at the scarcity of food–anything to justify her dislike for this odious-seeming man. Much to her dismay, his face offered nothing of what he thought and he ate with an exaggerated courteousness, bringing to the table a liveliness it had severely lacked for the previous months. God's nightgown, the man even managed a small smile out of Careen!
"Where do you come from, Captain Butler?" Suellen asked primly.
He smiled as if he knew something of great importance. "I'm from Charleston, though my businesses demand relentless travel so I don't often visit."
"What kind of business?" she asked bluntly, her eyes gleaming at the prospect of money.
"A variety, Mrs. Hamilton."
"Do you invest in cotton by any chance?"
He laughed. "Fie, dear lady, is it your cotton that requires investing?"
The table grew gravely tense with the talk of business and finances for they knew of Scarlett's vehement nature regarding such subjects. And how the man responded so blithely—it was sure to unnerve her!
"Do you or do you not?"
"I used to, right before the war. But even if I did, I'm afraid that currently, my means of obtaining my money are very slim."
"This money you speak of—do you have a lot?"
"What a question, Mrs. Hamilton!"
"I'd like an answer," she replied gruffly, and rather than the horrified look appropriate for her faux pas, her bullheadedness seemed to amuse him in some perverse way.
"I do," it was not a brag, but merely stating a fact. He wasn't so glib either, as if he knew even while ill-mannered that he was, mocking their poverty would be a jab too far.
Everyone looked on frightfully at her eerily blank face, awaiting her to scold the crude guest, yet she simply rose and headed towards the exit.
"We have work to do."
Reluctantly, she must admit, he was a good worker. He spoke little, much to her surprise, and did more labor than the entire household put together, which was slightly less shocking for his body was built, unlike the lanky gentlemen of her acquaintance. This was much more agreeable company to be with though despite his effort and efficiency, she still threw herself into the grueling work for she could not allow his temporary presence to foster a habit of laxness. The war had only heightened her distrust of the world and the only person that proved to be reliable was herself.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him approach with a sack full of cotton which he laid down next to her and wiped his brow. If he was tired, it did not seem like it, and rather it was as if the work invigorated him.
"I saw that the fence by the shed needed repairing. Is there an axe laying around somewhere?"
She hid her surprise poorly for he chuckled at her awed expression.
"In the shed…" she began, her voice trailing off as, without warning, he decided at that moment to rid himself of his shirt.
Her eyes shifted away with frantic irritation, her ingrained modesty battling precariously with her own understanding of toiling away in Georgian heat. Still, she complained:
"God's nightgown, must you do that now?"
He took a mocking glance at her scandalously unbuttoned top and laughed.
"We're at war, Mrs. Hamilton. Surely my state of undress is the least of your worries?"
"You should be worried about how long I am able to endure your nonsense before I am inclined to shoot you."
"Now, now we should at least make it fair and duel it out like a real gentleman. Then, I shall not be worried at all for I can shoot a dime from yards away."
"A gentleman would not talk to me in this way. Now leave me be, you've bothered me long enough."
She huffed as she heard him walk away, though could not resist a fleeting glance before her shame muddled her admiration.
A week into their little routine, the man committed his first major offense–offering a glimpse of the temper that had warded off the others from ever challenging her authority. She had only hoped it would discourage him as well.
"Where in the world are my sisters?" she asked him, frowning. "They were meant to be here ages ago."
"I told them they could rest for today," he paused, reading her reaction which was, as expected, not very enthused. "Surely I could do more work than all of them combined."
His statement only enraged her further for she had that exact same thought earlier.
"We cannot afford their leisure! How are we going to get Tara back to normal if they do nothing but sit pretty all day?"
He frowned and turned to observe the once grand home. A shell of its former self and its restoration–an impossible task with her meager finances.
"Mrs. Hamilton, I mean no harm when I say that it will be near impossible to achieve that goal."
"If you think that, I'd thank you to return to wherever you came from. You, more than anyone here, should know the value of money. And I will do it, just you watch. I didn't do all I'd done for Tara just to watch it fall into ruin. I'll make so much money that my family will never have to starve again, and as soon as I get to it, Tara will run even better than it did before the war."
Rhett stared wordlessly for a moment, appraising her determined face–his following sigh holding a faint breath of affection.
