One moment she had been picking cotton as usual, the sun viciously beating down at her back, her irritation on the rise as a certain blackguard felt it their duty to needle her to no end, and her hands cracked and blistered from relentless use. Suellen was whining, Careen unbearably distant, and a few more minutes, she would let them have it, the verbal lashing that itched at her throat, waiting desperately to be released. It was all because of him, she thought darkly, his inexplicable, instantaneous oscillations between kind friend and mocking stranger, why it hadn't been less than twenty-four hours since he fed them and danced so generously! So it was all quite unnerving that since she had awoken he decided to be especially provoking. His biting comments on her cultural ignorance when he quoted some cryptic, obscure literature or the way he jumped suspiciously fast to Suellen's (undeserved) defense– it seemed like he was on a mission to anger her for reasons no more obvious to her than the character of the man in question.
Yet, she noticed that despite his horrid behavior, his work ethic suffered little and his jabs never went beyond the superficial. Still, it was grating on her nerves and if he didn't stop soon, she would let him have it.
It was in this vein of thoughts that she turned on her heel far too vigorously, and her foot rolled under her ankle, cracking under the weight of her entire body, and she yelped, crumbling to the same red, dusty ground that stained her skirts. Rhett was at her side at an instant, ignoring her loud protests as he swung her in his arms, effortlessly as if she weighed a pound of feathers, and whisked her inside the house. If she took a second to observe him, she would have noticed the blatant guilt, the sudden switch-up in demeanor.
For a moment, she settled in his vice grip–he was such a sturdy, strong man, and climbed the stairs so gracefully despite her obstruction, she could not help but feel safe. But then she remembered that this was all his fault and she grew loud again, only gaining in volume as he barged into her bedroom and laid her in bed, though upsettingly bereft at the loss of his touch.
Pain shot through her ankle as she tried to stand and she crumpled back to the bed. The humiliation surged within her–helpless and fumbling–nothing could be worse than this. She tried again, only to receive the same result. He keenly observed from the doorway, cautious not to overstep his boundary (why, she did not know, he already had).
"Scarlett," he warned. "Why must you be so stubborn?"
"I'm not an invalid, you truly can not expect me to be bed-ridden for god knows how long?"
She fluttered her eyelashes for good measure, though the false, derisory smile claimed her lips.
Like many other earthly things presented to Rhett Butler, it only served to amuse him. "That's exactly what I expect so don't make it any harder than it is. The way you overexert yourself, I'm surprised this hasn't occurred sooner. Now, use that good sense of yours and stay put. I'll make Mammy guard your door all day if I have to."
Grabbing a nearby pillow, she threw it towards his head only for him to catch it mid-air, laughing at her childishness.
"Oh, you're hateful! Mammy wouldn't take orders from a scoundrel!"
"Is that right?" he mused and, at that moment, the woman in question slid into the room with a tray of food and bandages, giving the injured girl a stern, admonishing look.
"Cap'n Butler's right. You stay put till you're good enough to walk again."
"Thank you, Mammy," he smiled charmingly, though the woman was immune, and glowered at his conduct.
"Don't you Mammy me. This is Miz Scarlett's room, this ain't the place for you."
Holding his arms up in surrender, he relinquished his post and Scarlett quickly realized she would much rather deal with his vile jokes than Mammy (had Rhett been made privy to her thoughts he would have laughed at the fickleness of women). Loud cries soon turned to silence once she realized the older woman would not budge, and while she allowed herself to be pampered, she could not shake off the feeling of uselessness, her mind wandering to the mess she was certain to find at the end of her recovery.
"At least bring me the books for Tara, Mammy. I'll go mad if I am to be confined all day."
"No can do. Cap'n Butler said he'll take care of it. You just worry about getting better."
Her eyes narrowed. "Since when did you listen to him?"
"Ever since he came and helped you carry your load," she replied simply, finishing the binding upon her ankle. After assessing her handiwork, a wrinkled hand came soothingly upon her shoulder, pressing her against the pillows (including the one she had readily weaponized earlier). The firm, yet gentle pressure made her feel like a child, the child that she ought to have been had it not been for the cruel war. Peering into the wise, all-knowing eyes, her body slackened. Her mouth trembled.
The woman only smiled. "Rest now, my lamb. You deserve it."
She did not know she was crying until Mammy's finger brushed against her wet cheek.
"I come bearing gifts," Rhett announced as he barged into her room the second time that day, Wade in one arm, a tray of food in the other. The child babbled and he laughed, pinching the boy's cheek. He was a peculiar man in that way, tending so closely to a child with whom he held no relation. She would question his motives if only she knew where to begin. All she knew now was that for two people dressed in rags that hung loose on the body, they were far too happy.
