"Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:
Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:
Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest,
And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!"
William S. Gilbert
Belle Watling sat down in a chair by the fire in her own large chamber, thinking of the man she had just taken to the room where he would be spending the night with his favourite girl.
She had her reasons for not blowing Ashley Wilkes' cover.
First of all, she was fond of him. A woman of her profession was naturally careful around men, ever wondering whom she could really trust. But she felt like one could trust this man, with his impeccable manners and the stiff politeness that seemed so out of place in this house. He did not strike her as dangerous or evil; quite the contrary: lost he seemed to her, shocked at himself for doing these things no gentleman of his breed should even consider, and yet unable to fight his most intimate needs.
Secondly, no matter how much she liked him, the thought that this was the man whom Scarlett O'Hara professed to be madly in love with gave her a wicked pleasure.
Rhett had told her numerous times that Scarlett loved Ashley Wilkes, or at least convinced herself that it was so, and, in an effort to be physically faithful to the man, had banished her own husband from her room and her bed in the coldest manner imaginable. Belle secretly delighted in knowing that she was the one aiding Ashley in acting out his carnal desires, something that, if she knew, would surely hurt and offend Scarlett. Yes, that woman's foolish fantasy of chastity and love would crumble into dust, if she only learned what her precious Ashley was up to.
Belle sighed, marvelling not for the first time at the vehemence of her hatred for Rhett's wife. It came from a dark and secret place in her heart, a place that had been yearning for years for the love a man who would never be hers, could never be hers. A man who was beyond perfect in her humble opinion, a man who could make her happy – but he didn't want her.
Oh, he'd had her body before, and she'd never done anything but rejoice in the touch of his talented hands. How any woman could voluntarily deny herself the pleasure of his lovemaking was beyond her. Scarlett was a fool.
Belle laughed mirthlessly to herself. Yes, she had been with Rhett in the most intimate way; he knew her body and she knew his...
But he did not love her.
Before Scarlett came into the picture, Belle had secretly hoped and prayed that she and Rhett would be together one day. She'd always known they had little in common and came from completely different beginnings, lived in different worlds. But there was a great understanding between them, a feeling of ease and companionship that can only exist between two who are akin in some way.
But, ever since he'd fallen in love with Scarlett, she had known that she would have to bury her hopes and face reality. She would never be with Rhett.
He loved Scarlett with a passion, and that was the reason why the galling feeling inside Belle's heart had never truly abated over the years. She begrudged Scarlett this deep love that seemed to survive against all odds, a love she herself craved above all things. She hated her for throwing away happiness carelessly and chasing after another man even as she held Rhett's heart in her palm. To Belle, Scarlett was the most selfish and cruel woman she had ever known, a woman who never did anything but hurt and reject the husband who adored and worshipped her, even if only in secret.
He'd told Belle that Scarlett had no idea how much he loved her, and that it was better this way because, if she knew, she'd use it against him and hold it like a whip over his head. This only made Belle hate the other woman more, for what female would so selfishly use the love of a man against him?
"You're both hard-headed business women, and you're both succesful," Rhett had told her once. "But you have a heart, Belle. And you are honest."
She snorted slightly, unwilling to believe that she had anything in common with that woman, and glad that Rhett seemed to think her more genuine than his selfish wife. In her opinion, Scarlett was a terrible person, and she would have loved to shout in her arrogant face that her honourable Ashley was a regular guest at her establishment.
But she could not do that.
The third and most important reason why she did not wish to give Mr. Wilkes away, was the fact that it would bitterly hurt a woman of whom Belle thought and spoke in nothing but the highest terms. Ever since Melanie Wilkes had accepted her money in front the hospital, years ago, Belle had liked her, and the feeling had only intensified over the years, especially in the aftermath of Mr. Wilkes and the other men's arrest for the Shantytown raid. Melanie had thanked her for her help, even promising to greet her in public - an offer Belle had turned down - whereas the other so-called ladies continued to cut and ignore her to this day although she'd saved all of their husbands' lives.
