Scarlett had fought tooth and nail to bring him back. But each attempt had been met with a little less kindness and a bit more indifference on his side. How she had hated that indifference! She could have ended up hating Rhett too if she hadn't know she had thoroughly deserved it. But even pity, even contempt would have been preferable. As proud as she was, she would have welcomed being treated like a pet again, but he wouldn't even grant her that.

Rhett had grown colder under her advances, to the point it was hard to determine who had felt more relief when the divorce was granted on the grounds of his desertion. He didn't even ask what she would do next; he didn't care. She didn't ask about his plans either, it hurt too much.

It still hurt. Scarlett knew she would never have accepted defeat if Mammy hadn't died. Mammy loved him so much. She loved Scarlett more, of course, but Mammy also respected him, and it would have broken Scarlett's heart to disappoint her by letting him go. In a way she couldn't admit, Mammy's death was a relief. It freed her from Rhett, even from Tara. She now understood Gerald's words, Tara was a part of herself, but she respected the land too much to stay there defeated. Now she felt worthless; she needed to heal before reclaiming it.

"Oh, Pa, how right you were," Scarlett had said to Tara's empty dining room on the night she decided to flee. The house looked neglected, abandoned. She lacked the strength to restore its former glory. "How clearly you saw through me. You knew I needed to marry my true match, and I did, but I didn't know it at the time. I made a mess of everything. I didn't want to, but I did. I know you'd understand."

If only she could have been perfect like Ellen. Always so calm, composed, always knowing what to do.

"Always dead," she had heard herself say.

Scarlett had covered her mouth, ashamed. Ashamed of that new perspective she couldn't ignore. Deep down, Scarlett knew Rhett would never have loved Ellen the way he loved her. Rhett had loved Scarlett, against his pride, his good sense, despite her lies, her mistreatment, her clumsy attempts to destroy him. He saw her for who she was and loved her. Loved her for every aspect Ellen and Mammy had tried to suppress since her childhood. Loved her honestly, desperately, until she made it no longer possible.

Scarlett had often wondered why she was so different from the other women in her family, Ellen, Suellen, Carreen. She always thought she was just like her father, but gazing at the dimly lit walls at that moment, she sensed something more.

She remembered Mammy talking about Solange Robillard. Solange and her wet petticoat showing off the shape of her legs in front of the gentlemen. Such a stark contrast to Ellen's description! Ellen portrayed her mother as elegant, proper, strict. Mammy's perspective held greater insight; she knew Solange's secrets. If Mammy thought her grandmother wild and irreverent, Scarlett was inclined to believe it, or at least wanted to.

"Solange Prudhomme," she had said looking at her portrait. She couldn't pronounce it like Ellen, of course. Scarlett had always despised learning anything that had no practical use, and had resisted any of her mother's attempts to teach her French. Maybe that had been the final clue that Scarlett would never become a real lady, maybe some other thing had revealed the truth to her mother long before that.

Solange Prudhomme. The name had made her think of Rhett, and his wish of visiting London or Paris. As far as she knew, he was still in that horrid Charleston. As far as she knew...

How uninteresting had she always found the old continent. Scarlett loathed old books, old paintings, old buildings, and had been infinitely grateful not to be born a boy, because Ellen might have insisted on a Grand Tour, it was just what was done. Even Ashley, in the throes of that ardent, stupid love she had professed for him for years, hadn't reconciled her with Europe and all those grand useless things. Mostly the opposite.

She had smiled then, noticing once more her thoughts wavering between Rhett and Ashley, Ashley and Rhett. It was a bitter smile, it also hurt.

Scarlett met Solange's haughty eyes. She had not been a woman who allowed men to dictate her every thought; she could tell. She commanded her household in ways even Ellen hadn't. Her mother had to resort to her unspoken softness to dominate, Solange was just aware of her power and had naturally imposed it. It was inherent to her, flowing through her french blood.

"Europe..."

What awaited her there? She'd never visited, yet Prudhommes still lived in Bordeaux. If Scarlett remembered correctly her mother's explanation, "Prudhomme" meant honest person. She found the idea delightful. To live honestly, to be herself at last, free from the perpetual guilt of failing those she loved: Ellen, Mammy, Ashley, Rhett..

Gerald had been different, Gerald had understood her. No one except Rhett had understood her so well. But he had also left Ireland with a price on his head, no wish to return. Tara had become his home.

Scarlett glanced at Solange's creamy skin, according to Mammy the painting didn't even do it justice, and then down to her own pearly hands. That was not the only resemblance. They shared the same high-nose, the same thick black brows. And they both looked misleadingly dainty, their strength concealed in their eyes.

"What is waiting for me here?" Scarlett had asked. And that's when she had decided to leave.