Hello everyone!

A shorter, and different chapter than the other, but which is nonetheless very important. Thank you everyone for your remarks and supports. It never fails to delight me when I manage to take a break during the week. I'm sorry that I don't always find the occasion to reply to you, know that you are always in my thoughts.

By the way, I wanted to clarify something, which may not have been clear (I'll work at it later). Scarlett's heart is not yet broken or truly hurt, for she doesn't know of Rhett's gamble concerning her future. Yet, when Ellen saw him leaving it reminded her somehow of Philippe, and she may have projected these feelings on her daughter earlier than they would appear.

As always, I do not own Gone with the Wind, nor its characters, for they are the property of Margaret Mitchell and her heirs.

I hope you enjoy!

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1857, Fayetteville Female Academy

Prayers marked the beginning and the end of the day. Rosaries were pulled from the sashes, each pearl words learned by heart and recited with as much feeling one could gather at such hour. Many Ave Maria, some Pater Noster, an inspired Credo… Every word automatically left Scarlett's lips, who remembered the warmth of home, the little moment before bed where Mother would gather everyone in her little office for their devotions.

She closed her eyes, breathed in, trying to prevent herself from crying. In her sash, there was also Pork's token, that the old servant had slipped to her to bring her luck, and she wanted to grip it as well.

Then followed breakfast, meager as it should, with its two halves of bread and butter and a cup of coffee. But to Scarlett's chagrin, her hunger was never satiated, and she longed for Mammy's roasted yams, dripping with butter.

Classes would follow, and she would even miss Suellen's proud little air as she recited her verses, or Carreen's timid answers. Instead, there were other girls, other voices, and she did not feel quite at ease. It was not that these girls were particularly unsympathetic. Actually, most of them were gentle and condescending. But that was what it was. Condescension.

In another life, she would have barely taken attention to it, dismissing it as pure snobbery. In another life, she would have done everything to cheerfully escape it all to take a deep breath of air. Or she would have learned to behave as if she had done all her lessons, and sat in the background, hoping no one would have noticed her as she slept, or fooled around with other fellow sufferers. In another life, she would not have quite understood the point of getting an education so far away from home, and it would have all seemed like a simple punishment. She would have taken what would have brought her pleasure, especially during the outings, and that would have been all.

But now she had an objective. She had a mission.

Rhett, Mother, Pa, Mammy, and all the others… They wanted her to make them proud.

Mathematics and dance were what she liked best. History, recited as it was by the governess, seemed quite a dull thing, but she relented. It would have been better if Rhett had done it. He always knew, like Pa, how to make a story interesting, and when it was too hard for her to focus, she tried to imagine them telling it to her. French was easy, for Mother had been a great instructor. Music at first was trying, for she felt it difficult to hold still and quiet her movements. Miss Thornby, the instructor, was nice though. She said she could always tell the mood of her pupils by the tone of their play. Sensing the girl's restlessness, she gently guided her out of the percussion's way, which would have been to her taste counter-productive, to lead her to the piano. To her ears, Scarlett's song came first eager, then angry, until slowly the notes quietened in a slow and sad melody, some days punctuated by happy notes.

Scarlett liked Miss Thornby, as much as she could like a governess. Still, it offered her but little comfort as she tried to conform to what those she loved most of all wanted.

She tried to tell herself that it was because they trusted her in this. But a vicious, sneaky little voice at the back of her mind suggested maliciously that she was not enough by herself, and they all wanted her to change. They could not love her as she was, she had to be what they wanted. Even Rhett, who had told her she should not try to be like her mother, for then she would not be loved for herself.

No, not Rhett. She did not know really what Rhett wanted, for before he had always encouraged her to be herself. Mother must have convinced him that it was the best thing to do, she thought. They wanted what was best for her, because they cared for her, and they believed she could do it.

Yes, that thought suited her much better. And it was more in line with his letters, which would appear mysteriously by the end of the afternoon under her plump pillow and which she would jealously keep in the secret of her suitcase. In them, he told her he believed in her, that she was smart and brave. And it was because she was smart and brave, he said, she would be able to find interest in the (many) books and lectures he suggested.

How he did this, she did not quite know. To her eyes, not yet opened to the world and its reality, Rhett was some kind of magician, appearing and disappearing from her life with a great attitude as if he in fact never left.

Yet, he never came to see her.

Once a week, the letters would appear, generally on a Wednesday, and she would rush to her room after her afternoon walk to get them.

Once, in her eagerness to get back to it, she almost bumped into another girl, one year older than her, though frail and pale. Words of apologies had rushed through her lips, and the brown-haired girl only smiled very kindly, very shyly, her eyes like soft candles that shut as she coughed.

Melanie, she was called. A girl that was much beloved in and out of the establishment, for many people would visit her, worry about her health, which sometimes led her to leave for a few months to be taken care of in the safety of her home.

Scarlett was a bit envious of that. She would have liked for people to worry about her health, to come to take her away. Yet, she had to wait for the few weeks at the end of terms between January and February, then July and August. Each time, everyone would be so busy, and Rhett wouldn't be there, certainly in another adventure no one would talk to her about.

It was the way of life though, she guessed. She was a healthy girl, she was clever, and she could hold her own, so of course everyone would think she was alright. And she was. It was just that sometimes she felt as if she was waiting for something that never came.

She had her family's letters, though. Of course, Suellen's were a bit forced, Carreen too short, Pa's a bit rushed (though overflowing with tender pride), and Mother with the appropriate feelings of a Southern mother, but she kept them all. And Rhett's. Rhett's were the longest, and the ones she preferred. He always seemed to know what to say, and what was happening in her life. Though sometimes, he was very strange.

He was very severe if he found out she failed to meet his standards, though. He would not so in many words, but she would feel it in the tone of his letter.

It did not matter that she did not understand every word, nor appreciate the way it was written, he said. But it did matter that she knew what it was all about, the information in and between the lines, and how she could use it as her own weapon in a discussion. Yet, to her disappointment, he chided her when she tried to show it off, telling her such things would be quite useless if she let it out too often.

He was fairly impressed with her results with figures though. Thus why it felt so surprising when he said her talents would be very much appreciated among the tradesmen on a market day.

He was urging her to better herself for one thing, then teased her cruelly for the same thing, and she felt very much bewildered at it.

All she could see was that even if he loved her, he expected a lot from her, and these two parts were not necessarily relied to the other. There was something she was missing, and it was frustrating not to know what it was.

She would answer back, and leave her letter under the pillow, and the following afternoon, it would be taken.

Magic.

There was a phrase though, she caught on, and she had the instinct that it contained at least a piece of the key to that mystery.

"see, child, it's all a game, and you must master the rules to win."

She repeated it a few times, without entirely grasping all of its meaning, for she did not know what kind of game he was talking about.

So, she kept trying, and applied all of her boiling energy in this, because she loved them, and she needed their loves, as much as she needed to eat. And the day would end with the rest of the dinner for supper and another set of prayers.

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1857, Augusta

Looking through his letters in the room of his hotel, Rhett sighed with irritation as he examined his options.

For months now, he had looked through his contacts for the boys that would be suitable for Scarlett as she grew up. Yet, as he looked through the names, he found out none seemed to do in his mind, even after the end of their educations. And he did try to meet them to be sure.

No, they were not enough for her. She deserved much better. He owed her that at least, for she was the key to his future guardianship to Rosemary. At least, if the Honorable Mr. Butler would consent to honor the deal he made with the prodigal son, Rhett thought cynically.

But at least, it was a challenge, and Rhett was not one to refuse them. The more difficult they seemed, the better. But with time, Rhett realized he had to lower his expectations, at least when it came to Scarlett's future suitors.

One of the Dayton's brood may do, he thought. Maybe. Yet, the head of the family was still to be caught, and to Rhett's mind, their kind was as weak as the Wilkes, a thin blood that made the outcome quite... Original, to be sure.

John Midton was too far to reach now. Langston kept him close, Rhett knew that. But then such a boy may be too scornful for Scarlett, and though he was a rogue, the dark-haired man felt he could not bear the thought of her being with someone that would not respect her, especially after all the efforts that were put to further her education.

She was a pretty child, though her features were not as regular as the standard of beauty would have wanted it to be. Certainly, she would be a pretty woman.

At least, he hoped she would be so.

But anyway, she had something better than mere prettiness. The life in her drew people in, an irresistible magnetic pull, and a source of jealousy for the other girls that would only dream of having it.

All the better to find a match. Yet, she needed to acquire some subtility, and he hoped learning would add it.

He smiled, looking at her writing, which had grown more elegant through the year. It still held the clumsiness of childhood, but she was on a good way. The cursives were no longer rushed, but had a tender and well-rounded curve, and, to his sanity, there were less and less spelling mistakes.

Though promising he would visit less often, he did not remember engaging himself not to write, especially when he had the power to, as one of the Fayetteville Female Academy benefactors. A very recent one, maybe, but a consequent one.

Such breach in their deal was particularly useful to his plans. He did not like being told what to do by someone, even less the likes of Mrs. O'Hara, though her reasoning had not been far from his own. But he was aware enough that he was too selfish and self-indulging to try to lessen the girl's affection when it brought him a source of warm amusement and fondness.

She had made a lot of progress, more than he had first thought she would. But then, he had underestimated her will to do everything for the ones she loved, even to the sacrifice of her own personality, from what he had gathered after that talk about her mother.

This thought pleased him as much as it terrified him.

The truth was that he was very proud of her successes, of the astuteness and perseverance of the girl.

Yet, he knew a woman with too much knowledge could terrify most gentlemen, who preferred their ladies ignorant and devoted, their cleverness only needed to make sure their home was working as it should, and maybe at a sufficient extent in public, to be a tribute to his own merits.

The idea of such a marriage for Scarlett was intolerable in his mind. But then, it was in the education of many a gentleman, and Rhett knew that it was unreasonable to apply such criterium of liberality, when it was far easier and reasonable to urge Scarlett to develop all kinds of talents and attitudes, to be sure she could attract and keep the interest of many.

Had he reread his letters, he would have been ill-at-ease with the numerous contradictions in his formulations, a sign of his internal conflicts, and his own deep attachment to the girl, when he had tried to distance himself from her, to think of her as only a mean to an end. Yet, in his mind, there was still that image of a young hoyden and her father that had made him laugh and accepted him wholly, without demanding that he changed. A very imperfect family, not as sophisticated as the likes of the Butlers, with a little coarseness that separated them from the others, yet that drew him in their warmth. A family with its own problems, where he could see his influence could be needed. He would be needed. Not because he conformed to what others wanted him to be, but exactly because he was different.

It was difficult for him to urge Scarlett to conform, thus. But the girl was clever. Certainly, she would understand that it was only for her good, and he did not ask her to change, for there was a deep difference between the act society demanded people to play, and the true nature of people.

He winced a little inwardly. She was authentic, that girl, and sharp or not, and even in his attempts to justify himself, he found it hard to convince himself that she would be one to tolerate a difference between form and substance. And if she tried, the strong and buoyant vitality in her would always resurface in these vibrant green eyes.

He put down her letters and sighed, his hand ruffling his thick black mane. Somehow, deep in his black heart, he dearly missed her, missed the blind adoration that girl bestowed him. He knew children tended to take a deep liking to some people, and the fact that he was chosen like that by such a girl was flattering.

At least, he tried to think it was that. His earliest thoughts of belonging and families had been a farce, of course, a preparation for something better. The ultimate revenge of the prodigal son, and the long-awaited reunion with his mother and sister, which in his mind, though not haloed with the hazy light of idealization, had become a matter of deep importance.

From his pocket, he took Gerald's favorite dice, which he had won at a previous game, and made it roll, and jump on his hand with a thoughtful glance.

During the year, he had to admit that such a reputation as he had did not inspire sympathy and benevolence. What he had wanted to dismiss as a burden was in fact more important than he had thought, for he realized it could prevent him from getting what he wanted for the ones he cared about. And for a man that had lived on his own for many years, realizing his actions could hurt when he wanted to cherish and protect, this was a deep blow.

He would not redeem himself in a few days, no. But at least, he could try to lessen the impact.

And then, he could use his knowledge of the flaws and weaknesses of his adversaries to get them where he wanted them to be.

Yet, for some cases, getting that knowledge needed a little push. A feminine push, for it was a truth universally acknowledged that gentlemen could leave more than their money when the bed (and the women in it) was inviting.

But maybe his better ally would be the incoming war that was brooming, which would give him opportunity for money and inflame the hearts of the young gentlemen to the point that when Scarlett would come of age, they would be much easier to catch. He could predict it with the worsening of the riots following the Dred Scott case and the Panic of august, provoked by speculations and the inflations of the railroads' stock.

Gerald still did not believe him though. He did not see the need to prepare, and still lived in a dream, and Rhett found it very much irritated. An irritation that felt a little bit too much like worry.

He shook his head, tried to put his thoughts in order. He was a free man, and the bounds he created did not decide for his life. At least he tried to tell himself so, but then it was more and more difficult to believe it.

A knock on his door. He smiled, relieved by this change of subject in his mind. The door opened, grazed by a heavy rustle of taffetas.

"You've asked for me, sir?"

He poured some whiskey in a glass and turned back.

The woman was of middle stature, plumb in all the right places. Her hair was tainted red and lacked luster, but it highlighted her gaze in a way that would have been troubling had she been his kind of woman.

She would do well as a partner though, if what he had been told by his contacts. was true. A whore with ambitions, who was very loyal to those who sponsored her. A whore who had already once caught in her webs many bucks of Charleston and Savannah.

"Miss Watling, I suppose."

"At your service, sweet-heart." She said, with a thick, impish accent, far from the soft tones he was used to. She gathered up her skirt about her and longingly walked toward him, her shapely figure getting closer as he handed her a glass. With a finger, she made it sing a bit with a little smile, before taking a sip, her gaze appreciative on the man before her. "Tell me what ye want, darling, and Belle will make it happen."

He smiled, and his fingers continued playing absent-mindedly with the dice as he examined her.

"Oh, I think you are more interested in what I can give you," Said he, making the dice roll across his hand. "I've heard you want to open a sporting house."

A sharp light came to her eyes, and with the light they seemed dark, an almost predatory look that pleased him, for he knew she would not be some tool for him to use. There was a brain behind that flashy exterior.

"It may be so."

The dice rolled once again, backward, and the eyes followed it eagerly until it reached the palm of his hand. His lips opened in a satisfied smile.

"It might take some years, you know. You need connections, a housing, girls… and I suppose some benefactors."

She sat comfortably in an armchair and looked at him with appreciation.

"A bright man, ye are," Her voice rang like the sound of a large Swish bell, cracking on the edge as if it had not been used often. "Ye know, I think I found meself a Prince Charming."

He laughed. "More like a genie in a bottle, though what you tried to suggest to me to use you as such."

There, the sharpness was replaced by a bewildered expression that deepened his amusement.

"A what?"

With a wave of the hand, he dismissed it. The dice was put back in his pocket as he settled to negotiate the terms of his contract.

"Never you mind. Belle, I believe we shall make good business together."