Note: Will you forgive me for taking so long to update? The guiding ideas for this new chapter were in my head, but I found myself staring at the blank page of Word, for days. So much so that I doubted I would ever be able to write again. It's true that I had imagined so much, since the first line of the novel, the real moment of Scarlett and Rhett's reunion (without considering the train). The stakes were high, every word counted. I was not sure I would be able to write the feeling I wanted to display here, especially since I had to deal with some unusual descriptions... Well, I got there - I hope!
By the way, do not forget the rating…
My heartfelt thanks to those who favorited The Boutique Robillard or who posted comments. They will warm my heart until the end of this story.
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Chapter 42. The Brush
Monday, 5th of July 1876, 1:40 pm
"Alone at last!" This had been pronounced in French with a greedy air.
Scarlett felt a wave of heat pass through her.
Which she immediately blamed on the sun's reflection against the car windows.
The delicate strawberry dessert devoured, the last drop of coffee nectar savored, Scarlett did not wait for George to come and clear the tray, and put it on a sideboard, to take advantage of the whole surface of the big table.
"Let's work, now!" She had spoken in such an authoritative tone that a taunting glint sprang from Rhett's dark eyelids, "Wow! Take it easy, Mrs. Butler!"
The use of her old title made her bristle. She glared at him, but... immediately regretted it as she did not miss his mimicry announcing a mockery : he was reveling in having succeeded in getting her off her back.
Falsely contrite, he corrected, "Pardon me... Miss O'Hara. Did you suddenly resume the command of your forced laborers at the sawmill?"
She didn't give him the pleasure of answering his question, and began to lower the thin wooden shutters to half height.
The consequence was immediate: he ostensibly ran his tongue over his lower lip slowly: "Would this subdued atmosphere be a premise for stronger intimacy?"
At the insinuation, Scarlett's cheeks turned color. "It's too hot in your billionaire train. I need to be cool to work. Because, if I did agree to be locked in this car with you, it is to work. It is high time you showed me the financial set-up of the Foundation."
He bowed, hand on heart, pretending to be solemn, and said in French: "A vos ordres, Madame! (At your service)
Casually, he placed his briefcase on the table and opened it.
It was full to the brim.
"Would the crazy idea of me studying the sum of these documents in the afternoon have crossed your mind?"
His outspoken laughter bounced against the walls of the car. "Far be it from me to waste your energy on such thankless tasks. I would prefer that you focus it on more... How shall I put it?"
To put an end to his undoubtedly biased wishes, Scarlett grabbed the first file in the stack. As she lifted it, she was surprised to see a small bronze case and an enameled iron box. Instinctively, her fingers grasped the golden box. But, realizing that Rhett was about to mock her curiosity, her hand fell back on the cookie jar.
"Calissons from Merriwether's bakery! What a clever idea that she was inspired by a French recipe, made with candied melon paste and almond. They are all the rage in Atlanta. I love them!"
She was about to open the package when Rhett talked her out of it: "I am very sorry, but these are not for your delectable palate. I bought them especially for my mother who loves them. She asks for them every time I come to Atlanta. I packed them in this suitcase in a hurry because, as you know, at the end of our trip to Washington, I'll be staying on this train and going straight to New Orleans, before returning to Charleston. By the way, rest assured: everything inside is for the Battery. Except for this file, which I agree is substantial enough to keep us busy for two hours."
Scarlett said nothing, but she couldn't suppress a frown. So this box, which has all the makings of a jewel box, is going to Charleston. In the hands of Roselyne Tucker...
Nervously, she grabbed the binder and sat down around the table.
oooOOooo
He had pushed his chair next to hers so that he could comment, line by line, on the accounting entries for each transaction.
There was enough light in the living room to easily study the typed or handwritten pages, but the semi-darkness provided by the shutters contributed to the studious, quiet and intimate atmosphere.
Too intimate for the young woman's taste.
I need to focus on the numbers, only the numbers...
"Tomorrow afternoon, at 5:00 p.m., you will meet, in a private room of our hotel, our team of eight lawyers and accountants, whom I have asked to travel from New York. My attorney has selected them for their ability to control costs and optimize investments and profits. We demand rigor and probity from them, that goes without saying. But, as you know, I am not a partridge of the year... "
He stopped, forcing her to lift her eyes from the documents to look at him. His black pupils were curling, waiting for a reaction from her.
She conceded this pleasure, "You are the age of an old horsehide, indeed."
Her reply seemed to delight his expectations. He laughed. "And you, Miss O'Hara, are as refreshing as the first time someone dared to tell you that you were not a lady!"
Her nostrils dilated, she blew briefly to externalize her irritation.
"These truths being clearly expressed, I would tell you, then, that my old age has made me suspicious of the grandiloquence of the description of an honest gentleman, Northern or Southern. Especially since the most immaculate soul can be darkened when confronted with a gold mine. For example, take a look at the budget of the operation."
Scarlett gasped as she counted the number of digits indicating the total amount of money involved.
"You will understand why I want to keep all my trump cards in hand. You are my master card – or more my mistress card indeed - that will make them realize that they will have their work cut out for them with you, to even consider the beginnings of the tiniest attempt to embezzle a dime."
That was enough to annoy Scarlett : "I am not a card in your poker game, Rhett Butler. Much less your mistress!"
With that, she lined up a stack of documents and braced their edges against the table.
He leaned back, making the muscles of his chest protrude, so apparent under his white silk shirt that she looked away, annoyed by so much virile unpacking.
"It's a shame because that prospect is still so appealing..."
"Let's get to the facts, because, if this continues, we will have arrived in Washington before we have read the first page."
They reviewed the two properties. Harry Bennett, as Atlanta's Director of Arts and Culture, had arranged to roll out the red carpet for the Bonnie Blue Butler Arts Museum. The city paid half of the building's construction costs, with the other half paid by the Foundation. The prestige of the latter was well worth the investment of Georgia's capital town, especially since the museum would become the city's new architectural flagship, combining the elegance of the Colonial style with a touch of modernism.
It was different in Charleston. As a matter of principle, Rhett had insisted in the end on full ownership of the building by committing his own funds.
Scarlett reviewed the leases between the two municipalities and the museum. They then studied the costs of fitting out the Charleston and Atlanta facilities, since the inviolability of the walls was paramount to guarantee the security of the antiquities rented from the Musée du Louvre.
The payroll allocated to the staff of the two entities, artistic experts, executives, tour guides, event planners and hall guards, was a mere trifle drowned out by this pharaonic machinery. The adjective, in this case, was apt.
The numbers were starting to get confused in Scarlett's head. Certainly not from lack of familiarity with the long hours of going over business accounting.
Merely because, as the minutes passed, she felt more and more uncomfortable.
Brought by a gesticulation - which she judged suspicious - to reach a file, Rhett had come so close to Scarlett that his knee was now stuck to hers. The heat which radiated from his muscular thighs crossed the thickness of her skirt until igniting her skin.
Her left leg began to tremble involuntarily. Why was her body betraying her like this?
Lest he should notice - for his dominant male instinct sensed the most imperceptible reactions of her body - Scarlett copied his maneuver: she too, grabbing other documents from the case, took advantage of it to lift herself from her seat and move to a few salvific centimeters from the inferno that sought to envelop her.
She no longer understood what was in her mind. Why was she reacting like this? What the hell! I have known him for ages. I lived with him. He was my husband for five years. He shared my bed - briefly, I grant it, but still... We made a child together. - She preferred to chase away the pain that threatened to arise. And during all this time of cohabitation, I had only one desire, that he was not in the same room as me so that I could breathe at my ease. So, what is the point of this emotion worthy of the old white goose-like India Wilkes, or worse, of the immaculate Aunt Pitty...
