Notes on Chapter 37 :
Almost three weeks of waiting before this update... I thank those who told me they wanted to read more. But this lapse of time was necessary. Along with my business, I had to think about the direction Scarlett was going to take. This is the turning point in the story. Having decided the "what", I had to find the "where" and the "how". And above all, to create a particular universe, aiming to be as magical as the one in the headquarters of "La Mode Duncan" on the night of the fashion show. Every day I rectified what I had done the day before, changed the decor, dug into my research on a point of detail... Ah! details... my "péché mignon" !(cute caught ?)
That's it! I truly look forward to your feedback!
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Chapter 37. "His Dancing girl"
Tuesday, June 29, 1876, Stono River, Soft South
They had agreed to leave Charleston early for driving southwest.
Neither of them alluded to the passionate kiss they had exchanged the day before on the joggling board.
They arrived on the banks of the Stono River.
"The fields you see across the river are ours. Miles and miles of indigo-trees. The plants have reached maturity. The harvest will begin next week."
Three miles further on, he pointed to the shape of a white building, which, despite the distance, looked huge. "Meet Soft South!"
They crossed the bridge to approach their destination. The horse trotted on for a while before starting a long straight line.
The reminiscence Scarlett felt was so strong that she needed to externalize it, "This looks like the entrance to Twelve Oaks!"
The perfectly smoothed red earth path was framed by the typical Southern live oaks. These trees were centuries old, judging by the diameter of their twisted trunks and their height of about sixty feet. The branches, as thick as a trunk, were bending under their weight. By the creative force of nature, their spans had formed an arc over the road.
"How sweet it is to walk under this leafy roof. The Spanish moss that covers it makes it even more magical. To hell with the parasols! It is tempting to stop and enjoy the divine shade."
"That would be an attractive suggestion, but look what's in store for us!"
At the far end of the path, a white shape stood out between the green slicks, until it came to invade the horizon.
"How majestic! This is probably the most beautiful colonial mansion I have ever seen." Tara's landlady gasped.
To preserve his effect, Duncan had stopped the buggy at a distance. Good thing too. Otherwise she would have had to lean back to appreciate the height of the ten columns rising two stories. She assumed two of the other three sides looked the same, since there were glimpses of other cylindrical enfilades. Large French windows led to the balconies.
"The kitchens, outbuildings and household staff quarters are to the rear, which has helped preserve this uncluttered perspective."
The young woman agreed. This property of a wealthy planter could have been ostentatious. Instead, despite its spectacular size, the purity of its lines, accentuated by a delicate frieze lining the cornice, took on the appearance of a Greek temple transported to American soil.
A servant came to meet them and hold the horse's harness while he helped the young woman down.
Duncan took her arm and led her up the marble steps.
The short presentation of the place which followed, was a pretext to note that the ancestral manor of the Vaytons gathered, in miniature, the best of the art and the furniture of South Carolina.
"You are right. Much better than a museum, for you can feel the souls vibrating around every corner!" He paused as an old woman burst into the hall.
She wore a lace headdress with a bow. Her immaculate white apron encircled her generous hips.
"Messie Duncan! How happy I am to see you! We weren't expecting you today. Come into my arms, my boy!"
Without further ado, the powerful businessman complied and tenderly embraced his former nanny.
She suddenly froze. Hypnotized by the appearance of the stranger. Then she addressed a silent question, with a touch of incomprehension, to the one she still considered her child.
Scarlett was touched to witness the almost childlike embrace of the powerful Duncan with his nanny. It reminded her of Mammy. She smiled at her, responding to her discreet bow of greeting.
"My dearest, this is Ophelia, the most faithful of nannies - with your Mammy, of course. She has borne with patience and kindness all my childish and adolescent whims. I won't surprise you by admitting that her task was difficult! Fortunately, she had a quieter time with my sister. Although I still say that Melina was no angel, neither was she!"
He laughed heartily. "After her long years of loyal service, she has well earned a rest on the plantation where she was born. Be sure I cajole her, or else I fear she will reveal all the secrets I have entrusted to her. Besides, the last one concerns you..."
He had the calm features of a boy who was sure he was loved.
He patted Ophelia's arm affectionately. "This is Miss Scarlett O'Hara. The young lady dear to my heart I told you about several months ago. She is dazzlingly beautiful, is she not? And her soul is even more noble. I know you will love her, with your generous heart, as much as Mrs Vayton, Melina, and your old rascal here."
For all answer, the former nanny stroked the young man's cheek and nodded. Like a promise of a transmission of love to the beautiful young woman.
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Duncan asked the cook to pack a handling cooler with cold chicken, corn salad, and apples from the Soft South orchard. Making sure there was enough ice to keep the drinks cold, he gave the signal to leave.
When she learned who her Charleston admirer was - one of the most powerful planters in the South - she was eager to satisfy her curiosity to cross the estate of the largest cotton plantation in South Carolina.
It was done. Comfortably seated on the bench, the hood of the buggy lowered to preserve the passengers from the too aggressive sun, she enjoyed herself. Her peasant roots were satiated by the sight of miles of frothy white blankets as far as the eye could see. On some plots, dozens of men were busy, their backs bent, picking bolls.
"These have matured. In other fields, harvest will be delayed by two weeks."
