Thanks for your thoughts. Helen, I know this isn't quite the Rhett-Scarlett interaction you had hoped for. Sorry. Hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Edit to add: you'all are used to me by now, right? Things are rarely as obvious as they appear at first glance. I will explain in the next chapter. Which will incidentally take place in Saint Gervais les Bains. July 12th of 1892.

Edit edit: sorry if my obfuscating ways are once more too obscure. Rhett here is supposed to be an idiot, but not a cheating idiot. I've done that storyline, and to do it again would be ...boring. :) Didn't mean to ruin anyone's sleep. I remember how gutted I was when Dixie killed Rhett in "Mistress." Helen, there's misconstruction and ...misrepresentation.

No one wants to take me up on my bait? Saint Gervais in 1892? Mont Blanc? Lots of water? No one?

Athens, June 23rd, 1892

Charlotte was slowly making her way down a small side street towards the town center of Athens. Her blonde hair, lightened by the warm Mediterranean sun, curled about her angular face. She ambled slowly, having no particular destination in mind, stopping at times to take in a particularly colorful shop-window, or one of the many delightful stone carvings that were scattered about the city. There were flowers everywhere: in pots, and spilling out of converted amphorae, and pushing through patches of earth. She wondered who tended them, and thought idly that she would like to set up such a garden.

She felt contented, and unhurried – Scarlett, Ella and Chase had gone on a trip to Delphi, and wouldn't be back for a few days. She had elected to stay behind with Rhett, the boys, and Miss Addy. During their travels, she had discovered an adventuresome spirit within herself, and delighted at the prospect of exploring the city on her own, and hiking the surrounding hills, dotted with olive grooves.

She felt the glances of the passers-bys: women much more vibrantly dressed than she, with dark lashes, sculptured noses, and that enviable, wavy black hair that seemed almost blue in the sunlight. And the men – men who were very different from either the leisured or the harried class back in Charleston. These were men with dark, lined faces, and bright, vigorous eyes; who seemed to have little to do except drink sweet tea, and play board-games on small, precariously perched tables in the streets. Yet they seemed content, and unafraid of the winter.

Rose might have imagined Socrates standing amongst the idling young men by the city wall, instructing them that wisdom is to know you know nothing. Charlotte's mind did not bother with such things, or at least not yet. She did not fill the broken streets with hoplites, or imagine the a particularly dark cloak hid the noble, but devious features of Alcibiades - or that Themistocles would step in front of a crowd at any moment, and warn them to fortify the city against the Persians.

She accepted a cup of tea in a small, porcelain bowl from one of the dark boys that swarmed about her, slowly sipping its rich sweetness. She knew the boy. She let him drag her into his father's pottery store, where she would receive more tea, and be shown his entire inventory, and quoted vastly inflated prices for the next few hours, if she so desired.

This particular owner knew her as well, and smiled when she appeared, even though she had never bought anything from him. She was a diversion, and an opportunity to brush up his few broken chips of English. They were an endlessly curious sort, and money wasn't what motivated them. They were here for a gab, for a laugh, for a beautiful poem, or to watch the sunlight curve over the city. But men just like they had built the Acropolis, and marched victoriously against Xerxes, the most powerful man in the Known World.

The noon heat had become stifling, and Charlotte was glad of the darkness and the shade of the shop. She gladly accepted another cup of the sweet tea. She heard trilling laughter, and turned her head towards the doorway.

A tall dark-haired man was walking slowly by, and with a start, she recognized him. What startled her more was the strange woman on his arm – obviously foreign, and quite beautiful. They seemed to be on intimate terms.

The woman pulled him towards the shop, and he complied, his full, sensual lips curved into a smile. There was a rattle of tiny bells as they stepped through the door, into the half-shade of the interior.

He bent his head, as the woman's hand slid up his bare arm in blatant invitation. His hand slid behind her back, pulling her closer against him. They were merely feet away from her, but Charlotte felt sure their eyes couldn't yet have adjusted from the glare outside to see her. Besides, they were not paying attention to anyone except each other. She saw his head dip lower, in the direction of the woman's lips.

The cup rattled loudly on its saucer as she said it down. "Oh dear," said Charlotte, to no one in particular. She had neither the address, nor the experience to melt obligingly into the shadows.