In Belle's opinion, Melanie Wilkes was goodness and kindness personified, and she could not stand the thought of seeing her hurt. She did not appreciate what Mr. Wilkes was doing, but she would never say a word to his wife.
Also, she had learned from Rhett – who seemed to know quite a lot about the Wilkes' private life – that the pair had not shared a bed for years, for fear that Melanie might get pregnant and die in the process. No matter how inappropriate Ashley's betrayal was, no matter the depth of his depravity, Belle could sort of understand what drove him to come here. Being a fleshly person herself, she could not imagine living without sex for years and years, the mind shrivelling even as the intimate parts of your body yearned to be touched. And for a man it was even harder to suppress the desire, the physical ache.
Yes, she could relate with his actions, even if she did not appreciate them. And she would be damned before she ever said a word to anyone.
The thought of what Rhett would think if he knew had crossed her mind many times. She had not told him, partly because it was her own damn business whom she admitted into her own house, and partly because she was afraid of what he would do. If he went wild and beat the man up, perhaps someone would learn of Ashley's presence in the house, and then the news would surely reach Mrs. Wilkes. Nothing ever stayed behind closed doors for long in this gossipy town.
And perhaps, if he knew about it, he'd tell his wife and the little fool would finally come to her senses and love him back. He would probably indulge Scarlett's every whim, and if she asked him to stay with her, Belle would never see him in this house again. She could not bare the thought of that happening.
No, for now, it was best to leave things as they were.
Belle sighed and reached for a glass of brandy standing on a small table next to her chair. She would serve no more customers tonight and she was tired. Tenderly, she stroked the rim of the glass, breathing in the harsh, bitter smell of the brown liquid, eagerly anticipating its familiar taste as it burned down her throat.
She raised the glass to her lips and was about to drink, when a loud cry from the hallway startled her.
Closing her eyes involuntarily, she let out a deep breath, recognizing the angry voice that shouted her name the moment it reached her ears.
It was Rhett Butler's, and he did not sound pleased at all.
He heard her voice, sharp, mocking, cutting into his soul like a knife through flesh.
"You're such a fool, Rhett Butler... Don't you know I'll always love another man?"
Damn her. He wanted to shout at her, berate her for her inability to see the truth, her ignorance and coldness. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came forth. He couldn't speak, so he simply stood there, transfixed, looking at her face.
"What? Did you really think you could win me over?"
I don't know what I was thinking, he thought as he gazed into those gorgeous eyes that held no love for him. His anger abated, leaving only frustration and a queer, unwelcome rush of longing. Even when she insulted him he couldn't shake off his need for her. God, he was pathetic.
Sensing his weakness, she laughed jeeringly at him. He couldn't stand it, but for some reason he couldn't walk away either. Hell, he could never walk away for long from this amazing woman.
There was something akin to idolatry in his eyes, but she didn't care. Her brows flew swiftly together in a scowl, the green feline eyes burning with hatred.
"I hate you, I'll hate you till my dying day..."
He groaned as he awoke from his drunken slumber, Scarlett's nightmarish voice still echoing in his muddled brain.
She always did this, haunting him even in his sleep. These days he envied those who dreamt of peace and quiet, of cherished memories. Sweet dreams must be a beautiful thing - but his dreams were of different kind.
Lifting his head and taking in his surroundings, Rhett let out a deep sigh.
He was lying on a great bed in a large and beautifully designed chamber everyone referred to as "his room". Indeed, this was where he spent most of his nights at the "Girl for all Seasons", after hours of drinking and gambling in the bar downstairs. It was his own personal refuge, a room furnitured and accessorized according to his personal tastes. The walls were of a dark cream color, the large windows draped with long elegant curtains of an airy quality. On the carpeted floor, heavy furniture had been arranged: two big armchairs, a setee, a mahagony table, a cabinet filled with the finest liquors available. Several lamps and a tasteful chandelier radiated a warm light that usually comforted him, but right now it seemed to be burning into his eyeballs like fire. He wanted darkness.