He had ordered the horse to pause. "From the first days of our meeting, I have wanted to bring you here. My desire was intensified when I saw your Tara. I am still amazed at how lucky we are to share the same love of the land. Our childhood was lulled by the growing rhythm of the bolls, the fear that bad weather would destroy the fruit of our labor, the ritual of the harvest, the fields from which the melancholic songs of the slaves, after exhausting days of work, could be heard. You and I intercepted, as children, the dialogues between planters, a vocabulary which seemed at first sight foreign to us, such as the variation or the fall of the price of the ton of bolls, or on the contrary its brutal inflation, or the cost of their export towards England. Very quickly, from our earliest years, we made this language our mother tongue. For we understood that cotton was the substance of our lives. What more can I say, except that I could never have dreamed of conversing in technical terms about the preparation of the soil before planting cotton trees, or the uncompromising assessment of the quality of one boll over another, with a female planter with the most charming face in America?"
She thanked him with a smile. Scarlett, too, was happy with this immersion in the world she knew as well as he did. Even better, she thought, because she was the one who had experienced the physical pain of digging in the earth to prepare the soil, planting, harvesting the meager white bolls to the point of splitting her hands, raging to see the painfully earned harvest disappear in smoke that could have saved Tara... Oh yes, she knew a lot more than her neighbor. Yes, talking about cotton with Duncan made him part of her world, part of her family. With a quick twinge, she once again regretted that Rhett had never bothered to come to Tara to admire his wife's cotton fields...
After inspecting the blooming indigo-trees, they stopped by a stream to enjoy their picnic set on a large tablecloth on the grass.
All was peace. She, who had suffered so much in the past four years, was feeling happy.
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On their return, the foreman accosted the master of the estate. He took off his hat to greet first the stranger who accompanied him. "Madam!"
"Mr. Vayton, it is good to see you again. If you had not come today, I would have taken the liberty of sending you a letter. I had already given you my report on the damage caused a fortnight ago by the last storm. We followed your instructions and gave priority to the replacement of two glass panels in the winter garden which had been cracked. A few trees were severely shaken. Boyd and the lumberjack cut off the weakened branches. A diseased oak tree was felled because the trunk had been attacked. The storm was severe that day."
Duncan listened expectantly as his trusted man summarized what he already knew. Scarlett paid careful attention to his words. Her landowner roots still made her aware of how to manage the material contingencies of a plantation.
Soft South's work manager continued his report: "Yesterday, when Vicky, the housekeeper, went to look for some wicker baskets stored in one of the rooms under the roof frame, she found that the floor was soaked. I checked the roof with one of my helpers. Indeed, some tiles, in different places, had slipped. Of course, we repaired and checked the weak points thoroughly. Fortunately, it hasn't rained since the day of the storm, and the water infiltration damage is quite limited. I noticed this when I inspected the various rooms upstairs, which we aired out. With your permission, of course, I'm going to have the walls repainted as they show some traces of dampness. No furniture has been affected."
Duncan, anxious to be alone with his host again, interrupted him with annoyance, "Very well, Kenneth. Make the necessary repairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Vayton. It will be done. But I was unable to access two rooms to check for signs of moisture. They are located on the north side. The butler couldn't tell me where the keys were. Would you know where your father stored them?"
Duncan's irritation became palpable, "Leave it, Kenneth. I'll come back in two days and take care of it. They're probably one of about twenty keys, of all sizes, that my father kept in a drawer. I'll have to throw them out some day. You can go about your business now. Thank you."
With a final respectful nod in the couple's direction, the team leader took his leave and left them alone.
"How, with all the businesses you run, can you take time out of your day to deal with these little material hassles? You really do have the talent to multiply yourself! Your employee mentioned a winter garden. Where is it? I'd be curious to see it."
The latter had resumed his serene look. Smiling, he took her hand and led her away, "Come! I'll take you to my secret lair."
Intrigued, she followed him into the immense park where well-kept paths snaked along century-old trees.
They came to a large piece of land bordering the river. There, they saw sturdy South Carolina cabbage palmettos reaching for the sky. (*1)
"When my father decided to grow them, he purposely chose to plant them close together so that their broad, fan-shaped leaves intertwine. How many times Melina has played with her dolls under this refreshing roof!"
Scarlett exclaimed at the profusion of heavy, long clusters of white petals that seemed to cover the treetops in shaggy braids.
"It is the end of the flowering period. In October and November, their fruits, small purplish beads, are ripe and delight birds of all species. This clearing is a magical attic. Take a deep breath. The smell is heady, and irresistibly attractive to the bees that carry the pollen from one stamen to the next."
He concludes, "This is the family oasis. I will now show you its jewel."
With a conspiratorial air, he made her walk through the trunks until a monument stood in their way.
The visitor from Soft South gave an enthusiastic shout. "I've never seen such a beautiful glass canopy. "'Verrière' is not the proper term. "'Palace' suits it better."
An astonishing steel structure stretched for about one hundred feet in length. It consisted of a rotunda topped by a dome, flanked by two wings, each equipped with an entrance.
"As a good Carolina native, Aymeric searches, in Winnsboro, the most beautiful vein of blue granite for the low wall surrounding the building. (*2)
Above this solid foundation, narrow, high glass panels were set in cast-iron frames, themselves trimmed with wrought-iron friezes of floral interlacing. The windows of a large part of the front building were obscured by wooden shutters, painted green.