Refusing this ridiculous introspection, she opted for action.
"What are the most expensive categories?"
He explained to her the broad outlines of debits. "One might think that the rental of the works of art would be the most expensive. But its final cost is reasonable because it is part of a program of mutual exhibitions organized by our Federal State and France. Our young and dynamic Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York plays an important role. On the other hand, it took me a year of arduous negotiations with the two largest banks to ensure that their required insurance premiums would cover the colossal risks of damage to these irreplaceable antiquities. Logistics is the third major item in the debits" - his finger brushed Scarlett's hand to indicate the line of accounting entries - "Fortunately, our team of professional handlers, hired from the Louvre Museum, is the most experienced in moving these tons of stone by mechanical winch. Wooden crates are specially made for each of these treasures so that they can withstand shocks or untimely movements during transport. The same mechanism will be used for land transport by train and the loading of the boats.
"I assume you have carefully selected the shipping company."
He said, "Absolutely! The one that will shuttle between the French port of Le Havre and the one in Charleston is the best. Mine!"
The young woman frowned. "Yours? But then, why are these rates so high?"
Taking a drag on the end of his cigar, he stared at her intently, "My dear, my freighters must be making a profit. Big profits. Donor contributions are intended to cover those costs. My scruples in this matter would have been inappropriate: another shipping company would have had the same requirements, given the specificity of the goods. So I might as well have that little bit of money in my pocket.
Inwardly, Scarlett had no problem with the Butler companies' involvement in the financing of the two museums. She would have reacted the same way, even if it had been for her daughter's foundation. These costs could not be spared. So why leave subsequent gains to others?
But he continued: "Besides..." He leaned in close to her, and in a warm voice, asked her, "I once warned you that I don't do anything for free and that I always expect to be paid for my actions - one way or another. Do you remember that?"
She shivered and saw herself inside the prison again. Her desperate need for Rhett's money to save Tara. He, tormented her to extract the compensation she was agreeing to offer him. And she, cornered, ready to become his mistress for three hundred dollars. Until this vermin told her he wouldn't give her a penny.
She stood up abruptly from the table and looked out the window.
The train arrived at the station. A large sign indicated Lula, Georgia. (*1). Passengers were waiting on the platform until the train came to a complete stop. The whistle of the locomotive drowned out the squeal of the brakes.
She heard him clear his throat behind her. Perhaps he had realized the impudence of his words? No! Rhett Butler, feeling embarrassed? He doesn't know the meaning of the word. Still eager to torment me, even after all these years.
Suddenly she felt nostalgic for Duncan.
Duncan, so loving, so caring, so sensitive to her slightest reactions... What was she doing locked in this car with a man who had cut all ties with her to the point of becoming a stranger?
"Would you like us to take a break before we resume reviewing the documents? I'll ask George to bring some drinks." His intonation had lost its usual hint of sarcasm. If she had been more attentive, she would have even perceived some discomfort.
He stood behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. She pulled away abruptly.
In a dry voice, she assured, "No, let's get it over with." And she returned to her seat to dive into the number sequence.
"Let's move on to the most pleasing part, that of the Foundation's assets. Over the past two and a half years, I have built a network of politicians, industrialists, bankers and art-loving billionaires. All of them have been sensitive to my ambition to organize in America a bridge between immortal Ancient Egypt and the avant-garde pictorial current of the French Impressionists. They set themselves up as patrons, of course, but their generosity, as you can bet, is not free. This is why I proposed that each work presented be labeled with the name of a "sponsor," with the most prestigious objects linked to the largest donors. This idea satisfied many. Altruistic, certainly, but all the happier that their philanthropic action will be publicly recognized. They were eager to get the ball rolling. Their contributions have exceeded my expectations. This allows us to look forward to the future with peace of mind.
Rhett was proud to tell Scarlett the result of his work that would perpetuate their daughter's name.
"I assume Duncan is at the top of your list of patrons, right?"
She saw him stiffen. His smile disappeared. His tone of voice hardened.
"I had thought to solicit the almighty Vayton & Son Limited Company." He let out a chuckle. "Isn't that ironic? I was going to ask billionaire Duncan Vayton during his fashion show. And then... And then, the Thunder of Georgia struck ... "
"I am sure Duncan will be eager to give his obol - or more accurately, his millions. The Charleston Museum will revolutionize art in his hometown, and who better than a great artist like him to embrace the abundance of art in America. Of course, he'll feel all the more involved because it's my daughter's - our daughter's - foundation. I'll talk to him about it."
"No way !" His implacable voice echoed against the glass walls. As sharp as the finest steel blade.
Surprised by this reaction, she wanted to insist. "His prodigalities would substantially expand our catalog of exceptional antiquities."
"No way !"
Five letters launched as violently as a cannonball.
An awkward silence fell. All that could be heard was the screeching of the brakes as the train slowed down.
oooOOooo
He grabbed the file and put it on top of the pile of documents in the briefcase. "I think we've covered everything, at least in broad terms. You are now perfectly equipped to take on a brigade of financiers." His intonation had become light again as if his outburst of a few seconds ago had not existed.
He consulted his watch. "4:25 pm. We have been working for more than two and a half hours. We are entering the Toccoa station. (*1). Have you ever taken a ride to Toccoa Falls in Georgia?"
She did not bother to answer. He knew that the cities she had visited could be counted on the fingers of two hands.
"They are more than 190 feet high. Their name comes from the Cherokee. "Tagwâ′hĭ".
She was not surprised to hear him say a word in the language of an Indian tribe. What doesn't he know, anyway? She kept her reflection to herself. There was no need to flatter his penchant for boasting...
"It means beautiful." His dark prismatic eyes detailed her up and down. "Gorgeous. Stunning... "
Shaking off an untimely shiver, she moved to escape his gaze, "Since we are not working anymore, I am going to freshen up and rest."
With that, she disappeared into her room.
oooOOoo
The whistle of the locomotive woke her up.
Over the megaphone, the stationmaster announced, "Seneca, North Carolina. Three-minute stop!"
Emerging from the limbo of a restorative nap, she was taken aback for a moment. Oh yes! The train...
Her eyes fell on the ceiling decorated with a medallion as wide as the bed. She never imagined she would discover a painted vault in a train. I should use it as inspiration for my house.
It was a real bed sky, with a bluish background from which a few light cirrus clouds emerged - Scarlett was proud to note that she still remembered the specific name of clouds laboriously learned at school -. On either side of the arches, shrubs climbed to stand out in scarlet clusters. She had no trouble identifying the fuchsias with their drooping bells of red sepals and purple petals. Around them swirled iridescent-feathered hummingbirds that swooped toward their prime target, the long stamens that the hummingbirds would pollinate. The artist had pushed the refinement to its paroxysm by projecting here and there some fruits of the flower so that it seemed that the reddish berries were going to burst on the bed.
"How comfortable this bed is!" The voluminous bedspread, in damask garnet red velvet, was magnified by the gleaming gilt of the bronze headboard.
The immaculate white silk sheets caressed her skin. She stretched her arms languidly. The mattress could easily accommodate a couple without either of them having to touch each other, so wide was it...
Rhett!
For a few minutes, she had almost forgotten that he was standing a few feet away from her.
She stood up quickly, smoothed her dress, and fixed her bun.
She brought with her luggage the French perfume that Duncan had given her. This eau de Cologne had been created for Empress Eugenie, the wife of Napoleon III. The perfumer Guerlain had insisted that the bottle be worthy of the queen by covering the embossed bees with gold leaf. Upon surprising her with this gift, her fiancé passionately said: "The honor of having created dresses for the Empress of France has become insignificant since you are my muse. Accept this modest perfume - Before I imagine one, especially for my Thunder of Georgia!"