With an effort he got up from the bed and slowly dragged himself to the table. Upon it stood a whisky bottle like a buoy in a sea of scattered glasses, corks, and cigar butts. Despite his splitting headache, he grabbed one of the glasses and poured himself a drink before sinking into one of the cushioned armchairs. The alcohol running soothingly down his throat, he lifted his tired eyes to the clock on the wall which revealed to him that it was long past midnight. He must have had a little too much and passed out on the bed a few hours ago. This was nothing new. In fact, it was as trivial as one's morning toilet.
He laughed mirthlessly to himself and knocked back the rest of his drink. Of the night he did not recall much, but it was not necessary. It was always the same these days.
When Bonnie was savely in bed, he would leave that horror of a house on Peachtree Street and flee to this room, his sanctuary. For a sanctuary it was: here he'd slept many nights already, ever since Belle had opened up her establishment, financed by Rhett's own ill-gotten gains. Nothing was holy here, or mandatory, and he enjoyed that immensely. He could drink like a fish, bed a dozen whores, and no one would even look twice. After all, most people who came to Belle's did not have an ounce of honour left in their bodies.
He laughed again, and it sounded hollow to his ears.
Honour, he mused.
He had no honour, at least not the kind of honour other men strived for. True, since Bonnie's birth he had kept up a pretence of decency, going to the bank most days of the week and meeting with members of the Old Guard to discuss politics and other affairs that were trivial to him, but important to them. And yet, deep down he was not, had never been, and would never be a conformable member of society, cherishing the rules other people so dilegently adhered to. In fact, his false modesty these days, meaning the show he put on during the day, was nothing but a farce, although he could not deny that respectability, or at least a resemblance of it, came with a strange feeling of ease. He wanted to secure Bonnie's future, make up for the mistakes Scarlett had made.
Bonnie. There was nothing he would not do for his little princess.
The thought of her made him smile, unsuitable though it was to think of such a pure and innocent soul in a place like this. Even in his drunken state, he felt happiness momentarily overwhelm him as he envisioned her before his mind's eye: rosebud mouth, dark shiny locks, so adorable in her chubbiness, so entirely sure of herself. His darling little girl. Without her there would be no light, no hope in his life that had been spiralling downwards ever since... Well, since when, exactly?
Rhett snorted. As if you didn't know.
He gulped down another drink and licked his parched lips. There was a reason why he was here, night after night, drinking himself into oblivion and bedding whores who brought him physical relief but could never ease the pain inside him.
Because she didn't want him.
She had banished him from her room, foolishly persuading herself that she needed to be faithful to her precious Ashley, and he hated her for it. Hated her because she did not need him as he needed her, want him as he wanted her. Hated her for not loving him as loved her - ardently, completely. And, in the aftermath of her rejection, he had found comfort elsewhere - or so he had supposed it to be.
For he was beginning to realise that there was no true comfort here, no matter what he did. Belle was a trusted friend and did what she could to cheer him up. The company in the bar and at the parties upstairs was good, the girls were pleasant. But it was not enough. Nothing was ever enough to block out the image of her.
Good God, man, listen to yourself, he thought, knocking over a glass as he reached for the decanter once more. He sounded like a damned sissy.
Wanting a smoke, he searched the table for his cigar case, but could not find it. He wondered senselessly at the sea of cigar butts on the table, and how they came there if he hadn't brought the case with him to the room. He searched his brain for memories of the evening and night. Finally, he remembered a few fragments.
They'd played cards downstairs, himself and a couple of other men, mostly Yankees. He recalled talking to Hank, a high-ranking official with a boisterous laugh.
He had already parted the man from a good deal of cash, when Hank finally gave in, letting out a guffaw and expressing the desire to disappear to the upper floor with his girl this very instant. In his memory, Rhett saw himself taking a few cigars from his case before handing it over to the man for no apparent reason.
"Here, Hank, my lad," he heard himself slur, "take this. A fine young officer like you should never be without some good old Havana cigars!"
He thrust it into his chubby hand. The man protested half-heartedly, making Rhett grin.