With an expert's eye, Duncan examined the building for the umpteenth time. "My father was tempted to cover the roof with glass. Fortunately, he soon came to his senses, otherwise this little paradise would be a steamy place in summer! On the contrary, whether the shutters are closed or the windows are wide open on both sides, man and nature find satisfaction here in all seasons."
The Georgian liked the originality of the glass castle. She wondered what the old magpies in Atlanta would have said if she had installed, in a scaled-down version, such an eccentricity in Peachtree Street.
"It feels like these dozens of bay windows are magically standing upright, so unobtrusive is the framework."
"The idea was for the veranda to become transparent, to blend in with the surrounding palm trees. But don't let its airy appearance fool you. The building was designed by a friend, the architect who conceived the famous 'Iron Palace' in New York. There's a good chance it will outlive me!"
Duncan, clearly proud of Aymeric Vayton's work, leaded his visitor into one of the pavilions of this mysterious place.
She closed her lace parasol and stood still on the doorstep. Bewitched. Her senses were awake. Fruity, spicy, and peppery fragrances tickled her nostrils, to the point where she could smell the heady essences on her skin. Her vision was dazzled by a myriad of shimmering colors. There were all the chromatic variations, such as pale pink turning to crimson red, the tender blue mutating into a garish purplish. And white. A rainbow taking over the space, protected by a green forest.
The temperature under the canopy, far from being stifling, was far more pleasant than outside. Scarlett's bare forearms quivered with delight at the tiny droplets mysteriously projected like a cooling cloud.
Ever attentive to her every reaction, Duncan commented, "It's an ingenious system that one of my father's friends perfected: the discreet, intermittent watering of moisture-hungry vegetation. Coordinated with a clock mechanism, it allows to direct, according to the time and the sunshine of a part of the greenhouse, a mist of steam. Which is also welcomed for us in hot weather. Don't you think so?"
She nodded with a smile. The soft tingle of the microscopic wet particles was a treat on the bare pores of her skin.
The shutters were partially closed, and plunged the interior into a soft gloom. Here and there, a stream of golden beams was breaking through the shutters, which were purposely stay ajar to feed some light-hungry sprouts. These luminous sheets splashed on multicolored bunches of tiny petals, immediately swallowed by the proximity of thick variegated leaves.
She walked in their direction, drawn like a magnet.
"If I had to sum up what this place inspires me, I would say it is outside of time. Do you share that impression?"
Duncan's voice seemed to be enveloped in an ethereal cloud of diffuse sensations.
The businesswoman, usually so down-to-earth, did not understand the emotion that lifted her. She let herself be guided by her host who had taken her hand.
"When my father built this place, he had the ambition to create what would be akin to paradise - well, the South Carolina paradise he loved so much. He wanted to reconcile man with nature by immersing him in an abundance of vegetation. A hymn to life, in a way. I think he achieved his goal. It is a protected area where our five senses are fulfilled according to the rhythm of the seasons. Within this glass wall, the outside turmoil, with its tragedy, wars and perfidy, does not venture. What is the best illustration of the permanence of this peace? Lower your eyelids, please, and strain your ears."
She obediently complied. The noise that had immediately intrigued her, intensified, now that only her hearing was involved. A chirping sound, modulated by waves of twittering and coos, filled the tops of the vines and dwarf palms. Disturbed by this irruption of humans who were desecrating their refuge, some of the birds flapped their wings frantically before landing a few feet away in some obscure corners of the veranda.
"See! These birds have a perfect knowledge of the place." Tawny feathers disappeared under the rafters.
"Father was an amateur ornithologist, so eager to observe them that, to better attract them to his refuge, he asked the architect to provide small supports under the framework, sufficiently inciting for the birds of the field to take the habit of coming, to take refuge there and to get inside. The abundance of seeds and water is a providential larder for them. Then, sparrows and local birds, such as Carolina chickadees, Carolina wren and Indigo bunting, come to nest in them. My father often told me that nothing soothed him more than sitting here, listening to the cooing of the mourning doves. I remember my mother trying, in vain, to stop this messy invasion despite Boyd's regular cleaning.
"I understand your father," Scarlett said simply. She remembered the confidence she'd told Duncan by 'her' tree. She, too, considered birdsong essential to Tara's wealth.
On the floor, terracotta stone tiles had been deliberately left out around the small trees planted directly in the ground, so that their roots could spread freely.
They walked between the cast iron columns supporting the structure, painted green to blend in with their surroundings.
"It reminds me of the herbariums that were in my grandfather's house. Except here every sample is alive!"
He laughs, "The founder of the Vayton empire was truly a collector. So he asked his gardener to convert the Soft South canopy into a living catalogue of South Carolina flora. I'm glad you came in June to enjoy the blooming of all these buds."
The couple walked around a small pool of water, made from the same Winnsboro sandstone.
"Originally, my father had installed small ceremonial fish there. His mistake was soon rectified because, as you know, fish and birds don't mix!"