She dabbed the precious liquid behind her ear, on her throat, and in the hollow of her wrists. Such a prestigious car decor deserves to be honored. It has nothing to do with Rhett's presence a few steps away...
oooOOoo
The living room was empty. No one in the dining room.
If he is in his room, good for him. There's no way I'm knocking on his door.
She arrived at the back of the car. Another lounge, upholstered armchairs, and rocking chairs. An invitation to relax.
The room was flooded with light: through the windows on the right and left, larger than in the other rooms; but also at the end of the car through three full-length glass windows, the middle one acting as a door leading to the outside gallery.
Rhett was sitting in a swivel chair, head down, smoking his cigar. A newspaper abandoned on the floor. A half-full glass on a side table. He appeared to be deep in thought.
He swiveled the chair in her direction when he heard her footsteps.
He stood up and curved theatrically with his hand over his heart to greet her. "Welcome to the observation deck!"
"Do you think you are on the deck of your ship, Captain Butler?"
"The sea spray there is less vivifying. But it has two advantages: it moves faster, and more importantly, instead of having to endure the proximity of hairy, smelly sailors, it allows me to breathe in the most delicate of scents!"
Scarlett hid her satisfaction that he had smelled her new fragrance. "This room is aptly named. What an impressive view!"
"While you were entrusting your satiny cheek to a lucky pillow, and leaving me for an interminable hour, we arrived in North Carolina. Isn't it a beautiful sight to see these Blue Ridge Mountains?"
"I slept for so long?"
Past her surprise, she amused herself by giving him a sideways glance: "Your conversation is indeed exhausting..."
He jumped at the chance to tease her: "I wish we could have worn ourselves out in some other way..." The allusion made Scarlett raise her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. He'll never change...
"The porter just supplied us with invigorating drinks. I shall give George Pullman credit for the quality of his cellar. Whiskey straight from the best distillery in Scotland." He walked over to the sideboard where several bottles were stored and filled another glass. "Unless you insist on being served tea, this brandy from his special reserve will set off fireworks on your connoisseur's taste buds."
The phrase had been uttered lightly, but Scarlett, always on the lookout for his sarcasm, understood the thinly veiled allusion to her former drinking binges. She was tempted to affront him and opt for freshwater. But she needed at least this small stimulant to support the presence of her former husband until Thursday. Bitterly, she thought to herself: I will probably need a whole bottle to survive this forced cohabitation...
Savoring the comforting drops of alcohol on her tongue, she stared, without paying attention, at the landscape.
He stood next to her. "From these mountains, we may see a bear emerge. It reminds me of some of my trips west on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. The train passed through the vast, deserted prairies, occupied only by a few wild animals. Without consulting each other, about twenty of us gunfighters - or those who claimed to be gunfighters - fired in concert at a herd of buffalos that had the misfortune of grazing the railroad tracks." (*2)
Wanting to take his conquering male smugness down a notch, she asserted, "I doubt that many of you have done them any harm."
Amused by this attempt to pass the buck of teasing, he brushed her fingers with his glass of whiskey: "Few have succeeded, it is true. But I was one of the few to shoot one. On another trip across Colorado, we came across a herd of antelopes. Responding to the excitement of the men on board, the conductor stopped the train so we could get off. The episode ended with an impromptu pronghorn antelope hunt. A beautiful memory of the Wild West." (*3)
Annoyed by this evocation so in conformity with his image of a predator, she moved away with disdain: "Pff…! Nothing extraordinary here. The hunting of gazelles has long been your specialty. Although your rheumatism must handicap you from now on to be able to pursue them... "
His thunderous laughter broke out. Powerful. Happy. "Ah, Miss O'Hara, your repartee continues to amaze me - and brighten my day."
"Because I am right. You are too old, Rhett Butler, to keep your tawdry title of the beater."
A minute passed before he replied, speaking so low that she found it hard to understand, "It's been a very long time since a single trophy has monopolized my efforts."
Wearily, not wanting to debate the identity of this famous trophy, she eons ago, or Roselyne Tucker today, she selected a fashion magazine among the newspapers procured by the porter, and settled in the most beautiful seat of the observation deck.
Displayed in the middle of the room, its shape was unique. Its three small upholstered seats were placed side by side and inverted, forming two intertwined spirals. The armrest joining them was in walnut, carved with angels' heads surrounded by birds and rosebuds.
"What finesse of execution! It's exquisite." Her fingers lingered on the wings of the cherubs.
Rhett came to join her to occupy the second seat. "Um... Could this be a subtle call to engage in intimate conversation with your neighbor?"
She rolled her eyes, "I know this chair is called a Confidant. But don't have any illusions, I'm not going to tell you anything in confidence."
"These salacious revelations would be inappropriate, as they could be heard by an eavesdropper with his back to us. That's why this set is called Indiscreet. Because of the second man!"
His accuracy made him laugh so hard that he almost swallowed his whiskey wrong. "You sat here on purpose. Didn't you, Scarlett? To remind me that there will always be a second man."
She only gave him a big angry sigh in response and plunged into reading.
There was silence for a few minutes until Rhett broke it.
"Instead of the mountains of North Carolina, I wish I had shown you the pyramids."
She looked up from her paper in astonishment, "I must have misheard. Don't tell me you would have dragged me to Egypt!"
For once, he refused to enter into the game of mutual teasing. His intonation was melancholic: "All these years spent knowing each other, for one single trip together. Do you remember New Orleans?"
What answer did he want from her? That it had been a time of dreams, laughter, and parties... until his strange disappearance. No, she would not reveal to him the nostalgia that rose in puffs at every mention of the pearl of Louisiana.
She remained silent.
"I should have made you discover the wild Parisian cabarets, the balls in Vienna where we would have waltzed all night, the gondola ride on the Grand Canal, where, after passing under the Rialto, we would have been invited by the Venetian aristocracy to decadent parties, hidden under our masks. Instead, I told myself: afterward, in a month, in a year, when everything will be better... I was wrong. I should have convinced you. I should have dragged you out of your sawmill and made you discover the beauties of the world. Time went by so fast... "
He put his arm along the cuff separating them. His hand covered hers.
She did not withdraw it. Paralyzed by what looked like a confession. Or maybe it was just an empty phrase, uttered without real regret.
Rhett's accent became more and more drawling. "When you approach the pyramids, you are enveloped by stillness. There is no more room for feverish agitation, battles, jealousies, or resentments. Only the realization of our tiny contribution to the continuity of the human species has meaning. A short life on the scale of a grain of sand in the desert. But that was enough to illuminate with happiness those who remained. An eternal love. An eternal void."
She perceived his tone breaking. She could not suppress a throaty sound like a sob.
Her hand was so small under his. She intertwined their fingers.
In the silence, they let themselves be lulled by the regular rocking of the train. The vision of the villages and fields that alternated on three sides in the panorama contributed to hypnotizing them.
How long did they stay like that?
It was the untimely whistle of the locomotive that brought them out of their sweet torpor.
Scarlett's hand came free to grab her magazine.
Rhett cleared his throat to regain his bantering tone: "Although I doubt that visiting old stone blocks embedded in the sand would have amused you for long, I believe you would have been fascinated by the myths of the deities and their scandalous family histories. Besides, I met a goddess there. With green eyes. I took her with me to America."
She straightened up to wedge her vertical spine against the backrest. That would perhaps enable her to drive out the weight which suddenly tightened her ribs.
He continued: "She is called Karomama. (*4). I must say she has perfect curves."
She sensed that he was watching for her reaction. No, I won't give you the pleasure of being indignant!
"She is draped in gold and silver. Of this debauchery of light, I only noticed her eyes. Green. Like yours."
The former Belle of Tara didn't hide her irritation when she heard him talking about this Egyptian "beauty".