"Take it, I say..."
The rest of the scene was blurred, but, as far as he remembered, Hank had eventually accepted the case and slapped his shoulder before wandering off with a girl named Polly in his arm. Rhett had no idea why he'd given the cigar case to him, but he had had so many drinks by then that he'd probably not been thinking straight anymore.
He sighed, annoyed at himself. He needed a smoke badly, needed the familiar taste and smell to soothe his nerves. There was no other way but to find Hank and extract the precious commodity from him.
He struggled to his feet, swaying a little as he did so, and grabbed the table for support. His head was throbbing with pain, his eyes were sore and his hands feeble, but he did not give a damn. He almost welcomed it. It set his mind strangely at ease to know that although his heart and soul rebelled against him, he could do with his body as he pleased. And if he ruined it in the process, then so be it. After all, what's in a body? He remembered telling Scarlett that bodies were not worth much, especially women's bodies...
He was a fucking bastard.
Turning away from the table, he made his way to the door. He was not staggering, for even in this muddled state of drunkenness he somehow managed to control his limbs and move steadily, albeit not as gracefully as usual. He was an expert at it, and few people had ever seen him lose this amazing control he seemed to have over his body even when completely intoxicated.
For all that he was sporting a headache, Rhett did not feel like lying down anytime soon, although he was weary of the long night and would have liked to rest. But, since he knew that sleep would elude him as it did so often these days, he was determined to find Hank and enjoy a cigar in peace before his treacherous mind would inevitably be drawn back to Scarlett. And he did not want to think of her right now, not yet.
He opened the door that led into the long, dimly lit hallway on the house's second floor. He briefly looked at the door to Belle's room, which was conveniently situated across from his own, but he didn't want to bother her with his concerns right now. She was probably enjoying her nightcap after a strenuous day and deserved to be left alone for a few precious hours.
The usual blend of noises greeted him as he took in his surroundings. A girl gave a shriek in one of the rooms down the hall, a man groaned with pleasure in another. Rhett was pondering the question where to start looking for Hank, when a door not far away opened with a crunch and someone tumbled drunkenly out of a room. The man halted for a moment, looking around with glazed eyes, and Rhett noticed with some surprise that it was the one he was looking for.
"Butler, awl' chap!" Hank exclaimed as he recognized him, coming closer on unsteady feet. "How ah ya?" He added in his peculiar Boston brogue.
"Hank," Rhett nodded good-naturedly, amused at the man's condition. "This is a lucky coincidence. I was just looking for you."
"Doan go tryin' to chat me up, boyo," Hank grinned. "I've had enough of lovin' ova theah just now..." He trailed off, grinning wolfishly.
"Good one?" Rhett quipped.
"Ya huh! Wicked good," Hank declared, seemingly satisfied with himself and the world. "Anyway... what did ya want from me?"
"I'm missing my cigar case, the one I gave you downstairs. Remember?"
"Cigar case..." Hank mumbled, searching his head for answers. "Right! The gold one."
"Exactly. Listen, Hank, I don't have all day," Rhett threw in. He needed a smoke. Now. "Where is it?"
"Phew... I think I gave it to Polly jus' now," Hank slurred.
"And where is Polly?" Rhett asked. He knew the girl well; she was Hank's favorite and Rhett was on good terms with her too... so to speak.
"Darn, full o' questions today, Butler, huh? Well, she left like ten minutes oah so befoah I came outta theah. Went to the last room on the left, with that new cock of hers," he added sourly, as if this last bit was not to his liking at all.
"A new one?" Rhett asked indifferently.
"Well, not that new, I'm guessin'," Hank reckoned. "Never really seen the fellow, guess he comes through the backdoor."
"I see," Rhett consented, eager to get his cigars. "Last room on the left, you said?"
"That's right," Hank nodded, waving his hand in the general direction of the door. "I think the fellow ain't theah yet, so ya can go in."
"Thank you, Hank. I'll see you." He slapped the man's shoulder, laughing when the officer stumbled backwards, and walked past him.