She watched him say nothing as Wade squirmed in his arms. "I would much rather have the books, Rhett Butler."
"How rude of me to feed you." He retorted, placing Wade securely beside her. "Any more complaints?"
"Yes. I'm bored out of my mind because you seem to have the idea that I've hit my head and am unable to do anything useful."
She glared as he took a seat at the edge of the bed. How this man was Southern, hailing from Charleston nonetheless, and lacked any sense of manner or proper conduct was unfathomable.
"Would it truly please you if I brought you the books?"
"That's the least you could do after confining me like this and bringing Mammy into it."
He sighed theatrically, his hand reaching underneath the tray and pulling out a familiar set of covers.
"Oh, Rhett! How wonderful!" she exclaimed, eyes sparkling, and her hands eagerly reaching for the prized objects. His eyes gleamed with delight at her casual address, and brought the books just a touch away from her grasp.
She pouted. "What?"
"You must eat first."
"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee."
She took to the meager helpings with renewed vigor, raising the spoonful of yams to Wade's mouth in between her own fervent bites, ignoring the grimace on the boy's face.
"If we ration things properly, we can stretch out your supplies for two more weeks," she set the utensil down. "Three if Suellen doesn't eat more than her share."
"Have you ever considered that keeping Suellen well-fed and looked after may make her much more receptive to taking your orders?"
There he went, defending her wretched sister again. If her kin weren't such a brat, she would think him to be sweet on her.
"Is that not what I have been up to? But no, Suellen is too good for this work, she thinks it beneath her," she looked up swiftly. "Besides, what do you know?"
"I'll remind you that I was a ship captain. And a happy crew ensures smooth sailing."
"You know, I never know when to believe you. For all I know, that could be one of your stories."
"You wound me, my dear. I risk my life for the Cause and you deem it all a lie. Next thing I know you will suspect my identity as a Southerner–is it all a ruse? Do you suppose that beneath the low, leisurely drawl hides a crass Yankee accent? You suddenly grow fearful and untrustworthy until one day the chivalrous ruse fades away and you find the honorable Southern gentleman is not so Southern—not so honorable?"
"Stop it, Rhett, it's not funny."
"Who said I was joking?" he replied, his face bland.
She hit his arm and he burst out laughing. No, he was no Yankee—there was a gentility in him that was purely Charlestonian, an aristocratic air that was difficult to replicate. Even now it was evident, as his ankle rested confidently on the perch of his knee, as he leaned down to flick a match on the deteriorating sole of his shoe. It was clear then how he was highly birthed, raised by women who spoke as softly and behaved as mannerly, as her dear Mother. But, the way he chopped wood, the way his clothes hugged his muscles as he worked–he was no gentleman either and perhaps she preferred it that way for it benefitted her immensely.
"You're so sure of me, but it is only a partial jest. I may not be the type of man you think I am, Scarlett."
She did not know if he was still joking. "How so?"
At her question, he smiled wryly, pausing as if to wonder if he should grant an answer. She did not notice how he grew cautious, thinking for once of the consequence that his words may have on their convenient arrangement.
"Why, I'm not received in any decent house in the South," he finally revealed.
She sat up quickly, her eyes comically wide, and sputtered, "Not received—why, I should've known?"
At his loud laughter, she flushed and his hand stopped her before she could throw another pillow.
"That is what I like about you, Scarlett. When hearing the status of my reputation, you don't utter all the prattle of moral grievance. It's all pragmatic with you–you're blunt and I'd bet that you couldn't care less about me being received as long as I keep up my end of the deal and help you upkeep your precious Tara."
"Oh, I wasn't thinking about such a thing at all. But I feel like I am entitled to know now. Why are you unreceived?"
"I took a girl on a buggy ride and the wheel broke, so we walked home in the mud and grime. When we got there, they demanded I marry the silly girl. I refused and her fool of a brother challenged me to a duel. The poor wretch didn't stand a chance," he muttered the last part with the hint of lingering bitterness of several decades. The rest, it was as if it was not a tragic end to familial connections, but a vapid list of groceries, explained in a manner that was swift, detached, and inconceivably indifferent.
"Oh," was all she could say. He continued.
"My father decided that was the breaking point. He disowned me and kicked me out with nothing but the clothes on my back. But, I've gained much more wealth since then, without any of his help."
He flicked at some dust from his sleeve, as if to prove his apathy.
"Have I shocked you Scarlett?"
"No, you haven't. Unreceived or not, like you said you are helping with Tara. And you haven't acted appallingly yet, so I suppose you can stay despite that."
His hand went to his heart in mock agony. "Thank you for the crumbs, Mrs. Dives. I imagine you're only saying that because I do more work than ten Suellens combined."
"Fiddle-dee-dee, more like twenty. But Rhett, if you are Southern, how did you end up on the other side?"
The corner of his mouth went down, such a slight change in his demeanor, and if she were no bedridden she would not have noticed it. Truly, she did not think he would answer, but it was one of those rare occurrences where she wished to know more about a person, not questioning the intention behind the sudden curiosity. He was a paradox–Southern yet blue-coat, kind yet scathing, unreceived yet charming, and there was so much more to him, a complexity and depth she had yet to seek in any other person. It was only natural to wonder, she told herself.
Still silent, pondering his answer more rigorously than his last, his hard gaze fell to the top of Wade's head and stayed there. Unlike his earlier recollection of events, his glib arrogance was replaced with a self-deprecating quality, a somberness that did not suit his large, blithe form.
It looked almost like he was ashamed.
"I joined the Confederate army, or whatever was left of it, the day Atlanta fell. Foolish in hindsight, I know, but I did it and there's no undoing it. I managed to get out unscathed past the initial skirmishes until the Yankees came and took the city. I had been helping a… friend then, and got captured in the process. They told me that if I fought out West, I could secure my freedom so I agreed, but had planned on deserting the moment I had the chance. We got as far as Jonesboro at night when I stole a horse from one of the men–they shot me and the horse, and the beast lasted only an hour. From the break of dawn, I walked the rest of the way to Tara."
She was silent, processing the information he had just given her. While she should feel scandalized, she found herself strangely understanding his actions. It scared her to think that she would do the same. She had done the same—the Yankee she killed—her mind reminded her but she pushed it away, she couldn't think of it now.
"You joined that late? Why?"
He smiled wryly. "I must've been drunk."
"Do be serious, Rhett."
"Oh, but I am. No other reason but inebriation could explain my actions. I laughed at the fools for thinking it would be over in months. I sneered at their arrogance for thinking sheer willpower and useless tenets of honor would overpower the North's machinery, their size in numbers. We lost the moment they fired at Fort Sumter, and I went on cheerfully knowing I would reap from the destruction of the civilization that turned its back on me. Yet there I was in the eleventh hour, with the same men I had laughed at, fighting for the same cause I had despised. So yes, I must have been drunk."
She did not understand him, she did not understand the things he was saying. How could she understand, when not even he knew his own, twisted reasoning? What did she care for Yankee machines, Yankee men, the destruction of civilizations, when she had been on the brink of starvation, when tomorrow held a haunting void, no security, no promise of better things?
He shook his head when he saw her failing to grasp his complex nature, and smiled as if she were a child.
"But, let us not talk about such sordid things while you recover. Finish your food, the books are waiting."
She happily allowed him to change the subject to much more tangible things. Now, he was going on about blockading in Nassau, his gallivants in Paris. She listened as shallowly as he spoke, thinking instead of food supplies, the scorching sun, or the swelling ache in her ankle.
After she finished her share of food, her hands went to Wade to return her to Rhett's arms, but the child remained still, shifting closer to her side. The boy who always had an irritating knack of resembling his father (reminding her of her misjudgment), now bore a fierceness derived certainly from his O'Hara blood. His chin jutted out, his eyes ablaze, Scarlett could not help but admire the quiet strength of the boy. He was always so meek and easily frightened and she repeated to him to be a little man, but to no avail. How Rhett had managed to do it, she did not know.
"Uncle Rhett said you're sick and that I can help."
Even as she was annoyed by his defiance, with her mood and her son's newfound gumption, she could not deny him. The gleaming smile he gave her made her feel guilty for not indulging the boy more often.
"Alright," she sighed. "But do behave."
When Rhett handed off the dishes to Mammy, he checked up with the rest of Tara (he had of course given the day off to everyone, swearing them to secrecy) and between that and fixing the leaky roof, it took him a while to return to her room to discuss the books. It was evening by the time he finished and he came up only to find mother and son fast asleep and the books, which she had so fervently inquired for, were left unopened at the edge of the bed.
He smiled then, feeling a tenderness long escaped from him.
"Mother, mother, wake up!"
Scarlett's eyes tore open at the frightened voice, her frantic breaths mingling with the soft whimpering of the boy, whose small hands shook her gently. Her limbs entangled with the sheets from her thrashing, her hair a mess of tangles as it stuck to her tear-stained face. She murmured hollow comforts to him, feeling the sweat stick the cotton to her back, her hand still tense and nervous as it patted the fear away from the boy, rising and rising as he began to relax.
As soon as he was asleep again, she made her way downstairs.
She sleuthed down, ignoring the ache in her foot. She needed a drink badly, desperately, and the usual care she put into being quiet was long forgotten. In her daze, she nearly stumbled upon the furniture, hazardous in the bleak darkness but she managed to arrive at the office unscathed. Her head throbbed as she poured the liquid, the bottle shaking beneath her trembling hands.
Rhett came in as soon as the glass touched her lips.
"I heard you screaming," he said simply at her blank stare. "Nightmare?"
A perfunctory nod. He moved like a leopard, slick yet cautious as he slid into the chair across from the desk. It was unseemly for a man of his size to move so quietly. Moonlight barely filtered into the room, yet his eyes gleamed without judgment, taking in the tear streaked cheeks, the disheveled hair as if it were a normal occurrence.
"And Wade?"
"He woke up but I managed to calm him down."
He hummed and watched her take another sip. She said nothing as he took the glass away, the coolness immediately remedied by the warmth of his large hand, giving much more strength than the poor excuse for liquor ever could offer.
"You're still shaking."
"It'll pass," she murmured, looking at their entwined hands. After a moment she added, "Besides, I never do remember what I dream about."
"Yet it still frightens you."
The way he looked at her, with such understanding as if she had known him for years before he came across the red earth of Tara, implored her to open up a little piece of her steeled heart she had let rust for too long. His eyes, so kind, his shoulders broad enough to shoulder her grief, his voice soft and inviting.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm afraid of dying and going to hell."
Rhett Butler was a man who put little credence in the existence of God. To his credit, he did not laugh.
"Why? If God exists, he will forgive you."
A mere scrunch of her brow was all he got for his blasphemy.
"Oh, but you don't know the things I have done in order to survive. My mother would…if she knew what I've gone through… she would be ashamed."
He smiled gently. "How old are you Scarlett?"
"What?" she puffed up with anger, but soon settled–he was being serious. "Nineteen."
"And yet look at what you've accomplished with Tara. You grew up solely on the knowledge of how to catch a husband, to live without as much as lifting a finger, yet you survived, carrying the weight of your entire family with you. Not everyone is capable of that."
Embarrassed, Scarlett looked down. No one had mentioned such things to her, let alone him who hardly paid her any sort of compliment. Yet, here he was, giving notice to aspects of her character she much rather forget–how could she be a lady after all that she had done?
"I was the same age when my father kicked me out. I can assure you, I've done the same things to survive, perhaps even worse. And everyone else will hold it against us, but we will be the ones to see it to the other side."
"Not if hunger comes first. Not if the Yankees come. You weren't here when they came and took everything. When…"
The memory clamped her mouth shut and she averted her eyes to her lap. Every action leading up to that moment had been questionable by the South's moral standards, but her conscience had been irrevocably altered once she pulled the trigger. Yet when he looked at her with such tenderness, as if whatever horrible thing she would say next would not change his perception of her, she surrendered to the free-falling feeling, knowing he would be there to soothe her in the end.
"I…I killed a man here. A Yankee. He came here, put his hands on my mother's things… I had to, I had to do it. So, when you first came to Tara, I could only see the Yankee, and I would've done the same to you if Melly had not interfered. You could've hurt us, you could've taken all our food, whatever money we had left…"
By the end she was sobbing, though the grief was overwhelmed by the indomitable safety of his arms, reaching over to envelope her, keeping her from swaying to the maddening nostalgia of the past or the dreary haunts of the future. For so long in the months of fleeting, temporary wants, he was the first solid thing to touch, and after drowning in the responsibility and burden of others, she felt as if she could finally breathe. Gasping for air, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder, she cried for her mother, she cried for the childhood friends she had lost, and she cried for being allowed the liberty to cry knowing it would pass without judgment.
He squeezed her tighter. Never had she been so intimate with another individual, especially him whom she would have likely not given the time of day had it not been for the war. But, he was safe and he was real, and his presence assured that the hardest of times was behind them, that the coming days would not wreck her so viciously as the days before his arrival. While she did not entrust him fully (she did not think she could trust so easily ever again) she allowed the smell of cigars and horses pulled to lull her to sleep, knowing that even with all his warnings of southern reprobate and blackguard, he would not take advantage of her vulnerability. In her weary daze, she vaguely felt him rise, carrying her as smoothly up the steps as he had earlier, and laid her on the bed so reverently, his feelings would have been obvious to any potential outsider.
And if she had looked up just once, she would have seen his shock, for the truth that had been needling him for the past few days had finally pounced and he knew he was gone to her forever.
Author's Note: Finally updated this one! Rhett reveals a lot in this chapter so it took me a while to figure out how I wanted him to do so. I also have a short Christmas story in the works, though I do not think I will get it out in time for Christmas, we will see! I wanted to publish it after finishing all the chapters, but I wonder if I should just publish what I have.