To deliver the final blow, he concluded: "She is twenty inches high, and is older than you since it dates from 870 years before Jesus Christ".
Scarlett pinched her lower lip. What an idiot I am. He is talking about a statue. His goddess, his Karo-whatever is a statue. He described her as a dream creature on purpose, believing that I would fall into his trap. When will he stop his trick?
Obviously, he had perceived her irritation. The opposite would have been surprising...
"I must confess to you, though. Even if I know it will flatter your pride. The real emeralds she is adorned with are dull next to the ones that shine when you are ready to pull out your lioness claws."
Not knowing if she should feign offense and hide a dimple that was beginning to grow under the effect of the compliment, she got up to pour herself a glass of water.
With no more neighbors to pester, he straightened up. "Besides..." He left in the direction of the living room.
He returned almost immediately, carrying a small velvet bag in his hand.
With an imperious air, he ordered her: "Give me your wrist. And without waiting for the rebuff that was coming, he grabbed her right arm.
With the agility of a magician, he made the protective fabric disappear. A jewel of a magnificence that took her breath away appeared before Scarlett's wide eyes.
Rhett's face beamed with pleasure, seeing the wonder his little surprise was bringing.
Almost shyly, the woman he had so much spoiled with the most extravagant ornaments available in Georgia, touched with her finger the bracelet still seated in Rhett's palm. (*5)
She first looked at the inner rim. Never, never, she had had the impression to touch molten gold. She did not realize at which point her caress appeared sensual to the experienced pleasure-seeker who spied her least reaction. She did not care, lost in her sensations. The patina was strangely soft and hard under the pulp of her finger. Blindly, she followed the imperceptible unevenness, witnesses of the goldsmith's hammering a little too roughly. It was strange to imagine that, if she pressed a little more, her imprint would be embedded in the precious metal forever.
She continued her curious investigation of the outer rim, not even thinking of taking hold of the object to examine it more closely. It seemed to belong in the palm of this large hand, the only one able to cover the length of the jewel.
Two seated lions surrounded by vegetation in perspective, cut through the gold so that they appear free to escape. The gem expert that she had become admired the colored inlays in red, white, and green. She followed the fall of the green mane, the color of her eyes.
Finally breaking the magical silence, he clarified, "The clustered chips of glass between the gold lace are over two thousand years old."
She stayed agape, amazed by this dating.
Tenderly, with his free hand, he flew over the shape of her open lips. "No young woman in the world has so beautifully embodied the expression of the heart-shaped mouth."
Finally realizing their unsettling closeness, she let go of both jewel and hand to distance herself.
"Will this beauty be part of the Egyptian antiquities displayed in one of our museums?"
Taking hold of her arm with authority, he opened the closure hinges and slowly encircled the thin wrist with the wide gold hoop. "I have found a more beautiful case to show it off in."
She had the reflex to remove it right away, but could not. In what she hoped was a convincing tone, she demanded, "Take it off. I cannot accept this gift. And you know why." She glanced at him intensively on purpose, for him to catch the unspoken meaning of her refusal.
Obviously, he understood immediately. He frowned but quickly dispelled the disturbance that had darkened his features. "Ah, of course, I understand your scruples. But, please, don't misunderstand me. Even if its beauty will be enhanced by the finesse of your delicate wrist, this gift is by no means a trick of mine as an old seducer to corrupt you. We are past that point, aren't we, Miss O'Hara?"
But she did not loosen her teeth. There is no way I am going to accept any jewelry from him. Has he lost his mind? What would Duncan think?
He nodded slightly, as he used to do in front of her when she was still Charles' widow, when he wanted to achieve his goal by hiding his true motives from her. "Let's see, this is not the gift of a lover, but a partner. Tomorrow we have an appointment with a key figure who will seal the collaboration of our foundation with the Federal State. He might as well see, in person, an example of the ancient beauties that American art lovers will discover thanks to our initiative. You will serve as a sort of living mannequin to represent our action."
As she raised an eyebrow at the term, he clarified: "Just as Duncan Vayton asks you to wear his designed clothes to promote his fashion house, why don't you agree to wear a sample from our catalog?"
Eventually, she nodded. She was finally convinced by his argument. If I explain the topic this way, Duncan won't mind.
But, so why this bitter taste under her tongue? Am I ridiculous for assuming that this bracelet had a hidden meaning. Flooding his former wife with jewels would no longer occur to him.
A brief image came to prove her right. The bronze case in the briefcase. If that bracelet had been inside, he would have given it to me at the same time. No, there is something else inside. And it's not for me. The box goes to Charleston... To Roselyne Tucker...
oooOOooo
It was time for dinner. George had set the table in the dining room. Porcelain plates with a gold pattern stamped with the GP monogram. Every little detail mattered in the Pullman luxury cars. There were no less than eight crystal glasses set, in a gradation of sizes, on the embroidered tablecloth.
Scarlett had been immersed with delight in the menu of The Delmonico restaurant for the past fifteen minutes. (*6)
"Do you plan to try all eighty different dishes by Thursday? If so, I am afraid you will have to change your wardrobe when we arrive."
She didn't even give him the alms of a reaction. His goal in life is to provoke me to see if I will jump in his face. But Rhett always liked to see me eat my fill. So there is no reason to be picky like Mammy demanded. She continued to read the titles, which were poems in themselves.
"Until you have salivated enough to order, let's get down to business. What would you like to drink? Would you be tempted by an evening of champagne?"
Without looking up from the menu, she said flatly, "Champagne dinner is in no way appropriate for a business meal. Then, looking him straight in the eye: "Reassure me. Our fifty-two-hour train ride is exclusively a business trip, right?"
He did not confirm. "In that case, why don't we try a red Martini as an aperitif, the vermouth imported from Italy? As for the choice of white and red wines, the best vintage ones are available, and I shall choose them accordingly to your order of recipes. As usual, your wishes will be mine..."
His satisfied laughter stretched to end - she didn't need to check it - with a suggestive pout.
She lifted her chin and stared at him defiantly, only to return to her reading and conclude, "What a funny idea this turtle soup is as an appetizer! I'd rather opt for a dozen raw oysters."
"A legend claims that turtle soup has aphrodisiac properties. Sharing one with you is enticing. However, I align myself with your choice and will do the same."
With a bantering air, she commented: "Well then! Usually, you sublimate the roasted oysters which are - how did our hostess say it, your friend who has concocted them for you - ah yes, I remember the adjective she used: so fleshy. "
Satisfied that she had been able to express her disdain for one of her former husband's many mistresses, she closed the leather menu holder, "I am going to indulge next in a quail stuffed with currants preserved in Armagnac. And you?"
"My carnivorous instincts would make me flinch at a nice, still-bloody rib eye, but the idea of going after a small quail with iridescent plumage convinces me."
"Pff…! You don't have enough liveliness left to catch some on the fly!"
He burst out laughing, a sound so infectious that it won her over too.
He paused only at the irruption of George clearing his throat to take the order.
The meal took place in gaiety, between tasty bites and spicy anecdotes about common acquaintances used to a dissolute life.
"The fateful hour has come when you will have to choose between twenty desserts. I notice that your normally smooth forehead is already wrinkling under the effect of intense cogitation."
"I am going to disappoint you because I shall limit myself to a peach sorbet. Binge eating intermittently is a sin to which I willingly succumb, but I have no intention of looking like a matron."
Rhett's black prunes lingered insolently on her subtly uncovered throat. "That day will never come."