"Count on me," Hank babbled, and looking back over his shoulder Rhett could see him slowly retreating down the staircase that lead to the ground floor.
Still grinning, Rhett walked quietly down the dimly lit hallway until he had nearly reached the last room on the left side. The door stood slightly ajar; Polly had probably forgotten to close it behind herself.
He listened for a moment but could not hear anything suspicious. The girl seemed to be fumbling in a drawer, perhaps looking for a match, for the room was dark; no light could be seen through the crack of the door.
Rhett was about to call Polly's name, when he suddenly had an idea. It was nothing short of ridiculous, but he was drunk and didn't care. Why not get some fun out of this and surprise her? She was a playful one, always up for a joke. She'd find this amusing. He laughed inwardly. She was the kind of girl who actually had a sense of humour about such things. Unlike certain others, he thought wrily.
Carefully, he stepped forward, as still as a panther in his approach. He laid his hand upon the door, and then, suddenly, swiftly, threw it open just as Polly managed to light a giant wax candle on her drawer, and the room was bathed in a reddishly bright light.
"Boooo!" Rhett shouted foolishly, breaking out into loud laughter as she shrieked and jumped with fright.
Then he noticed that she was not alone.
His wide grin froze the instant he saw the person standing next to the great bed over which the stark naked Polly was sprawled.
The blond man stood transfixed, his arms dangling numbly. His pants lay in a heap at his feet, leaving him in nothing but his shirt and drawers. There was an expression of absolute and utter horror on his face as he stared at Rhett with wide, mortified eyes, as if he would gladly have died on the spot.
For a brief moment, Rhett's shock equalled his and he blinked as if to reassure himself that he was not going insane. Then, as he took in the scene before him, Polly's embarrassed but somewhat bemused countenance, and the gentleman in dishabille, his face contorted and his body shook as if seized with cramps.
He started to laugh hysterically, grabbing the door handle for support.
It was Ashley.
There, caught with his pants down, next to the bed of a whore, stood Mr. Ashley Wilkes, the self-proclaimed embodiment of honour itself. And what a sight it was!
Amidst his laughter, Rhett looked up at the man to make sure that it was real, and the absurdity of the situation was not lost on him. Here he was, the reprobate, catching the honourable Mr. Wilkes as he was getting ready to bed a whore. Wilkes, the goddamn pussy Scarlett claimed to love, for whose love and promise of chastity she had denied him, Rhett, access to her bed and her body. The man who stood between him and everything.
It was too comical.
Finally, when the storm of his crazed laughter had abated, Rhett looked Ashley straight in the eye, and, seeing the fear in them, clicked his tongue in mock astonishment.
"My, my, what do we have here?" He drawled jeeringly, taking a step forward. "The honourable Mr. Wilkes, if I'm not mistaken..." He trailed off, looking pointedly at the man's exposed drawers.
Ashley's face turned bright-red. "I - "
"Rhett, please," Polly threw in, hastily throwing a wrapper around her shoulders. "It's not - "
Rhett silenced her with a wave of his hand, his eyes suddenly dark, dangerous.
There was something in their depths that both scared Ashley and riled him up, but he did not know what to say. This was the most humiliating moment in his entire life, and he was mortified, too stunned to speak. But, what was he to say anyway? Should he say anything? He felt helpless and exposed, literarily speaking. This must be a nightmare - he could not really be in this room, caught in the act by none other than that fiend, Rhett Butler.
He closed his eyes involuntarily, willing it all to be over, willing himself away... but, of course, Butler had other plans.
Rhett snorted in disgust at Ashley's fright. The man was obviously scared shitless, or at least too daft to come up with anything to say. How could Scarlett possibly love this poor excuse for a man? He didn't get it, would never get it, but the thought of Scarlett brought in its wake a sudden pang of mixed emotions: jealousy, hurt pride, and anger, the latter being prominent as he looked at Ashley.