Her uncle turned his head, and as his eyes met hers, she caught a flicker of something – revulsion? shame? that she didn't have time to analyse.

"Excuse me," Charlotte mumbled, and pushed past them, blindly making her way up the street. Perhaps he called after her, but she didn't stop to listen.

She felt her heart beating in her throat as she pushed forward. She wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the turmoil of the heart: She had read books - she had seen Rose in love, and Ella – and had felt brief, fleeting fancies herself for this boy, or that. But she had met Rhett and Scarlett at a time when everything seemed settled between them; one of those few relationships filled with both fondness and passion, that one can dream about, and aspire to, when surrounded by the depressing dullness of everyone else's marital misfortunes.

She was not of an analytical bent, but her sadness went beyond even compassion for her Aunt. It was the fall of an ideal, pulverized like marble in the red Athenian dust. It was time – she was old enough, and in most other circumstances would have been married, and, dare we say, disillusioned already. But she was a child of the West. We view children as dew, or dawn – luminous, pure, and innocent - raising them, as much as we are able, away from the morass and the stench of reality. The illusion is hardy, and the downfall is steep.

She wanted Rose, Charlotte thought, glumly – someone with impartial objectivity to talk this through. Except she could not have talked this through with Rose. Ella and Chase wouldn't understand, and had their own troubles to worry about. If she were still in Charleston, she might have gone to Phoebe for advice, but she was not in Charleston. And Aunt Scarlett – Charlotte sighed. Poor, unknowing Aunt Scarlett.

The hill became steeper, and she stopped, slightly out of breath. She tried to gather her thoughts. She had noted Scarlett spending most of her time with Ella over the last few weeks, but had felt it only natural, considering the circumstances. Thinking back, she thought there might have been more, that she missed – the absence of the usual, comfortable banter between the older couple. A strange, faraway expression in Scarlett's eyes, and how she sometimes didn't seem to hear him when he talked to her. That was unusual, at least in retrospect. They were normally so ….in tune.

At the time she'd had attributed it all to Scarlett's preoccupation with her daughter's grief. Had it been more? Or was her uncle simply one of those men, men who strayed as soon as they were not the center of his wife's attention, even if only for a moment? Had she ...really seen what she thought she'd seen? She saw the woman, again, in her mind, the intimacy of the scene, how he had moved ...how he had moved in to kiss her. She closed her eyes as if in pain.

~~oo~~

Rhett found her, some hours later, sitting on a small wall by the hotel, watching the salamanders dart after insects in the sun.

"Charlotte."

She did not look up, but acknowledged his presence with a tiny shrug of her shoulders.

"I would appreciate if you didn't mention any of what you saw to Scarlett."

"You're asking me not to tell," said Charlotte. She had half expected to have to defend herself against a complete denial, and this frank admission startled her.

"I'm asking you not to tell."

"I can't," she said, candidly. "I mean, I could. I'd rather forget it. But eventually, I'll see Rose again, and she'll know something's wrong, and I don't want her in the position to have to hide anything from Aunt Scarlett. It wouldn't be fair, you see?" It had come out all in a rush, and probably made no sense to him, but she looked up at him with some defiance. She meant it, and she would not let him cower her.

"You're a good friend," he said, gently, and there was regret in his eyes. She tried to stop herself from feeling sorry for him. He sat down beside her, his large hands clenched at his side. "I didn't mean Scarlett should not find out. I only want …the chance to tell her myself."

"How do I know you'll do it?"

Again, that flicker of emotion. "My word may not mean as much to you now as it once did, Charlotte, but you may ask her yourself. After I've ….told her everything."

"All right," she said, wishing nothing more than that the ground would open and swallow her whole. She didn't like to be in this position. Didn't want to think what it meant for her life, for her almost abandoned hope of a future marriage – that elusive dream of happiness she'd still clung to, despite so much evidence to the contrary.

"I'm sorry," he said, gently, at the stricken expression on her face.

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"That I … disappointed you."

"Oh." She shook her head. "But that wasn't really your job. Not to disappoint me. I mean. You are what you are." She came from pragmatic stock – her mother's mind had never been diluted by even a drop of romance, and it is perhaps telling that of the three Butler children Rosemary had lead the most exemplary life.

He gave a short laugh, almost like a bark. "That's what I was afraid of, as well."