To mask the hot flash that had suddenly taken hold of her, it was necessary to create a diversion. She threw a circular glance at the dining room. An idea came to her that was so astonishing that she expressed it facetiously: "Woodwork heavily carved with acanthus leaves, marquetry covering every flat surface, beveled mirrors in every corner, armchairs upholstered in ostentatious purple tapestry... And those drapes surrounding the windows, green velvet hemmed with gold trimmings... doesn't that remind you of something? Would you be so nostalgic for your former monstrosity of a house on Peachtree Street to immerse us - at a price - in an identical setting for fifty-two hours?"
Disoriented by this relevant remark, he marked a moment of floating before his whiskers contorted under the effect of his thunderous laughter.
He got up quickly from his chair, and seized both hands of Scarlett to force her to follow him in a round dance, making her turn on herself: "Ah! Scarlett! How can a scrap of a woman such as you embody such a rapture capable of making any healthy male from fifteen to ninety swoon?"
She had nothing to say to this flattering questioning.
oooOOooo
The night had fallen.
Rhett opened the door to the observation deck leading to the small outdoor gallery. Scarlett joined him there.
Suspended under the rounded nose of the car roof, a burgundy canvas awning covered the surface and formed a protective shell for passengers wishing to stand on this movable balcony. Two glass panels, placed perpendicularly to the door, served as a partial screen against possible projections of gravel from the track.
Scarlett and Rhett stood against the wrought iron railing.
Their private car having been placed at the back of the convoy, there was nothing around them but the landscape passing by in the silence of the night.
A welcome freshness carried in armfuls the smell of the earth and the cultivated fields.
From far and wide, a light would breakthrough, signaling the presence of humans in a lighted house. Then it would gradually fade, until it disappeared, giving way to darkness.
Rhett stood motionless next to her.
They were alone. Alone in the world.
Scents of tobacco and alcohol, forever amalgamated with the masculine odor of Rhett, invaded her nostrils. A shiver gave her goosebumps.
Rubbing her arm to get rid of them, she brushed against the Egyptian bracelet. The faint moonlight streamed over the antique gold, lingering on the colored glass inlay, renewing a celestial connection with the two-thousand-year-old lion.
It was magical. Too magical. Awkward. Inappropriate. I am not supposed to feel such emotions around Rhett. But only with Duncan. When he joins me, his presence will chase away this unnecessary turmoil.
To consciously break the spell, she chose derision: "The more I observe this bracelet, the more I find a resemblance to a yoke that clamps the prisoner's wrist."
He interrupted her: "I congratulate your sagacity. When I discovered it, it did indeed remind me of a golden wrist yoke. It delights me that our thoughts meet."
I hope it is not your ambition to tie me up in the hold of one of your ships."
He breathed briefly before whispering in his warm voice, "I salute your imagination. I confess that the idea of being your jailer has crossed my mind more than once." He swallowed: "The sixteen-year-old white goose, whose only ambition was a chaste kiss from her knight in shining armor, has she since ventured into more... illicit practices?"
Blown by the suggestion of which she did not really understand the direction, but which could be only scabrous, she opened wide her eyes, without being conscious to show too clearly her quasi-innocence in the sexual matter.
Rhett's eyes darkened even more. In the privacy of the gallery, he murmured, "Are you aware that more than one man's fantasy is to tie your wrists to a bed?"
As her features showed her incomprehension, he clarified with an ounce of embarrassment, "Uh... It's a common practice in some circles."
She let go of the railing, exasperated that he was referring to Belle Watling's place of perversion again.
He caught her and she found herself stuck on the edge of the gate: "These are not the places you think of, but the best of Parisian and New York society. Ladies of the highest aristocratic essence are tempted by such restraints. In doing so, they give the false illusion of being at the mercy of their playmate to satisfy his desires. They are the true mistresses of pleasure indeed. Can I tell you how many times I have imagined you... "
He breathed hastily. She felt his burning breath pass through her bodice to get under her skin, like a lava flow.
She feared he could hear the frantic beating of her heart. A diffuse heat invaded her.
At the mercy of Rhett's hands, his mouth on my skin, with no way to escape...
So he had experienced these guilty pleasures with his mistresses. Among others that she would never know.
Taking advantage of the half-light which covered them, she dared to wonder why he had revealed to her the pleasure of the senses only during their last night. When he had succeeded in chasing away her inhibitions as a young girl from the South. For a few hours, she had forgotten the bigoted and castrating upbringing of generations of great ladies, coming from a world where sexual relations had only two purposes, that of begetting, and of doing one's duty as a wife, using the only mating position in conformity with propriety. That famous night, Rhett had swept away the taboos which had made her frigid, by proving to her that tenderness and brutality could lead her to enjoyment.
A part of her was revolting. Why Rhett, who had been so eager, since the first day, to teach her the reality of the world, even in its darkness, had not wanted to initiate her into the carnal pleasure he cheerfully dispensed to his prostitutes.
Because he considered her too ignorant to satisfy his greed?
She detached herself from the railing but did not leave the terrace of the wagon.
A blurred silence covered the small space. She heard vaguely, "Forgive me, I was carried away by...the proximity of your charms."
The train's steam whistle sounded, warning that another convoy was about to pass them on the other track. It was necessary to wait for the passage of this one so that the peace returns.
"Why, Scarlett?"
The question came out of nowhere. "Why what?"
"Why did you agree to marry him?"
She remained silent.
Lost in his thought, he continued: "I guess it's not for his money this time. Is it?"
Vexed that he reminded her of her two marriages - including his own - sealed by interest, she swept the argument aside with a scornful hand: "Certainly not, my bank account is sufficiently full. Thanks to my grandfather's ultimate malignity towards his daughters whom he disinherited in my favor."
"Yes, that was my understanding on February 19 - as you can see, that date is etched in my mind. I assumed that you had hit the jackpot, in the form of a hoard buried under the greasy soil of Tara, or more likely because a fourth marriage to a wealthy suitor was looming. I remember the envelope that my notary gave me the next day. With convoluted circumlocutions worthy of federal laws, dear Henry Hamilton informed me, under your dictation, that you were terminating our divorce agreement. Removing from me, in the process, the responsibility and pleasure of contributing to the support of my stepchildren."
The warm, sensual voice of a few minutes ago had turned to restrained anger. "And, with a generosity I didn't know you were capable of, you carelessly credited my account with twenty-seven monthly payments of alimony. In the full settlement, as it were, with the insensitivity you show in paying your lackeys their wages before dismissing them."
"Pff..." He huffed in annoyance and finally burst out laughing. Nothing like the one that had made him suffocate during the meal. No, a joyless, bitter laugh that flew into the air before being trapped by the echo.
She was blown away by his out-of-the-blue outburst. Suddenly, all the resentments accumulated during three years exploded to the surface, shattering the thin layer of indifference with which she had systematically masked them.
"How dare you claim any right to my children when you abandoned them without a second thought? Do you know how many times Ella claimed you in the early days? Can you imagine the lost look in Wade's eyes? They saw you as their unwavering backbone. Ella had only known one father, you. To Wade, you were the courageous Captain Butler he wanted to emulate in becoming a man. Until - very quickly, mind you - they understood the harm you had done to me, to us, unburdening you of their presence in your life like a cumbersome bundle to be thrown overboard. As for me, you dare to evoke my insensitivity to dismiss you! But, have you lost your memory?"
Rhett's back had arched, flexing with each new poisonous salvo. Unleashed by rage, she wanted to confront him to put him against the wall. But his head remained bent, masking his emotion.
Like a wild horse at full gallop, she had only one goal, to continue to unpack everything she had in her heart, deaf to the muffled moans of the man at her side.