"I'm not quite sure if I get this right," Rhett began, an edge to his voice. "You're the new one, or should I say "the new cock", as my friend Hank put it?" He asked with fake innocence, as if this was a regular question. A perverse pleasure stirred in him as Ashley's face twitched as if stung, his nostrils flaring indignantly at the vulgar title bestowed on him.
With a supreme effort, Ashley checked himself, curbing the wrath bubbling up inside him. He bent down swiftly and pulled up his pants, trying to ignore Butler's sneering glare.
"Sir," he said finally, "who are you to judge me?" He attempted a retort, finding that Butler had no right to hold this against him, being himself the greatest whoremonger imaginable. To his surprise, Rhett just laughed.
"That's the pot calling the kettle back, Wilkes," he jibed. "And may I remind you that, until Miss Watling has paid off her debts, I own this establishment. So you see," he grinned slightly, "you're finding yourself on my premises right now."
Butler's thick bass thundered through the room and into his ears, and Ashley did not know what to say.
It was true.
Technically, this was Rhett Butler's house. He had been hoping that the day of his unmasking would never come, that he'd never bump into this man here. He realized now that this encounter had been inevitable all along, that one day it would have happened anyway. The magnitude of his folly struck him, and he felt supid. How on earth had he convinced himself that his shameful conduct would go unnoticed?
He looked up at Rhett, and before the barely conceiled hatred in his dark impenetrable eyes, he recoiled. He thought oddly that they had never liked each other, not before the War, and not after it, and they never would. He had always known that they shared certain beliefs and ideals, were even alike in many ways. Both reared to be gentlemen, they had chosen to take different paths along the course of their lives, and, to his shame, Ashley had to admit to himself that Butler had made a lot more of it.
And here they were now, in this ridiculous situation, and Ashley could feel Rhett's rage increase with every passing minute. He knew the man hated him, not only for presenting a breed of man he despised - the dreamy, reluctant sort - but mainly because of Scarlett. It was almost as if she were present in the room, standing between them like some invisible wall. He knew Butler loved her, and somehow it had always pleased him to know that she did not return the feeling, instead seeking comfort elsewhere. With him. Yes, it had strangely touched him to know that she worshipped him so, and, selfishly, cruelly, he had used her, all these years, relying on her strength, afraid of what would happen to him if he lost her.
In any other situation prior to this night, he would have rejoiced at seeing the jealousy and anger in this conceited man's eyes, but somehow he did not feel anything of the sort right now. There was something else in Rhett's gaze as they faced each other, doubtful, sizing each other up. There was something in those coal-black orbs that disturbed Ashley and stirred in him a myriad of emotions, feelings that had been plaguing him for so long, ever since he'd first set foot into this house.
First, defiance. Then, as the magnitute of his transgression washed over him once more, there was guilt. Guilt and shame.
Ashley slumped his shoulders as if admitting defeat. He had nothing else to say. He was no better than Rhett, in fact, he was even worse. A hypocrite. A pretender. Worst of all, he was as much of an adulterer as Rhett. Every minute spent in this room, this house, disgraced Melanie's love. He had to get out of here.
"I - " He stopped. Was he really going to humiliate himself? But there was no other way, he deserved nothing else. And if Butler chose to beat the living daylights out of him, then so be it. "There's nothing I can say in my defense. I know I'm in no position to ask this of you, but... but perhaps you could act discreetly around my wife. It would pain her too much to know what I've done." The thought of what Melanie would say killed him. Somehow it did not matter so much what Scarlett would think, or anyone else for that matter... but Melly, only Melly...
"I see," Rhett said shortly. He would never wish to hurt Melanie Wilkes on purpose, but he would be damned before he let Ashley get out of here without taking advantage of the situation. He looked at Ashley and felt the irresistible urge to punch the man and walk out. But he restrained himself.
Perhaps there was more to be gained from this peculiar incident...
"I won't say a word to her - for Mrs. Wilkes' sake," Rhett said bluntly, "but I may not be so discreet around others." He smiled as Ashley blanched.