He pointed out to her, as they progressed, each patch of land sown with a category of bulbs: "It's a pity you missed the time when the yellow jasmine was in flower two months ago. You would have been intoxicated by its sweet and heady perfume. Of course, here is the plantation's golden child, the wild indigo. Further on, the oakleaf hydrangeas are my mother's favorites for their rich, colorful pompons. (*3)
Scarlett didn't know where to look at. It was true that she had never paid much attention to the variety of flowers in Tara. Since they did not represent a source of profit in dollars, they did not interest her much. Only the most prestigious ones, like roses, aroused her interest, but cut and in a vase.
"I'll tell you a secret. My father was too busy expanding his empire to spend time with his family, with my mother, with me, and much later, with my little sister. If I had the chance to share privileged moments with him, I owe it to the winter garden. He accepted my presence to the point of wanting to pass on his knowledge to his heir. When I was a child, it was not about cotton plants and indigotia trees that he spoke to me, but about botany, about all the plant species he had discovered during his travels, others that he wanted to acquire, and those that he would only study in watercolors because they have now disappeared. In my turn, I enjoyed passing on to Melina this paternal knowledge. Imagine this place filled with laughter and exclamations! As the president of an imaginary jury, I had fun awarding a prize to one of Melina's three or four classmates, to reward the one who would most quickly identify a given flower. The wager included, of course, the left side of the building, which is also rich in flora. I had pushed the difficulty to the point of asking them to recognize the seeds. I can proudly say that my little sister always won, "fair and square", because she had become an expert on rain lilies, Charleston hazelnut roses, crested irises, or coral honeysuckle. Their favorite riddle was to identify Carolina asters, as they are the rare flowers that bloom in October."
He paused, "You have done me the great honor of showing me your favorite place in Tara with your sacred tree. I am moved to show you mine. Do you like my secret garden?"
He had just modulated his tone. She shivered. As soft as velvet on my skin.
"I understand now why your imagination ran wild in composing the fifteen dreamy dresses in your fashion show. You had dedicated them to the Old South and South Carolina. The floral world you had been immersed in, exploded on your models, as the most touching tribute to Mr. Vayton."
As they spoke, they were about to leave the unbridled vegetation. Before opening the inner door, his hand rested on the handle and his large blue eyes came to rest on her mouth: "I congratulate you on a very fine analysis. With one exception: the fifteenth model was inspired by the Thunder of Georgia."
She didn't need to thank him, because they had just entered the central part of the building. A universe, diametrically opposed to the greenhouse, breathing domestic comfort.
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She almost felt dizzy checking the perfect circumference of the room reserved for the Vayton family's rest. From the two partitions adjoining the tree nurseries, one could enjoy the view through the curved windows, without being bothered by the humidity of the plants. On the east and west sides, French windows equipped with shutters guaranteed fresh air, sunshine or salutary shade, depending on the time of day.
Covering the perfect roundness of the floor, a beige vein of marble blended with the cream woodwork, accentuating the restful aspect of the place. Here and there, rattan furniture, a few seats, two side tables and a cabinet confirmed the country-style atmosphere.
Artist Vayton's muse was irresistibly drawn to a sun-drenched statue.
She approached the sculpture, which stood on a green marble base.
Duncan was motionless.
It was the bust of a woman - or rather a young girl, judging by the bounce in her cheeks, barely out of childhood.
Scarlett ran her fingers mechanically over the shape of the half-open lips. "An invitation to kiss," she said, loudly.
The long hair spread over the bare shoulders. The curve of a small chest pointed out, enough to guess the teenage curves.
She approached the bronze plaque set into the terracotta pedestal, below the monogram PdF, and read distinctly in French: "Promesse - Paul de Fleurette, 1856" How charming, yet mysterious! Why did the artist title his work in this way? Perhaps the promise of eternal love for this very young girl? Could you lift a corner of the veil and satiate my romantic soul?" She twirled toward him gracefully.
He shrugged. "Who knows? I have not the keys to answer you."
The man moved behind her, inches away. She felt his breath on her neck. "Perhaps he wanted to flaunt his promise to find unacknowledged pleasures..."
Disturbed by this proximity, she turned away and took a few steps into the center of the room, noticing another curiosity, partially hidden by groves positioned in arcs.
Stroking one of the glossy leaves with its finely serrated edges, he explained, "These are camellias. You've come across Japanese camellias in some of the islets, the most famous in our region. But these are special. If you had come a month ago, you would have seen them in bloom. They flourish from October to March, at best, until April. They're sensitive to harsh cold. This is why they bloom under the glass roof, fed by the reverberation when the shutters are wide open. However, they need the gardener's full attention, as too much sun would prevent them from growing. The science of camellias is an art that, unfortunately, I have not mastered. I am content to be their humble admirer."
With a gesture, he encompassed the round of the three shrubs around the sculpture, "These are my favorites. The Middlemist's red camellia. Soft South imported them especially from China. Boyd was instructed to scrupulously alternate white and red camellias. A deep red. Like your lips."
She feared her cheeks would turn the same color, under the effect of the compliment.
"They almost hide this majestic work of art. I envy you! How I would love to embellish my home with such a marvel!"
"I'm afraid this model is unique. A sculptor made it for me, according to my instructions, in Paris. Let me tell you a secret. In our privileged circle, It's no need to tell you that gentlemen may more freely indulge their passions than ladies."
The former Mrs. Butler's features did not quiver. But she was boiling inside. Oh, how well she knew it from experience-what was he driving at?