She turned her head in disgust. Even pragmatism only went so far.

He got up, seeming to walk away.

"Uncle Rhett," she called out – but the familiar title tasted foul in her mouth. They were not just uncle and niece anymore. They were co-conspirators in something sordid. She did not want to see him anymore, but she had to know just how far she would have to dial down her expectations of life.

"Is this …."

"The first time?" he supplied, gently.

She flushed.

He hesitated. "I won't bore you with our entire marital history. You know we ….were separated for a while." She nodded. "It was the first time since we reconciled. Yes."

"What else can you say, now?" At his look, she added, with some bitterness, "It's none of my business." Her face was suddenly cold, and vulnerable. "But I …..don't understand. You have ….. everything."

"Do I."

"Yes," said Charlotte, with all the ruthlessness of youth. "A wife. A home. Beautiful children." Again, that glance, and she scoffed, "you think, perhaps, that you are entitled to more."

"Charlotte ….I didn't mean ….." he broke off, as if realizing the futility of explaining himself, or the intricacies of his relationship, to a twenty-one year old virgin.

"It's all right," she said, wanting nothing more than to end this conversation. "I was probably being silly, and naïve. Things happen. Uncle Charles had Cousin Thad while he was married. One hears about others. One almost expects it. But you …..now I know."

She looked at him with shuttered eyes, and he knew that it was that sunny afternoon that her childhood had been broken. Yes, it would have been broken anyhow, at sometime. By someone. But it had been he.

"You may want to ….start thinking about how you'll tell Rose," she said, almost conversationally, as one stranger speaking to another. "She will find out, you know." She had not meant to twist in the knife, for she could not know that any man finds his moral failings even more difficult to acknowledge to a daughter.

He merely nodded, and walked wordlessly away.

Charlotte sat on the wall for a while, and cried.

~~oo~~

Houston, June 23rd, 1892

Dear Uncle Rhett,

The box of ouzo arrived safely. Mother especially has been enjoying the change from her usual parsnip wine, and I suspect Trish, the parlor maid, of harboring a secret affection for it as well. We have never caught her in flagrante delicto, but she totters about more than usual, and smells strongly of anise. I leave the final verdict to your judgment. Mother says not to thank you for sending along the Parsifal sheets. I've taken to playing them after dinner, and the three hounds usually join in.

Perry is well, he came to Houston with me last week, and entertained at least three prospective clients by earnestly demonstrating his periscope. The clerks' candy bowl has mysteriously emptied around that same time-frame, but of course there is no causal relation. Back at the ranch, Perry not only opened all of the pig-pens, but to this day refuses to divulge the whereabouts of his favorite piglet, which he has dibbed "Stripes." I fear Jim may be in on this particular conspiracy. I see them whispering together, and take kitchen scraps into a rarely-used part of the carriage house. One of these days, I intend to go see just what it is that they keep there.

The presidential election is in full swing, and you haven't missed out on much. Harrison was nominated as expected, but Cleveland may yet prove to be the stronger candidate, despite barely squeaking through the Convention. No one will be happier than I when it is over on November 9th. Wade, like you, feels the need to update me on Rose and her studies. From the disparity of your accounts, I surmise she writes much more frankly to him about just how difficult the training is. You may want to check in on her, and make sure she doesn't over-exert herself.

I'm sorry to hear about the difficulties between you and Aunt Scarlett. I am, as you know, as the blind leading the blind when it comes to happy, long-term relationships. The current chief of the Alabama-Coushatta tells me the secret to pleasing women is "abject groveling, and expensive gifts", which I pass on to you without further comment.

Having spent quite a few months in Scarlett's company, I well remember her ability to shut out painful subject matters. Whatever is troubling her, pressing her to talk seems imperative, if somewhat counter-intuitive. With that in mind, I've just recently re-read your account of your time in Atlanta. It makes for difficult reading even upon the second perusal, but it also illustrates a larger point: you've overcome much together, and what you do have is worth fighting for.

I enclose a letter to Scarlett from Mother, which she dictated to me this morning. It includes a reference to pickled onions which eludes me, but is apparently meant to cheer her up.

Please give my best regards to Scarlett, Ella, Charlotte, Chase & the boys. I remain, etc etc

Your affectionate nephew,

Thad