"Did you feel dismissed? What a shame! How do you think I felt on that day in November 1873? Note in passing that it is that date that will remain forever engraved in my memory. All that you said to me... Your cruelty... You threw me lower than the ground. To none of your whores would you have dared to inflict even one-hundredth of the insults you have showered on me with the joyful sadism you are expert at. By threatening to take custody of my children, you have managed to break me. Not Sherman's army, not my mother's death, not hunger, not the fear of losing Tara, nothing - do you hear? - nothing terrorized me that much. I almost died that afternoon. But in the end, for my people, I got up, as usual. Because I am Scarlett O'Hara. As strong as the walls of my beloved building that stood up to the Yankees."
She had reached the end of the road. Washed away all the resentments she should have expressed to him that night at the Charleston fashion show when they had met again. She struck the final blow: "When I was able to throw your infamous alimony in your face, I felt free of your baseness. Finally."
She took a deep breath. The air of the fields they were running through filled her lungs. The reassuring smell of Tara's land.
The tumult of her brain died out as suddenly as it was born.
She became aware that the man next to her was wobbling. His knuckles were gripping the railing so tightly that it wobbled to the point that Scarlett feared it would fall off its base.
She had to perk up her ear to understand what he was mumbling, his head still bowed. "I humbly beg your forgiveness for the harm I have done to you, Scarlett. To you, and my dear Ella and Wade, my children. I am sorry... If you only knew how much I regretted, how much I regret... I am sorry, Scarlett..."
His distress reminded her of another. Nothing to compare to tragic pain. But she was surprised that she was moved by it when she had just dealt him the blow.
They remained long minutes motionless in the contemplation of the counties which they crossed and of which they guessed more than the shadows. Breathless, exhausted. As if they had just run a marathon, to put their feet on the ground at the finish line; or at the end of a fight from which none of the protagonists had emerged the winner.
The tension had dropped suddenly. The beating of their hearts had calmed down.
She felt his hand rest gently on hers. As if he feared she would reject this peace pipe. She did not.
Then, to Scarlett's astonishment, he picked up the conversation where he had started it, in a monotone voice: "Why then? Let me answer for you: because he is young and handsome; because he is one of the five wealthiest billionaires in America; because he is a talented artist, praised by the intelligentsia and the European aristocracy; because he is the quintessential Southern gentleman; because he is adored by his people; because he is loving and thoughtful; because he has never caused you pain. That is the reason for your consent, is it not?"
Still not getting a reaction, he concluded by whispering, "Because you are in love with him."
Had she heard his voice break? No, it could not be. He too was going to marry another girl. Why should he be sad? It was only out of curiosity that he wanted to know the reason for her engagement. Or simply because he was irritated that she had chosen his neighbor whom he despised.
She did not react. What answer to give anyway? She did not know it herself...
A lump had formed in the back of her throat. She swallowed with difficulty, and made an effort to modulate her tone to make it as neutral as possible: "Let's go inside, shall we? I would like you to call my maid so she can run my bath."
oooOOooo
When she entered the bathroom of the varnish reserved for George Pullman's billionaire clients, she exclaimed, "A black marble bathtub with a gilded bronze faucet! Such heaven!"
Jenny hid her satisfaction. As a model employee assigned to the most affluent customers, she had been trained to be proud to belong to the Pullman Palace Car Company. Every compliment about the quality of Pullman's service was a bit of a victory for her, too.
She untied the young woman from her corset and took her belongings to be cleaned and ironed for the next morning.
"Ma'am, there's a doorbell placed right next to the tub. I will come as soon as you need me."
"Thank you, Jenny. I shall call you later."
On a shelf, there were three essential oils of flowers: rose, violet, and gardenia. The choice was easy to make.
Soothed by the scent of gardenia divinely perfuming the warm water, she took the time to splash about languidly, reflecting on what had happened since the beginning of the afternoon. An intense sequence of working together; a jovial discussion, as always with Rhett; a royal feast; a battle of witty words, jabs, and indecent innuendos; laughter, hidden glances, and discreet brushes; and then the confrontation. The one that had burst the abscess of an accumulation of spite, anger, and concealment. That only the huis-clos, in the small space that was the observation deck and the darkness favorable to speak to each other without looking at each other, had made possible. And finally the liberation of having made things clear.
It was time to move on. Her motto "Tomorrow is another day" had never been more appropriate. Especially when it came to her relationship with Rhett.
She lifted her arm to marvel once again at the magic of the antique bracelet. He had specified that she would wear it "as a representation of the Foundation. Had he been thinking of her when he bought it? Probably not...
oooOOooo
She pressed the doorbell connected to the office, and put on her favorite nightgown that she had never worn before for fear of damaging such a delicate thing: the white starched organza had been woven so finely that it was diaphanous. The Calais lace embroidery that encircled her waist went up in a bustier over her breasts to draw the roundness of them. Only six tiny mother-of-pearl buttons closed the nuisette at the waist and on the top of the back.
Scarlett admired herself in the mirror: under the effect of the light, the organza was almost transparent. As for the embroidered rosebuds, they had been placed knowingly to sculpt the most voluptuous curves of the body.
She tried to remember when she had acquired this alluring - and useless - underwear since only Prissy would be objectively able to see it. Oh yes, I remember! I almost choked up when I read its exorbitant price. I ordered it by mail order from the Iron Palace in New York. I think it was the week after the Charleston fashion show..." Her practical mind took over: "At least I'll get a return on my investment by debuting it in the luxury of the Pullman.
She put on her silk robe, which she cautiously closed completely to return to her room, but there was no need to fear. Rhett was already in bed.
As soon as she arrived, she got rid of it.
The young woman, who was used to being surrounded by staff, found that the service on the train was perfect: while she was taking her bath, the bedspread had been folded back, the sheet set half-opened and the accessories from her toilet bag arranged on the table.
Just as she sat down on the padded stool in front of the dressing table, Jenny entered after a discreet knock.
"I would like you to help me untangle my hair. As much as I protected it from the water with a net, I am sure it's going to be a struggle to get my hair done."
She pulled the tortoiseshell comb from its chased silver case. "Give me the brush, please. The comb won't be enough."
"Ma'am, I didn't find any in the bag."
She answered confidently, "Look in the back of my toilet purse. It is always stored inside. I never go anywhere without it."
The model employee took out one by one the items placed inside the leather luggage. "Alas! I do not see it."
Scarlett took it upon herself not to get upset. I am not surprised when Prissy is involved. The silly girl probably left it in my room.
"That's not a problem, ma'am. We have everything we need in the linen room. I'll go get one and come back right away."
Sighing, Scarlett told her that she would need a boar's hairbrush and thanked her.
oooOOooo
She waited, amused by the naughty look her mirror reflected. The petals of the two lace roses strategically sewn onto the bustier looked ready to bloom on her breasts.
Her hand passed over the bottle of Guerlain cologne Duncan had given her, then settled on a small mahogany box. She dislodged her bottle of gardenia perfume from the fleecy interior.
But not just any bottle, as Rhett had explained to her during their engagement time. He had bought it in a Parisian antique shop. The Baccarat crystal factory had made it in 1820. The refinement was expressed in every detail. The body of the fluted bottle was shaped like a chalice. The ring around the neck was made of gold delicately chiseled by the goldsmith, as was the trim on the pedestal. Its spherical and faceted cap showed gold flakes in transparency.
Gold. Gold was the preciousness of this object of art: the iridescent opaline was not blue, green, or neutral pink, but a deep pink capturing every ray of light to send back a prism of golden, purple and red reflections. Rhett had specified "Pigeon's Throat", because this very rare milk glass color, of which only a handful of glassmakers mastered the recipe, was the result of a learned mixture of bone ash, tin, arsenic, and especially gold salts. (*7)
Letting his whiskers trail behind her neck, he had whispered, "Only the most precious of receptacles is worthy of capturing the aphrodisiacal scent of your perfume."
From the very first day, Prissy had been strictly forbidden to go near the case. It was Pork who was in charge of pouring a new liquid refill into the precious bottle.
Before taking the train, Scarlett had added, at the last moment, the inlaid box in her toilet bag. Forgetting the brush...
She gingerly tilted the neck of the bottle to draw out a few fragrant drops, and, true to ritual repeated thousands of times, she thoughtfully dabbed the inside of her wrists and the back of her earlobe with the pad of her index finger.
She heard footsteps. Words exchanged. Rhett talking to the maid. Then, a few moments later, there was a discreet knock.
"Come in, Jenny!"
The door opened and closed again.
Not interrupting her ceremony, she poured again some drops of gardenia behind the nape of the neck, to finish by perfuming the hollow of the breasts.
Her finger remained paralyzed. She did not need to check the mirror to know it was not the employee. She felt his presence before he took a step.
Coming to her senses, she had the reflex to cover her suggestive nightie, but her robe was hanging near her bed.
Her temples pounded so frantically that she could hardly make out what he was saying.
He approached and placed himself behind her. Her only satisfaction was to see, through the mirror, that he looked as uncomfortable as she was.
He cleared his throat: "The maid explained to me that you did not bring your brush. Another oversight by poor Prissy, no doubt. But I remembered that there was one at the bottom of my travel bag.
Staying behind her, he placed the object on the powder tray.
"But... it is mine!"
It was easily identifiable. Made of tightly packed boar's hair, the back wafer and handle were made of solid silver chased with Gothic scenes. Along the length of the arm, a banquet table stretched out, occupied by guests in medieval costumes. The quality of the miniaturization was so remarkable that one could see bunches of grapes in a fruit bowl. On the back of the brush, the narrow entrance to a spiral staircase, probably that of a castle, served as a background to the scene. In the foreground, a young girl with long hair was holding the banister, ready to walk up the stairs. A knight in a coat of mail, stuck to her but with his back to her, prevented her from moving away by grabbing her hand. How he had crossed his arms against his heart to violently imprison that of his beautiful, and to deposit his lips on the dress' sleeve, was startling of realism. (*8)
Rhett knew what he was doing when he offered her the object. The scene was chaste in appearance. But had made Scarlett blush because this thwarted embrace transpired the desire and the eroticism.
Her fingers caressed the lovers, as if she had recognized two friends, accomplice of their passion.
Returning to the incongruity of the situation, she questioned him through the mirror, "How is it that it is in your possession? I lost it ages ago."
"Aeons... Let's not exaggerate. More exactly thirty-three months and a few days."
As she raised an eyebrow, wary of whimsical accuracy, he added: "The day I left you... the day I left the house. (note: September 1873) I had retrieved my personal belongings from the bathroom. I inadvertently... took your brush with my clothes brush. I did not realize it until later."
She expressed her perplexity: "Did it ever occur to you to send it back to me in a parcel?"
"I had placed it in my toiletry bag. And... it was forgotten, hidden by other accessories."
His explanation did not convince her, so it was better to cut this discussion short: "Let's not talk about it anymore. Would you now call Jenny to help me do my hair for the night?"
He moved even closer. With horror, she realized that her head was only a few centimeters away from her former husband's chest.
"I told her you would not need her anymore until tomorrow morning. She would not be able to tame your unruly hair. Like I have been able to do hundreds of times."
This is ridiculous. He acts as if he is still... She straightened up and was ready to leap out of her chair to escape their proximity.
Two iron fists slammed into her shoulders. "Stay, Scarlett."
An order that paralyzed her.
Intimated with the harshness of command, but pronounced in a strangled voice.
The triptych of the dressing table, whose two sides were slightly folded, allowed to see herself from three angles. And to spy on what was happening behind her.
What she did. Discreetly, she took the opportunity to detail his outfit.
Over the black silk pajama pants, he wore a jacket of the same hue, streaked with fine russet stripes - a color that highlights his black eyes, Scarlett appreciated. The lapel of the collar, of the same bright tone, was devoid of buttons, the jacket being closed only by a belt tied at the waist.
Holding her breath, she noticed that he was hovering both hands above her head, hesitating to put them down.
That's only at this moment that he raised his eyes in direction of the mirror. They exchanged a furtive glance then fled at once.
His hands got place on the bun. Was he trembling?
He palpated a lock of hair and rolled it between his thumb and index finger as if to better recognize its texture.
My heart will explode if I keep holding my breath. I need to calm down... Let him not realize that his actions are affecting me. Besides, it is not true. It is only because I am not used to his touch anymore.
He cleared his throat. "Um... Do you always use thirteen pins?" (*9)
She was speechless. How did he remember this fetish number that she found indispensable to the proper maintenance of her bun?
Without waiting for her answer, he began to gently remove the first spike, the one hanging near her right temple, and then placed it in a crystal dish. To reach it, his sleeve brushed against her shoulder. He did the same on the other side. Methodically.
Just like he did the first year we were married. He always took them off in the same order. It is strange that he remembers...No! It is just a mechanical reflex.
His gesture was precise. Like a sailor who knows the cartography of the stars, he had immediately found the location of the pins - although so judiciously hidden-, while his other hand turned her head with confidence, tilting it to one side for better access.
I have the strange feeling of being a doll that he manipulates as he pleases, like Ella's puppets.
The last spike removed finally freed her from the bun that constrained her all day.
At this moment, she intercepted a reaction so furtive that she put it on the account of an optical illusion. Otherwise, why, when he unfolded in cascades her hair, would he have raised the longest lock to his nose?
He grabbed the brush and asked teasingly, "Let's see if this rebel will agree to be disciplined again."
Even though she was walking right into his trap, she still was not going to let that remark go by, "That day will only happen in your fantasies!"
He clutched the curls that had been compressed, and laughed, "Oh, if you had any idea of my fantasies, your porcelain complexion would turn scarlet... Do not worry, I was talking about your hair." His eyes darkened: "For now..."
Short of inspiration, she could only oppose him a mediocre pout of disdain and squared her shoulders to straighten her spine.
Oh, my God! I am stuck against him!
His feet were next to the stool, preventing any distance between them.
As a result, Scarlett found herself in a position where her shoulders were level with his waist, while the back of her head brushed against his chest.
She inhaled deeply to silence her access of panic. What she should not have done, because the usual smells of tobacco and whisky tickled her nostrils. But this time they were overflowed with the scent of the soap on freshly washed skin.
With an additive. Like a cat sniffing her basket before purring, she moved her head imperceptibly - so lingeringly that he must not have noticed - but enough for her to rediscover the intimate fumes she had only breathed during the first year of their marriage. To her shame, she gave in to the feral desire to sniff the man who had been her lover. Realizing, with a lump in her stomach, that this time would be the last. After this trip, their only physical contact would be limited to a hand kiss, at best a kiss on the cheek. A cordial relationship. The true end of their story.
She checked in the mirror on the left that he had not realized her maneuver.
He was fully concentrated on his task. With one hand, he slid the brush over each strand he held in the other hand, to prevent too much tension when the boar's hair was caught in a restive knot.
Scarlett made an attempt to break the dangerously cloudy atmosphere by feigning commiseration: "I am sure you are already getting tired of straightening my messy hair. I feel sorry for you: I am relieving you of your good deed for which I am grateful. Call Jenny back. She is getting paid to help me anyway."
But he didn't follow her request: "Please do not speak, or I shall lose the account. I am up to twenty-three. You still have the same extravagant requirement of a hundred brush strokes, don't you?"
Once again, she was touched that he remembered this detail.
To hell with propriety for tonight! She finally decided to let her guard down. Despite the fact that they were now strangers to each other. That Duncan, so in love, was patiently waiting for her, and that she was going to marry him. That Rhett was going to start a new life with a girl younger than her. That in a few minutes he would go back to his room as if this intimate interlude had not happened.