"What do you mean?" Ashley squeezed out. Was the man planning to give him away and destroy him utterly? His imagination went wild with images of social isolation, people cutting him as he went to town, his friends deserting him, hating him for his actions...
Rhett raised his brows as if reading his thoughts. "Don't wet your pants, man," he remarked. "I'm not going to walk around spreading your little secret, though perhaps the Old Guard may find it entertaining. Don't you think?" He laughed at his own joke.
"No," he continued with an evil glint in his eyes, "I don't think I'll do that. Not my style."
Ashley frowned at the last bit, annoyed at the man's arrogance but still grateful for his promise of discretion. But, if he was not going to give him away, what did he want?
Finally, Rhett said slowly, "I want you to tell Scarlett."
Tell Scarlett.
Of course.
Ashley averted his gaze. He tried to come to terms with it, but was unable to reconcile with the idea of having to tell her, of having to destroy the beautiful picture she had created of him in her mind.
This might cost him her love.
If she learned what he had done, she would come to hate him for it. She would hate him with the same fiery intensity that fuelled her proclamations of love. Could he stand living without that love, a love he could never truly return but that had given him so much strength, the strength to go on? All these years he had leaned on her, finding comfort in her devotion and unbreakable loyalty. Could he let her go, as he knew he must?
He knew she did not belong to him, would never belong to him, just as his true heart and soul could never be hers. He knew, also, what Rhett had in mind. For a brief moment, it was to him as if he knew the man's torment: to live with someone so unattainable, to love a woman who was out of his reach because of her alleged love for another man. If this obstacle was removed, then perhaps there would be a chance for Rhett and Scarlett.
Rhett and Scarlett.
He did not like the idea of her who was so fine and strong and beautiful, for all her spirited ways, being in love with this reprobate. He did not like it one bit.
But perhaps it was time for him to come to terms with his own feelings. He did not love Scarlett. Not the way she deserved to be loved. And as for her strength... he had been selfish for so long, using her and her feisty spirit and courage. She possessed all the strong qualities he lacked, and therefore he had clung to her like a child to its protector in a mad world. But now... the War was over. And although he would never be able to truly accept the way life was now - so grim, so charmless - it was not all wrong. There was his family. Beau, his son. Melanie, his wife who deserved nothing but his complete and utter love, something he had never given her because, somehow, Scarlett had always stood in the way.
Maybe it was time to let go...
He looked up at Rhett and it was to him as if for a fleeting second, they understood the other's motives, needs, desires. But as quickly as it came the moment was gone, and Ashley's shoulders slumped once more in a gesture of despondence. He had no choice but to accept Rhett's ultimatum, or his reputation would be ruined. Everything would go downhill. And, strangely, he was not willing to sacrifice what he had for Scarlett. This new knowledge startled him, but he refused to let it show.
"Well?" Rhett pressed. "You have a choice." A malicious smile spread over his face. "Tell her, and you can get out of this whole mess with your honour intact." He spat the word like a curse.
Ashley's hatred was aroused anew. Butler would always remain the selfish bastard he was.
"I accept," he said finally through gritted teeth. "May I please go now?" He meant to say it in a sneering manner, but it sounded rather meek.
"The sooner the better," Rhett drawled, seemingly pleased with the outcome of their "conversation".
Polly, who had been silent the entire time, fascinated by the two men's interaction, spoke up. "Lemme take you to the backdoor, Mr. Wilkes," she offered, but Rhett shook his head.
"Ah, no, Polly, don't bother yourself," he said kindly, way too kindly. "Let the mistress of the house escort the gentleman outside."
Ashley gave him a look but kept his mouth shut. He was tired, so very tired of it all. He watched motionlessly as Butler stepped into the hall and shouted Belle's name. A minute later, she appeared in the doorway, breathless, and Ashley noticed how she tried in vain to ignore Butler's angry stare. He realized that she had probably never told Rhett about Ashley's nightly ventures, doubtlessly for some mysterious reason of her own.
"Belle, my dear," Rhett almost purred, his voice softened by false politeness, "would you be so kind as to show Mr. Wilkes to the door?" It was more of a command than a question.
"Certainly," Belle said evenly, although inside she was shaking. Rhett hated treachery, and she had concealed Mr. Wilkes' conduct from him. He wouldn't hold it against her, would he? She needed him.
"Mr. Wilkes?" She motioned for him to come with her.
Ashley, glad to be going, gave Rhett a curt nod, their eyes meeting briefly before he turned away and followed Belle.
"And Wilkes," Rhett called out. Ashley looked back over his shoulder.
"I never want to see you in here again."
Unable to think straight, Ashley nodded resignedly. He gave Polly a smile, a small thank-you for the time she'd bestowed on him. He was sure she'd had much better experiences. And then, without looking back again, he walked out of the room behind Belle, down the hall and the great staircase, through a small passage disguised as a junk room, and then, finally, through the door leading out to the railroad tracks. No one had seen them. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Good-by Miss Watling," he said politely, his good manners never forsaking him.
"Mr. Wilkes," she replied, and, without much further ado, shut the door in his face.
It seemed to Ashley as if, with that wooden door, a chapter of his own life had been closed.
Rhett was in no mood to speak with Belle, and she seemed relieved enough when he told her he wanted to be alone. He'd deal with her later.
Locked in his room, he sank into a chair and finally smoked that cigar he'd needed so badly, having reclaimed the case from Polly after Ashley's departure.
Soon he was shrouded in smoke, contemplating what had just transpired.
In a way, it was beyond ridiculous. He still found it extremely amusing to have discovered Ashley in Belle's house of all places. The little gentleman, who, it seemed, was not so honourable after all.
He couldn't care less what that wimp did with his private parts - he could fuck himself senseless for all he cared. Who was he to judge another man for performing such actions? What did rail him up though, was Ashley's mortification, his weak attempts at defense. Why could he not stand his ground? It had been pitiful to watch him stutter and falter, unable to speak up for himself. For the hundredth time he wondered how Scarlett could love this man so much, or at least persuade herself that she did. Vain and selfish a man as he was, he had never gotten used to the fact that she would prefer Ashley to him.
It stung.
Hadn't he been there for her when she needed him? Had he not given her everything? But never your true heart, a treacherous voice in his head answered. You've never been honest with her. Always on your guard, resenting her for not loving you. You've never opened up to her.
Well, he couldn't have done that, could he? Ashley had always been in the way. Ashley. The name drove him crazy. With a growl, he hurled the rest of his cigar into the fireplace and got up from his chair. Pacing the room, he tried to think straight.
In the end he'd gotten Ashley where he wanted to have him. The man would have to tell Scarlett of his less than honourable activities, and if all went well, then perhaps she would finally open her eyes and see. Perhaps she would finally realize that her love for Ashley was nothing but an illusion, a foolish dream that could never make her happy - that there was only one man who could make her happy. It was a fleeting hope, but it was all he had, and so he clung to it as a leave clings to a tree before the storm blows through.
He had to believe that he could still make her love him. If only Ashley were out of the way, then he would surely find a way. If Scarlett only cared, he would redouble his efforts to be kind to her, would endeavour to curb his jealously and resentment.
All he knew was that he loved her and wanted to be with her, no matter what.
Yes, he concluded, regaining faith. He had to believe that it was possible.
Maybe there was still a chance for him to win Scarlett's elusive heart.
Maybe all wasn't lost.
Ok guys, it's been ages since I posted the first chapter, and until recently I wasn't so sure if I'd ever find the time and inspiration to continue. But then I re-read the reviews I got for the first installment, which were all positive, and decided to give it another go. I've revised the first chapter and I'm much more satisfied with it now than I was before.
One thing - I'm not so sure about Hank's Boston accent but, you see, I'm not from the States and don't know much about the different accents over there... I just searched online for some clues as to how people from the Boston area might talk, so please bear with me, lol.
Oh, and last but not least, I think there's another writer out there with a similar username (greetings to you should you be reading this). Just to let you guys know, lest you confuse us.
Be well!