"My father's hobby was botany. Neither his wife nor his children could compete. It allowed him, for an hour or two, to cut loose from his status as one of the most powerful men in America, as one throws excess baggage overboard. For it, he was ready for any financial extravagance. I remember one day, under this verriere - I must have been thirteen or fourteen - a conversation "between men". After two pieces of advice, he laughed and told me that the winter garden was "his dancer". Have you ever heard that French expression?"
Of course she could translate it. She could have written a novel about "dancers"... But she thought it more appropriate to assume the posture of a good society lady, unruffled and naive. "I think I have an idea."
"Yes, I know you have a sufficient command of the language to understand the figurative meaning. The French male aristocrats and grand bourgeois boasted of 'buying a dancer' when they could afford to spend fortunes to satisfy a hobby or whim. This phrase has an original meaning which it is unnecessary to mention."
They were so close that she could feel the heat of his body.
In a detached voice he asked, "You told me that your former husband was a busy businessman, always traveling up and down. Did he have time to have, like my father, 'a dancer'?"
It took the former belle of Clayton County all the experience of the seductress accustomed to offering her suitors the most angelic face, mastering the art of hiding her true thoughts.
To conceal her rage, instead of expressing it violently, she merely brooded inwardly: You don't need to show such tact. The dictionary explanation of these innocuous words, is "one who maintains his mistress at great expense." Rhett has had hundreds of "dancers". Especially during his marriage. I can name at least one!
With a pout that could pass for detachment, she assented, "I assume Rhett's 'dancers' were his poker cards."
There was a strange silence before he spoke again: "In any case, in the obsession to improve his lair, he regretted that he had demanded a glass roof over the dome. In summer, the midday sun was too strong through this access. Exiled to Paris, I wanted to prepare a surprise for him. Instead of simply blocking the glass, I chose to attenuate the reverberation by having a stained glass window made to the diameter of the dome. It's right above us."
She looked up. A translucent panel, the same circumference as the plant rotunda, seemed to be lit from within.
"A splendor! I can't think of any other words to describe it. What a wonderful idea you had! And the pattern, that pattern..."
Soft South's Master gave a small, quiet laugh, pleased with her reaction.
"A virginal white camellia, contrasting with the emerald green of the leaves. If you look closely, you can see a dragonfly with iridescent blue wings on the edge of the design. Just before it comes to land to deposit the precious pollen on the pistil."
"It's a masterpiece. Realistic and moving," concluded Scarlett.
Duncan nodded. "It's all the more moving because my father didn't get to see it. He died before he knew that a glass camellia would soon stand above the fountain he'd commissioned for me. The two precious creations accompanied me on the boat, on my return from France, for the funeral ceremony."
She stroked his arm tenderly. "I am sad for you. You were looking forward to spoiling him. But his paradise survives him, through you, his heir."
He did not hide his confusion. He held his hand in hers: "Come closer. Every detail is worth looking at."
"I have never seen a sculpture with such sinuous and feminine lines. It's the antithesis of classical or gothic statuary."
"This is not surprising. This artist is an original. A precursor, I should say. Instead of the academic style of which fashion is fond, this eclectic character, having listed hundreds of floral species in an old herbarium, comes from a French town in Lorraine, Nancy, I believe. (*5) His objective is to dedicate, through his art, an ode to nature, by imitating the morphology of trees, buds or insects. The ultimate goal is to introduce this sensibility into everyday objects and furniture."
Mechanically, Duncan ran his fingertips along the tormented edge of the basin. "I'd heard of his talent. After my father commissioned me to make a fountain exceptional enough to match his conservatory, I designed this model to glorify the eternal beauty of the camellia. The white marble comes from Italy, from Luni to be exact. I preferred it to Carrara because it was more suitable for the delicate work of chiseling the petals. For the leaves, the artist used Italian marble from Prato. (*6.) In short, the most beautiful raw materials were brought together for him to make this masterpiece."
"The leaves seem to be piled up haphazardly. A gust of wind, and they could blow away," Scarlett laughed. They made up the base that was sealed to the ground. The pyramidal shape was refined until thin garlands of jagged leaves encircled the shaft and ran under the basin.
"I confess that I complicated the sculptor's task by requiring him to cut into the mass of interlocking leaves, so that the corolla would be round and tight."
Scarlett was enchanted. "How could he manage to imprint the delicate grain of each petal in stone? And those stamens..." She leaned over to examine them more closely. "They look like..." She did not continue, so whimsical did her idea seem.
"Their filaments are of Murano blown glass, a beautiful bright yellow. But, of course, as a seasoned shopkeeper - and lady of taste - you noticed this point of detail: the anthers crowning them are solid gold."
"What extravagance!"
He laughed outright. "And again, you haven't seen everything! Continue your exploration, please."
In the middle of the camellia, where the pistil should have been, rose an elegant column of green marble leaves where white buds were emerging, ready to open. From the top of the column, at head height, rose another white marble camellia, about twenty inches wide. This time, the dress dipped downwards, but the front petals were widely raised. A small cylindrical faucet protruded from its center. Under the effect of the light of the stained glass window, the fountain's mouth sparkled.
"A flow of gold," commented the woman who had suffered so much from poverty during the war in Tara, in wonderment.