She abandoned herself to the sensual pleasure of the contact of his pajama jacket against her organdy shirt.
Happy images came to the surface: Rhett, so unflappable during the day, turned into a thoughtful husband when it was time to let her hair down. Rhett, so eager to please her that he would comply with her maniacal demand for a hundred brush strokes. Rhett so tender who placed a thousand kisses - well almost - on her straightened hair.
And then, when it was time to go to bed, by the light of the stars alone, he would wrap a lock of her hair around his neck...
She bit her lower lip to keep her misty eyes from liquefying. How could I have been so stupid as not to enjoy these tender moments?
He was to follow a similar retrospective path: "The same ceremonial, after all these years!" He leaned over to whisper into her hair, "In those days, I had not heard of the Divine Worshipper Karomama. But I was well aware that I was celebrating a pagan ritual, with a liturgy dictated by the Belle of Clayton County. You were the goddess, and I was your adorer. My Goddess."
She closed her eyes and leaned backwards. Savoring the mist that enveloped her, inside which only Rhett's words, Rhett's hands, Rhett's smell existed...
The latter resumed its codified gestures.
But something had changed. A more stifling heat, even though the sun had long since set; the silence disturbed by their louder breaths, and their bodies pressed against each other.
She was trapped, held in a vice-like grip by Rhett's two hands on her hair and his torso bent forward. Yet instead of trying to free herself, she instinctively arched her back. Their proximity was such that she felt, through the fine silk of his pants and her diaphanous nightgown, the contraction of the thighs muscles of her former lover.
He spread his legs slightly so as not to be hindered by the narrow stool and responded to her swaying loins with a subtle change of position.
To the great embarrassment of Ellen's daughter, she became aware that he had stuck his crotch against the middle of her back. And that he was not hiding his erection.
The brush strokes continued until they could distinctly hear the sizzle of hair smooth as satin. Then Rhett made a muffled noise, like a diffuse cry of victory, and lifted the thick locks to his mouth.
Scarlett's temples were on fire. She could hardly tell if it was her heart that was pounding or Rhett's, because they were so tightly bound together.
His fleshy lips kissed the root of her hair and went down to her nape.
His whiskers were tickling her.
Once again, Rhett reversed the direction of the braids and this time covered his face with them. Locked under this black helmet, his lips were even more burning.
From the depths of a fog, she heard incoherent words, muffled phrases, but she intelligibly discerned only two words: Scarlett, My Soft, My Soft, repeated endlessly.
She squeezed her thighs. Desire was rising, screaming through every pore of her skin. She whispered, "Rhett..."
A prayer. So lascivious that he moaned.
With authority, he inclined her neck in front. With a sharp blow, his steel grips made jump the delicate pearly buttons closing her bodice.
The bustier, with the so delicate seam, slipped, revealing her breasts. She made no attempt to cover them, for Rhett's nimble fingers had already taken hold of them.
When he rolled her nipples, pinching and caressing them in turn, she cried out in pleasure and desperately sought contact with his skin. To which Rhett answered with a myriad of endearments whispered on her skin.
Rhett's jacket had unraveled. She held back another cry as their naked skins rubbed against each other, eager for fusion.
Vaguely, she glimpsed their silhouettes in the mirror. The frigid wife of Charles Hamilton and Frank Kennedy was naked to the waist, her erect nipples stalking the brutal caresses of the experienced seducer.
Her cheeks were on fire, her hair a mess. She almost laughed. He had taken so much trouble to "domesticate" them. They had become wild again in a few minutes of crazy embrace.
Wild like Scarlett, whose body reared up a frenzy of licentiousness. Craving for his lips, craving for his hands, craving for his...
The panoramic vision of the three leaves of the psyche exposed the muscular chest of Rhett in all its virility. Gasping, she admired his hairy pecs until her eyes stopped on the disturbingly hairy pelvic v, barely concealed by his pants. Scarlett tried not to stare too closely at the turgid bump which threatened to escape from the pajamas.
Once again, she contorted herself so that, at last, her loins could get the friction they needed, while Rhett was lost in the exploration of the valley of her breasts...
The lust, this lust that he had made her discover a long time ago, had taken possession of her. She was now only a body in fusion which was going to explode.
Rhett's greedy fingers went down a bit more...
A lurch of the car made them waver. The train came to a halt, with the sound of brakes being applied and the locomotive whistling.
"11:30 pm. Charlotte, North Carolina." The stationmaster clarified, "Three-minute stop."
Scarlett opened her eyes wide. Waking up to reality. Overwhelmed with shock, she put her hand to her mouth, and hastily pulled the nightie up over her chest.
Rhett was panting. He was shaking so badly that he had to hold on to the dressing table. Then he pleaded, "Scarlett!" as he tried to embrace her.
She turned her head away, getting up quickly to grab her robe with which she covered her damaged nightie.
"Leave, Rhett, please. It was a mistake. Let us forget it. Duncan..." She was unable to continue.
His eyebrows brought together, the suffering deep inside his black prunes, he scrutinized her with incomprehension. Then his mouth twisted in a painful grimace.
He managed to articulate, "Forgive me. I apologize. Good night, Scarlett."
ooooooooooOOoooooooooo
Notes on Chapter 42:
(*1) The timetables and stations indicated on this route correspond to those of the Richmond and Danville Railroad Company, on the Piedmond Air Line from Atlanta to Washington, in 1882.
Departure from Atlanta, Georgia: 1:40 p.m. - Lula, Georgia, 3:13 p.m. - Toccoa, Georgia, 4:25 p.m. - Seneca, North Carolina, 5:24 p.m. - Charlotte, North Carolina, 11:30 p.m. - Salisbury, Maryland, Day 2 1:15 a.m. - Greensboro, North Carolina, 3:04 a.m. - Danville, Virginia, 5:20 a.m. - Lynchburg, Tennessee, 8:15 a.m. - Alexandria, Virginia, 2:35 p.m. - Washington, DC, 3:45 p.m.
luna/servlet/detail/RUMSEY~8~1~24491~900025:The-Piedmont-Air-Line-&-connections
(*2) Buffalo hunt, Kansas Pacific Railroad: article from Harper's Weekly magazine, December 14, 1867.
(*3) Antelope hunting, from the Colorado train: article from Harper's Weekly magazine, May 29, 1875. .edu/documents/view_ ?id= .0174
(*4) Priestess Karomama: "The Divine Adoratrix, first identified with the wife of Pharaoh Takelot II by Jean-François Champollion, who acquired it in 1829. The figurine would in fact represent a daughter of Osorkon I, a priestess related to Karomama, herself a priestess of the god Amun-Ra and guardian of the crown. The bronze is inlaid with gold and silver." Source egyptophile blogspot com - .
Important detail: for my fanfiction, I invented the green eyes.
(*5) Bracelet, Musée du Louvre source: Louvre collections .fr/ark:/53355/cl010009286
(*6) Restaurant the Delmonico in the dining car, named by Pullman to recall a famous restaurant in New York: https: us-history/the-golden-age-of-the-pullman-car/
(*7) Perfume bottle in milk glass with pigeon's throat: an example close to my description flacon-opaline-gorge-pigeon-charles-x-circa-1820-1830-68261P
(*8) Scarlett's brush – When I imagined the brush pattern, I was inspired by a painting: Frederic William Burton (1816-1900) Irish painter, "Meeting on the Tower Stairs" 1864, that of a princess and a young castle guard. www. /9482-2/
(*9) Bun pins: I confess my total lack of knowledge on the subject. I tried to check on some blogs. Some said 113, others 15 or 83... I doubt Scarlett had the patience to put so many pins on her head. But feel free to give me your opinion, and I'll change the number in the text.