Scarlett was midway through her drink when Rhett walked in unannounced, his eyebrow raised at the compromising scene. Her stare was unamused and challenged him to comment, to which he was civil enough to oblige.
"Wade wishes for your company."
She scowled. "I'm busy, I do not have time to entertain him. Tell him that he can play with his Aunt Melly."
"Mrs. Wilkes is no replacement for his mother."
Her blood boiled at the hint of accusation in his voice and she set the glass back on the table, lest she threw it at him in anger.
"You don't think I know that? If I don't work, how else will he eat?"
There was a hesitant manner in his demeanor, so obviously induced by the rags worn by the woman before him, the weathering walls, the precariousness of his place within the household, but so driven by some force unknown to her, he admonished:
"That may be the case, but Wade is only a child. You don't have an eternity to win the boy over until he grows up and its too late. And they grow up quickly."
"You sound like you have experience."
His face darkened. "Hardly."
"Then, who are you to question how I raise my child?"
For the first time, he seemed exhausted. Opening his mouth to speak, he stopped when the little boy in question came up to pull shyly on his pant leg.
"Uncle Rhett?"
Before she could even begin to feel astounded by the intimate address of this elusive man, a sly smile broke out on Captain Butler's face. Suddenly, the man waltzed into the room, with the boy (who was so often meek and soft-spoken) laughing loudly in his arms. The sound was so displaced in her realm, which had been so focused on survival, that a frown was her immediate response, for how could anyone laugh in their circumstance? She found it unsettling the way this man brazenly disrupted their life since his arrival, from showing up in the enemy's cloth to somehow wrapping every member of Tara around his finger, he was, much to her dismay, becoming a necessary cog in the machine–second to only her. This reliance on such an untrustworthy individual upset her, worsened by the sight of her son's liveliness that would never be conceived had she been the one holding him.
"I am working. You two will only distract me."
"You hear that Wade? That means we need to be quiet…" She could not near the subsequent words.
Realizing this man would not budge, she huffed and turned back to her work, though the quiet murmuring of his voice infused a tenseness within her that refused to leave. Her ears took on an irritating sensitivity that reacted poorly to every quiet giggle or sound of amusement that came from the corner. A small part of her felt envious for she never had the luxury of laughter amidst her constant labor (the labor in which their presence was actively impeding). Though the two never saw her silent glares, so absorbed in their own world which she refused to admit she wanted any part in.
A groan escaped her lips and he looked up from his storytelling. "Need any help?"
"No," came her immediate response, which garnered a laugh from him. Her head dipped quickly back to the papers and she muffled another frustrated noise as she further studied it.
"Are you sure?"
A grunt was her reply. Not long after, she saw him stand and relished in the prospect of his departure–giving up his silly plan of bothering her in the guise of concern for Wade's wellbeing. Instead, she became even more baffled, as he had the audacity to pull up a chair (whose delicate frame surprisingly held his weight) and sat directly across from her, glancing at the papers sprawled upon the desk.
"We're running out of food," he commented.
She snapped at him. "No thanks to you."
"I can go hunting tomorrow. See if I can catch anything."
One part of her wanted to deny his help out of pure annoyance, though the greater half of her recognized the offer and its worth and she bit her tongue.
"You may do that, though I don't know what you'll find if you find anything at all."
"Now, I believe the correct words are 'Thank you, Captain Butler. I appreciate your offer.'"
She said nothing and returned to reading until his voice interrupted the silence once again.
"I can begin repairing the roof next week, I saw how shabby it was from the outside."
His sudden helpfulness betrayed the illogical desire to remain irritated with him and she looked at him, eyes full of distrust.
"Why are you doing this?"
It was an honest question and he gave her a blank stare.
"It is part of the transaction, was it not? My assistance for your shelter."
Offhandedly, he added:
"And how else are you meant to restore Tara?"
She didn't think he would remember that. "I didn't take you for a sentimentalist."
"Not at all. Like you, I'm driven by money. Sentiment has no place in that sort of business."
As he finished speaking, Wade stretched out his arms and nudged him in the chin, resulting in a faint grunt escaping his mouth. Involuntarily, the corners of her lips lifted up ever so slightly and he raised a brow.
He had never seen her smile before.
He knew it was the first in many months.