"That's the right word. You can drink the water safely. At this location, access to a natural underground spring has been dug. By pressing the hidden button at the back, you activate the pumping mechanism. The water is always fresh and pure." As he did so, he leaned slightly to lap up the trickle of clear water a few inches from the tap, positioning himself facing the inside of the corolla.
Scarlett couldn't help but find the scene unsettling, and discreetly raised an eyebrow in happy surprise. He's not old enough to have Rhett's experience. But he does have a talent for turning the most innocuous gesture into a lustful evocation.
With a small wave of his hand, he invited her to do the same. Curious to hydrate herself so simply in such an outrageously rich environment, she pressed the button to squirt the spring water. Too tempted to test the texture of the precious metal, her mouth was only millimeters from the tap, when two green eyes stared back at her. In surprise, she took a step back.
Duncan laughed at her astonishment.
The curious young woman couldn't stand it any longer, so she approached the inside of the camellia again to understand. Just above the water outlet, two huge emerald irises, lined with lashes, peered through the foliage.
"The eyelashes are composed of tiny black diamonds, the same gemstone that acts as the pupils. But these mesmerizing emeralds, encrusted for eternity in that cold stone, are but a pale imitation of the ones I would like to cover you with. If only you would like."
The sentence had been faintly whispered. It was audible enough to make the atmosphere more and more intoxicated.
Affecting detachment, she asked, "Did your sketch anticipate this detail, or did you get the idea of adding it after hearing the poem by that French writer you told me about? "'To Two Beautiful Green Eyes,' if I remember correctly?"
Duncan's reply was cryptic: "Maybe..."
This was eloquent enough for the former Clayton County belle who tried to control the rush of her breathing.
He continued. "Since we arrived, we have traveled many miles across the estate. You must be exhausted. Before we leave for Charleston again, you'd better rest for a few minutes, especially since it's going to be a long evening. Don't forget we are guests at my friends Rebecca and John Paxton's house tonight. I suggest you enjoy this broken duchess. The goose feather cushions will be a treat to your tired feet."
She followed his suggestion and settled herself comfortably in front of the terracotta bust, one arm resting on the armrest and her legs slightly bent over the silky tapestry, without revealing an inch of her calves.
This seat was surprisingly too sophisticated compared to the rattan chairs. She had recognized the Louis XVI style favored by her grandfather Robillard. It was composed of three parts, two armchairs facing each other, separated by a stool of the same size.
Elegance and sophistication, as always associated with Duncan Vayton. Although the silk covering looks very tired to me. Nice, but the colors are faded and the weave is worn. Probably the only piece of furniture on this plantation that is not in pristine condition.
The textile specialist finished pondering the useless reason for this incongruous detail, only to observe Duncan pull a bottle of champagne from a rustic-looking cooler. He grabbed two glasses from a small cabinet and filled them.
Sitting down in the other chair on the daybed, he toasted, "To you, Dearest, whose presence has, once again, made every second spent with you sparkle."
As she moistened her lips with the little bubbles she enjoyed even more by frequenting the couturier, she gazed again at the enchanted canopy.
"Winter garden... do you often enjoy this place when it's cold?"
"Especially at that time of year. After an invigorating walk, my mother and sister used to take great pleasure in enjoying the warmth of the faint winter sunlight, caught through the wide-open shuttered skylights. I am sure they must miss these interludes at Magnolias' Mansion. As for me, when I lived in France, I sometimes felt nostalgic for our beautiful country. My thoughts turned to this place, which best symbolizes the softness of life in Soft South. Since my return, would I confess that not a fortnight goes by without me coming to our native house? Of course, first of all, to keep an eye on our crops and the sound management of the farm. But on each of my visits, I indulge in the ritual of spending an hour in this Eden. Inside those glass windows, nothing affects me anymore. Not the hustle and bustle of New York or the forced sociability of Charleston, not the workload of the workshop, not even the fever of creation. Gilding society has no place in this haven of peace. The plants are dormant. The ones that were scattered in pots outside have gone inside, protected from the frost. Time has stopped. In this torpor, I sometimes devote myself to reading. In fact, you can see some books on this table. My employees make sure that this place is impeccable in anticipation of my visit. The humidor and the ice-box are always stocked. But, I confess, I mostly indulge in the guilty vice of laziness."
He had lowered his eyelids briefly, the better to savor this lust forbidden to so powerful a businessman.
"I am touched that you confide in me about your dear Soft South, with the same sincerity that was mine in telling you about Tara. I am discovering you in a new light. Very nice..." - she fluttered her eyelashes. "You always manage to surprise me. I would never have imagined the Prince of Haute Couture as a melancholy hero, daydreaming at the foot of the camellias!"
She concludes with a cascade of laughter immediately joined by those of her day partner.
He slid slightly from the chair to the stool, only inches away from Scarlett's bare feet.
"You are irresistible! And you are fully aware of it, of course... You embody so much joie de vivre! What vitality you have! It's true that I myself would find it hard to imagine you being inactive, even for half an hour. Between running your business, your clientele that you must pamper, your charities, the governance of your household staff, not to mention, of course, your role as the perfect mother of two children, I fear that you simply do not have time for yourself."
For a few moments his hand had been hovering over her ankles, not touching them. She hadn't noticed when he'd moved, but with a silent gesticulation, he was now sitting in the middle, against Scarlett's legs. This proximity, which a short time ago would have been totally unthinkable because it was scandalously contrary to propriety, seemed to her to be a normal development in their relationship. Well... almost...
"I wish you would finally think of yourself, Scarlett. Your intimate happiness. For so many years, you've been bravely fighting alone for yours. I wish I could take that burden off your shoulders, or at least lighten it - if you're willing."
He's about to make an unforgettable declaration of love to me. Which doesn't surprise me at all. I've been expecting it for some time. But... am I ready to answer him? To hide her uncertainty, she batted her eyelashes again, slightly drowning out her irises so that he could read the emotion in them. She had a long history of doing this on command...
"You've guessed it, haven't you? Of course, I conduct myself so awkwardly when you are near, that it is ridiculous." He shrugged imperceptibly and sighed, "For one of the rarest time in my life, I am bewildered. From the first minute, you have hypnotized me. Oh, of course, without meaning to. But, since then, I see nothing but you, I think of nothing but you, I dream of nothing but you."
Scarlett felt a blush gradually creep up her neck and into her cheeks. It had been so long... so long since she had heard words of love. Of course there was Ashley. But, as usual, he was procrastinating, not daring. Fortunately, in fact!
To make sure of her power over him, she stared at him intensely. Two opals were devouring her.
Then his firm arms embraced it, pushing it towards the back of the chair to better imprison it.
As in Tara, she was disconcerted by his ardor, which, like a torrent, threatened to sweep away everything in its path.
The shape of the buttons on his waistcoat penetrated her bustier, so much he held her in a vice.
Was she still breathing? For answer, Duncan's full lips crushed against hers.
And she answered him. Forbidding this time any intrusion of other thoughts, other kisses from another. It was too pleasant to feel her body ripple in waves under those youthful, bulging muscles.
Her chest was about to explode. She moved aside a little to catch her breath. Imperiously, he framed the face of his long artist fingers.
He took a sharp breath and stated simply, "I love you, Scarlett."
His mouth stuck again against her, preventing the young woman to pronounce the slightest sound. His tongue licked sensually on the palate, then it imposed a rhythm of frantic friction.
Finally he released her. Scarlett wanted to purr, so much the embrace had been... pleasant.
With the skill of a conjurer, he took from his jacket pocket a small box, and opened it.
Her eyes widened. The jewel caught the light of the illuminated stained glass window, turning the facets of the diamonds into a kaleidoscope of sparks.
Duncan couldn't control the tremor in his hand as he presented her with the ring.
An emerald. No, it was even more beautiful. A cameo cut in an emerald.
At the beginning of their marriage, Rhett had mentioned wanting to give her a cameo emerald one day. But they were extremely rare on the market. Then he'd stopped talking about it. After Bonnie was born, he probably felt that, since I'd forbidden him my bed, other, more accessible pieces of jewelry would suffice to satisfy me, since I was no longer worth the trouble of such a difficult quest...
In ecstasy, she detailed the treasure Duncan presented to her in its case, with the expertise of a woman accustomed to being showered with jewels.
It was an emerald cabochon in the shape of a pear. The design represented a flower with interlocking petals. The engraving was so delicate that the anthers of the stamens could be seen. The setting was set with small diamonds to accentuate the oval shape of the central stone. At the four ends, almost hidden by the precious stones, a small butterfly was discreetly placed on the edges of the cameo. The jeweler had completed his sophisticated composition by adding two tiny emeralds on one of the sides, emphasizing the original sinuosity of the cabochon. (*7)
Scarlett's eyes twinkled with excitement. "In my life I've never seen such an original piece of jewelry."
"Let me tell you its history. It was given by the Empress of Russia, the Great Catherine II, to her niece on the occasion of her engagement in 1780, and has travelled through time and space to long to be on your finger."
He had grabbed her left hand and was about to slide the ring onto her ring finger.
She protested, "Duncan, I can't accept a gift like that." Her brow furrowed in puzzlement.
"It was intended for you, but cannot compete with your incomparable brilliance. I must seem somewhat hasty. But what is the use of waiting? My fate was sealed from the first day we met. Since then, I cannot conceive of breathing without you by my side. My blood boils only for you. You are in my heart, in my veins. You are my life. So I implore you. I beg you. Accept to be my wife, Scarlett. Your family will be mine. I will love your children as my own. I promise to surround you with a halo of love and happiness."
Shocked by this burning confession, she remained motionless for a moment when he put the ring on her finger. Her chest heaved with the unruly rhythm of her heart.
She took a deep breath, "I don't know what to tell you. I am touched by your proposal, but... is it reasonable? I've been married three times, twice widowed. And my third marriage exploded in divorce. I have had three children, and Wade and Ella have only me to lean on. To be totally honest, if I were considering getting married again, it would be to you. For your countless qualities, and also for the feelings that blossom within me towards you. But... I'm not sure I want to risk my heart a fourth time. And also..." - She bit her lower lip - "and also life have forced me to fight alone. I've grown accustomed to independence. Even if my speech is discordant with that required of a great lady, I assume it. I want to continue to enjoy my freedom, to be the sole mistress of my enterprises, to dispose of my fortune independently, to be free in my movements, without having to ask a husband's permission to meet my friends or business relations, or to go on a trip wherever I please. I will add that no man will ever interfere again in the education of my two children. They have suffered enough. It saddens me to tell you this, but, please, take back your ring."
She felt more comfortable having emptied her heart. But she did not look up, so as not to read the disappointment of her spurned suitor.
With the tenacity of a man accustomed to sweeping away obstacles in his path, he forced her to look into his eyes.
What she saw made her blush. The azure blue was only a halo, drowned around a black abyss. Intense. Heavy with desire.
"I love you, because you are unique. Because you show a strength against adversity that would put most men to shame. Because your independence of spirit has managed to make sanctimonious, narrow-minded and stale people bow their heads. Because you are a woman as fearless as a thoroughbred that cannot be restrained. I will never have the impudence to dare hinder your freedom. My happiness will be to be at your side, as an attentive admirer of your needs and desires. I want to entertain you, make you laugh. To make you enjoy the pleasures of life that have deserted you during past griefs."
Intoxicated by this convincing ode to love, Scarlett couldn't resist his arms around her.
With a discreet gestures move, he was now half lying on top of her, one knee resting on the daybed, forcing her to spread her legs. His weight immobilized her.
Moreover, she had no desire to move. A languor slowly invaded every inch of her body.
She was floating in a cottony cloud. The universe was limited to this cozy bed, whose soft cushions had embedded her print ; to these glassed-in partitions, through which the round dance of the luxuriant vegetation incited to unfettered blossoming, accepting to bend only to better satisfy the soft caress of the sun; to this phantasmagorical sky, where a gigantic glass flower, chasing away all clouds, was a hymn to beauty; to this pleasure which went on every centimeter of her skin, winning the battle of youth against loneliness, and of the body against reason; to the promise of enjoyment of the bodies, when the crotch of the seducer, glued against her skirt, exhibited without modesty the violence of the desire to penetrate her.
She tried to come to her senses. A wedding! A new husband! After Rhett...
Rhett...
Drunk with this frenzy of emotions, colors and scents, she no longer fought against the dizziness that made images and voices clash in her head.
Rhett's white teeth. His full lips on her breasts. Duncan's long, expert fingers, traveling over the curve of her loins like a musician caressing the ribs of his violin. Rhett's iron hands gripping the rim of her skull in a pincer, threatening to explode it.
Fragments of voices, whose diffuse tone intensified, grew in the rhythm of the backwash, to soften on the shore. Until they were struck by other, lower tones that shattered everything in their path, as violent as a tornado mercilessly destroying whatever was in its way.
She wanted to press her forehead together to stop the voices. But Duncan's blond curls, running down her cheeks, mixing with her ebony hair, confused her even more.
She tried to banish the scathing phrases from her memory, to hear only the tender words. It was a waste of time.
If you go, what shall I do? Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"; my banishment from your bed I am cured of, thank God. I love you. Look at yourself in the mirror. She is well dead, the fair one of Clayton County. My blood boils only for you. You are in my heart, in my veins. You are my life. Our marriage is over. I want to move on. I want us to be friends again. Roselyne Tucker. Roselyne Tucker.
A voice, millimeters from her mouth, managed to penetrate the hubbub of her brain. "My ardent girl!"
To prove that she was the one who would ultimately win the victory over those cruel memories, pushing her lover away from her arms so that emeralds and opals could look at each other, she said calmly, "I accept."
ooooooooooOOOOOoooooooooo
Notes on Chapter 37.
(*1) South Carolina palmetto or cabbage palmetto : South Carolina Department of Natural Resources .
(*2) Blue granite from Winnsboro, South Carolina - source South Carolina Encyclopedia.
(*3) South Carolina flowers: CHS today, local news: chstoday. /south-carolina-native-flowers/
(*4) "S'offrir une danseuse, avoir sa danseuse" : "French expression whose origins date back to the 18th century. Theatres were surrounded by a parade of prostitutes who hovered around the well-to-do night revelers. As such, the Opera House, being the most notorious venue of the time, took the sobriquet of "whore market". In the 19th century, prostitution became commonplace and reached the interior of the theaters. The dancers were both dancing and selling their charms. While some were content with discreet passes, others took on the title of mistresses of high society men who spent enormous sums of money to satisfy the whims of these ladies. So that's where this expression came from, and it later broadened to include all the major expenses that one can devote to a passion." (source wikipedia)
(*5) The fountain is my "invention". I am referring to the Art Nouveau style which was officially "born" in 1880, in France, especially in Nancy, with Emile Gallé, Majorelle and Daum), in Germany with the Jungenstil style, or in the United States with Modern Art and Louis Comfort Tiffany. A little secret: when I was an antique dealer, I had the pleasure of selling many Art Nouveau antiques, inlaid tables by Gallé or (authentic) acid-etched vases signed by Gallé, Daum or others. This confrontation with the 1900 period, the most aesthetic, is certainly one of the best memories of my job.
(*6) Types of Italian marble used in the nineteenth century, Prato, dried up today: source .it .
(*7) Ring: I was inspired by a model, with some modifications so that the ring is not as ostentatious as the one Rhett gave Scarlett (source: archives July 20, 2013, "Important emerald cameo ring. Late 18th century work for the cameo. Late 19th century work") .
Note: I have no rights to the story and characters of Gone With the Wind, which belong to Margaret Mitchell. I created the "world" of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart.