Hello!
Unfortunately, I'm sorry to say that with my schedule, it had become near impossible to update each week, though now, I'll try to one every two weeks. Thank you all for your patience and support!
I hope you will like it!
.
Pierre Robillard had indulged many times in his life. More than his share, perhaps. Wars coming, blood boiling, love, lust, wrath... It all blended in his youth in a furious frenzy, exploding before getting together again. Still, he had raised and fought, because it was in his veins, because he had believed in it. Because he needed a reason to live, a reason to die. This kept him going, from danger to danger, fearless and true, running to reach something he could not entirely grasp, could not entirely name. Life perhaps. A thrill to prove himself he was there, that he had experienced it all and survived.
He supposed that was why the mentality of the Americans he met in the so called good society had never had but the effect of making him laugh under a couch. They seemed all so sure of what was wrong and what was right, without even having experienced it. They raised the model of wrongness on a pedestal, saying one should not follow it, yet it was still the model they looked at with envy and resentment for not being able to follow it.
A bit like the Englishmen, maybe. But he was a biased observer. One could not entirely erase the merry hatred that caused so many wars between France and England, rendering it almost unpatriotic to think with fondness of the other.
But now this youth had gone from him, at the same time Solange did perhaps, and he knew that by running, he had only been trying to escape death, only been trying to feel, but he had never been able to appreciate it all until it was too late.
Now, he was an old man, more in shape maybe than his counterparts. And he could still hold his wine, though he delighted in tricking people into thinking he couldn't.
It was all so very funny what information people could divulge to an old man that seemed harmless enough.
But harmless, he was not.
And now, Scarlett was his second youth. A renewal of the race, this time with different objectives, and the remembrance that moments could be lost if he did pay attention. His blood was flowing again in his veins, his spirit seeking for connection with kins.
But now, the countdown had truly begun. Elections were coming, and each side was gathering to choose their champions. Disquiet tainted it all.
John C. Breckinridge of Kennedy and Stephen Arnold Douglas quarreled to see who would fight for the South.
As for the North... Abraham Lincoln was making more and more noise against slavery, so who could know?
By November, they would decide who the next President would be. By November, if the South won, perhaps it would all calm down, the extremists being appeased by knowing one of their own, if more moderate, was in power. But if it was the North, no doubt trouble would lay ahead. For the North wanted changes while the South wanted everything to stay the way it was, or perhaps a little more than what they had. Yet, changes as the North wanted demanded actions.
But between all of this, what could happen to one girl from Georgia? How would the troubles ahead affect her fate?
More than that, who could protect her?
Traditions told him the girl needed to get married. He took a sip of his wine, stared at the lovingly gathered tapestries of his house that now seemed meaningless, then put it down. His finger hit once, then twice the glass, making it sing.
No, not to get married. At least not to one of these Southern fools, who would fight until the end for an idea, while leaving the women and children waiting in what could possibly be a nightmare. The good it made them, to fight for a cause that was not worth it.
Life was worth it. Not any way of living. One could abuse it, enjoy all its prosperities and debaucheries. Yet, excesses, there were, and excesses always led to downfall. It was with very open eyes he had decided to live thus, when his upbringings had raised the ill-use of men for one's profit as something intolerable and unlawful to the eyes of charity.
He was no fool enough to think this was a way of protecting the ones he used. Men ought to be used or die, or so he thought, but no excuses of goodness had to be given to that.
One could survive from the loss of a way of living. One could not with the loss of life.
And Scarlett...
Scarlett would be well in France. She was of a race that knew to show something, and think another, and wait for the highest bid.
At last, he wanted to think so.
How long it had been, since the time he had truly cared for someone? A life ago, when Solange had only to look at him to make him forget honor and country.
No, the girl did not need to get married. Marriage was a bond she was not ready yet. No, she needed to get away.
Pierre could get her away.
...
Saratoga, August 1860
Sitting at the bar near the entrance, Edward Goldin observed and analyzed, each detail duly noted and added to the sketch he was attempting. There was his spot, especially chosen for his study and attempts to capture the deep energy of the place, the comings and goings, joys and plagues.
He had been going there at least once a week, and knew now the routine like a well-oiled machine that had been installed in there. There were always the same people, with the same wants and needs. Money. Lust. Ambition. Social class. And all went there to play, laugh, drown their sorrows...
Material and immaterial hopes, not the ones that truly mattered, but still there, fighting while thinking their cause was the one that mattered.
But beauty was the only cause that mattered.
Not physical beauty, no. This one was easily altered, and once lost, could not be regained.
Internal beauty was what he sought, the kind filled with gentleness and hope, with a warm heart that beat not for itself alone, but for others as well.
Yet, that kind of beauty could also be destroyed. And how he knew it! He had been born to one who had had it!
His mother had been a Southerner, but who had the misfortune to love an ambitious Cracker.
Cracker. A terrible epithet, used to described filth under their shoes, convicts that were sent to live in the lands they had chosen for themselves and dared reproduce.
And she, she that was supposed to be one of them, she went away with these ones.
Together, they went North, far North to escape it all, but the hatred of their gazes was to follow them always, like harpies. It was there, a heavy weight on their shoulders, making them weary and uncomfortable.
For her people could not forgive her, and considered another betrayal to have strayed so far from home, to the land of the Yankees.
In their eyes, she had become one.
She never recovered from it. She was but the shell of a woman, a landless figure wandering hopelessly in the house, and sighing, and sighing.
From then, he decided he hated Southern landowners with all his heart, for they had broken hers, and continued breaking so many others.
But he still continued looking. Looking for that beauty that had been lost. Looking for something that had seemed a dream, perhaps an illusion.
Until he saw her. That girl in the clearing. So soft and sweet, with these eyes that were of a warm brown like a hot chocolate served after a hard day at school. Eyes that warmed the soul and the heart...
An angel.
His heart thudded, and he took another sip. A coup de foudre, the Frenches called it. Well, it certainly hit him hard.
His fingers wrinkled the paper, then tore it. It crisped and creaked, and fell on the floor like dejected dirt.
No, no sketch would be satisfactory today. Not ever since he met these eyes. He could not contend anymore with a beautified version of it. In him, there had been an awakening, a call to see the truth as it was. For his human side wanted to touch and feel, and an angel could not be touched and felt. He wanted to know she was a girl he could love, wanted to know what was on her mind and heart, her faults and failures as much as her qualities and successes.
He sighed and frowned. Well, he had used all his papers now. Now laid the marvelous cover of A Tale of Two Cities, so full of details he thought himself a failure. The leather cracked pleasantly under his thumb as he followed the lines of the illustrations, the delicate carvings with gold linings so bright in his eyes. He turned away and sighed once again.
In the book was a treasure. In the book was her memory, captured just that one time he had dared raised his eyes on her.
But no, he would not look at it. For then, he knew the picture would only make him lonely.
Soon, his friend Eugenio would take his part and play with his guitar. How easy it seemed to be for him, to gather so many around him. He only had to play some notes without saying anything, and already, the girls were at his feet, sighing, the men yelping the lyrics in recognition, and the children dancing.
Not so easy to share his notes and scribbles, which he kept jealously to himself, for fear that the others' eyes might make him realize faster the imperfections of his visions.
Eugenio did not think. He played. Edward thought and was frustrated with the gap between his thoughts and his work.
Sensing his gaze and turmoil, Eugenio winked and grimaced. The two men knew one another since childhood, and lived together in peaceful bachelor quarters, waiting to be discovered, with the naïve innocence of thinking one should just show their talents to get it.
But so far, showing had not been enough. Or maybe only for Eugenio, who was known now to make quite the merry jigs from pub to pub.
A loud laugh surprised him, and he turned. Two fellows, queerly attired as their clothes did not seem quite to fit their slim and petite stature, had entered the pub, one with black hair with a rather feminine way of walking, and one calm and solemn with his hat covered almost half of his face. Most likely two under-aged boys, trying to prove themselves men, one of them decidedly failing at being it. The shirts did not fall straight as it should, the pants lousy from hips to ankle, and only kept in place by a belt.
Daddy must be quite big, indeed, and perhaps with a good taste, for they were of good quality and coordinated.
"... I told you it would be easy!" The first fellow began with an almost shrilling voice. "It is so very ridiculous one has to go that far to get a book! Why, men have all the fun!"
The second voice was so soft and warm and homey. "Randa will be so happy. It was a good thing to do, to look for that book she so wanted to read... But oh, if the others knew! And, the clothes..."
"Curse Randa! She owes me quite a lot!"
"Oh, dearest, you know you don't think it..."
His companion paused, seeming to consider it.
"No, you're right, it was a fun adventure, fooling the sellers like that. Just don't tell it to her," The raven-haired one said, waving his thin hand in dismissal, but a little smile began to creep through the cheek in almost complicity. At this, the second one tilted his head with a knowing look.
"And I'm sure you liked it as well..."
"Now, you're becoming cheeky!"
There, Eugenio began to play, and the madness began. The lousiest girls clapped their hands, and soon all danced and cried, and turned and flew away like a swarm of birds.
"Oh, the music, the music!" Excited, the slim silhouette of the first one bounced slightly, the eyes alert and merry. He turned to the other, still calm and serene as still water. The agitated fingers touched for a moment the modestly gathered hands of the second, before retreating, as if realizing they should not be touched. "-lly, follow me!"
There, the boy jumped to get closer, dragging the other behind him, before the crowd broke their contact, and the fellow could not keep up. He stared, like a lost puppy, his mouth opening and trembling, before he straightened and tried to make his way to the crowd.
Yet, he bumped with the wrong one.
Jack the Irishman. Big, tall and hairy, and not one to tolerate such things. And terribly insensitive to music.
Swiftly, Edward raised and stood, pushed by something he could not quite understand.
"The lad's with me," He found himself saying quickly, putting his arm around the boy's shoulders. "My little brother. A bit... You know..."
Jack stared, and huffed, before mumbling "Ye b'tter watch 'em."
Edward blinked.
Well, that was quite a luck.
His chest fell in relief, before heaving in dismay. Now, what was he supposed to do with this one?
The boy was trembling like a leaf, his head lowered. He could see the mouth struggling with words, the eyes agitated and timorous.
"I..."
"Don't worry, I don't have any bad intention."
The trembling ceased suddenly, the body relaxed.
"Oh."
Edward was tempted to say anyone with bad intentions would say so, but as he looked at the person in front of him, he froze. The arm dropped as the eyes widened, awe replacing the irritation.
This was her. This was the girl in the clearing...
His heart went still, then jumped, and jumped.
She blushed, and he saw she had recognized him as well. But why was she in such a strange attire?
… Never mind, he thought. Then, she was less noticeable.
Did she feel the connection as he did?
"But I have to look for..."
"Well, no matter what your companion is, I doubt you'll find she or he in this crowd during Eugenio's part."
He hoped it was not a he. Or maybe a young brother.
There was steel in the warm eyes suddenly, a strength and determination that took his breath away.
"No matter what, I have to try. I'm sure she will worry about me."
She. It was a she.
But he was still dumbfounded over the pure concern she had.
"You're an incredible friend, aren't you?"
She shook her head slightly with a little smile, as if amused and ill-at-ease with the compliment.
"She is the one that is incredible."
He thought not. He thought very much not.
She seemed to sense the change in his mood as she dropped the subject. She fidgeted, before her eyes lightened over the book he was still holding.
"Oh, you're reading Dickens! Is it..."
"A Tale of Two Cities." He grinned, and she did too.
"I've heard so much of it!" She jumped, bright and alive with interest, before faltering like a timid chick. "Would you mind if I read some bits of it?"
"You can have it," He said impulsively, blushing at the audacity.
"Really?" She raised her head lightly, and he wanted to give her the world.
"It's all yours."
"Oh thank you! You are a true gentleman!" She cried with a joy unaffected that made his heart skip a beat, and a feeling of pride for bringing a smile to her face.
She held it to her heart, her eyes bright, until suddenly, they shifted to another thing, and the smile widened.
He felt the jealousy nagging him a little at the loss of her attention.
"Oh, there she is! I have to meet her !"
He turned, and there was her so-called friend that walked to them with furious steps, almost pushing him out of the way to get to her.
"... what are you doing? I've been scared to death, realizing you were not following!"
"Oh, dear Scarlett, don't be angry... I tried to keep up, but you just were too quick, and I was tired..."
"You should not have gone with me then." The words were harsh, but the eyes and tone softer. "My, you should have stayed in the hotel room!"
"Oh, please don't be angry, dear Scarlett! I could not let you go alone..."
"Fiddle-dee-dee! I would certainly have had less trouble alone! Now, look at you, you're all feverish once again!"
Edward cleared his throat.
Only to meet the glaring look of the fellow that had let his Angel down.
Or perhaps more accurately, the harpy that let his Angel down. The green eyes sized him up for what he was before his name was entirely spelled and widened.
"Who's that?"
Was it even needed, with such a gaze?
"Oh, he's a friend!" His angel answered sweetly.
Oh, a friend... What a sweet word, indeed!
"Edward Goldin." He said, almost flying with joy.
"Oh!" The raven-haired one cried in dismay. "He's...! Oh, let's just go, we're going to be late!"
But he did not care about that one. All he wanted was her name. So he called her as she was pulled away by the other.
"Tell me!" He urged. "What is your name?"
She turned towards him for a last moment, her little hand coming towards him in need of connection, before shyly retreating. The lids softly lowered at the boldness, but the mouth let out her clear, dear voice, rendered more meaningful by the light in her eyes.
"Melanie Hamilton, of Atlanta!"
He stopped, moonstruck.
Melanie... The name melted in his mouth, soft and sweet like butter. Not any hardness to be found, just a melody that sounded like a tender declaration.
Me-la-nie. Three syllables, three the perfect number for love and holiness.
He could have gone farther into adoration, had not her so-called friend pulled her away, and admonished her
"... He's a Yankee, Melly!"
His heart dropped, back to the hard reality.
A Southerner...
His angel belonged to the people he abhorred most.
And then he remembered the sketch he had left in the book, just as she was going away. And the address he had written on it, by fear of it getting lost and waiting for a charitable hand to get it back to its owner...
A hope came, almost as a betrayal to the past, and he tried to crush it. But he couldn't.
…
Tara Plantation, September 1860
Coming back home was harder than she thought, Scarlett realized with dismay. Since meeting with that Yankee after a fool's errand, Melly had been all dreamy and distracted, her mother silent and more distant even than before. As for Pa, why, he was beginning to go on and on about these Yankees that were no gentlemen at all, and should be licked.
Oh, if maybe Mammy was at least a bit comforting! But ever since she came back, Mammy was eyeing her with a suspicious look, a look that made her ashamed of everything she had done; But how could she know what happened? How could she know of the many rules of propriety she had broken, and how she led Melly away from it?
Oh, when she had done it, she had no fear. She wore Rhett's clothes, and Rhett's clothes had still his scent, and how could she be afraid with them? Oh, the multiple, delicious scandal of having slipped once again in his chambers after he went away to steal some of it, wearing it, and using it for mischief!
It made her shiver all over, and with the memory of that kiss... Oh, she swore she would swoon!
Yet, if truth had to be told, Mammy was no mind reader.
The truth was that there was something different about Scarlett. Something like a secret, and Mammy, who had watched her since her birth, could not tolerate it, especially when she realized another burden had been added to Miss Ellen's load.
It took three days to get a word from her. And some pleads too, just before Randa's visit, as she finally broke, and cried, and swayed in disquiet.
Dumbstruck on her rosewood Ottoman, Scarlett wanted to cry with her, especially when the brown eyes turned toward her with betrayal, and the big body fell on the furniture, almost breaking it.
"Ye've become so hard, chile. Ye're getting away from us all. Ah done knew it, and it happened! Ye... Ye have changed!"
The words had the finality of a death sentence, and Scarlett's heart dropped from her chest.
"Please don't say that! I've never wanted to become that. Never," She leaned over the big, comfortable figure with the abandon of a child begging for comfort. She put her head on Mammy's lap, hoping with a sudden childish belief all would disappear. Oh, she had been holding on for so long! "Sweet Mammy, Mammy dearest... take me in our arms, just like when I was a child. I'm sorry, I really am! Oh, Mammy! When did life become so hard?"
As if suddenly awaken from her frenzy by the cry of her protegee, Mammy suddenly changed her tone completely and roused like an offended cock.
"Don't ye go sniffin' 'nd sniffin' at me, yer stronger dan dat, gurl!" Mammy scowled, before softening, and petting the confused dark head she had always looked after, laid on her lap like a cat waiting for a caress. "You be growin' up, ma lam'. Ain't noting wrong wit dat. Ye do wat ye have to do. But wat matter to me is dat ye do wat ye want to do."
Scarlett raised her head a little, almost timidly. Her eyes were hopeful and seemed to recover the softness Mammy had thought she had lost.
"You'll stand by me no matter what, Mammy?" She said.
"Always, mah lamb," Mammy replied with a loving gaze, and without any hesitation. "From de moment Ah done see ye, all red 'nd haingry 'nd full of laife, wit dese eyes lookin' at me suddenly 'nd stoppin'... Ah done love you, wit all me heart. And Ah still do. 'Lways."
"I love you too, Mammy," Scarlett replied intensely, her chest becoming hot with the passion of her words. "I think that's the only love that I'll be able to keep true, for you know me, and still love me. You've seen more things about me than Mother, or even Pa... And yet, you love me..."
A frown appeared on the old woman's brow.
"Don't say that, mah lamb. Ye are so loved. Ye are meant to be loved."
"Everyone is meant to be loved. That's what Melly says, but I don't think it really is meant for me," Scarlett sighed, before staring as a horrifying thought came. "Mammy, are you forcing yourself to love me?"
"Now dat be stupid, Miss Scarlett. Enoff. Love kain be forced," Mammy scolded, then stared ahead, thinking, her big and warm hand going still. "Ye kain change oder people, and ekspect dem ter love ye widout demandin' noding. Dat be not right. But ye kan make yer own way. AIn't nothin' wrong wit dat."
Scarlett nodded quickly.
In the room, someone cleared her throat and stomped her foot, startling them both.
Hands on her hips, with a mocking purse of the mouth, Randa Tarleton, having just entered the room with the impatience of being in, tilted her head to one side, considering the scene before her.
"Well, am I supposed to wait until her Majesty the most fleeting friend of all decides that I am worth troubling her after and that it's time to stop bothering poor Mammy with her crying fits?"
"Oh, Randa..." Scarlett sniffed, before wiping her cheeks, and letting a little laugh as she raised. "I"ve missed even your sharp tongue!"
Her eyes followed for a moment Mammy's retreating back, her posture showing how belatedly upset she was of breaking down in front of her child, before turning at Randa's bark of laughter.
"Well, I suppose Melly did not dare to go against you. But she'll learn."
The raven-haired girl grinned.
"Oh please, do not. She might become a monster if you do!"
"Says the green-eyed monster."
"Well, if that's so, I'll better keep for myself one little thing I risk my life for, just to please you."
"Oh, don't be so pig-headed! So, your errands had been useful after all!" Randa said joyfully as finally, her friend begrudgingly gave her the result of her find.
An uncensored version of The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Unfamous Moll Flanders, by Daniel Defoe. Delight came to her features as she opened it.
Yet Scarlett continued staring, until Randa could not bear the insistence of it. She almost pouted at the interruption. "What are you waiting for?"
"A little thank you is never too bad."
"And here I thought you did it by pure friendship to me, and not to get any recognition of it!"
"You are a dramatic fool, Randa. Now, where's my thank?"
"Well, I learn that from you, dear," Randa countered easily, before leaning in with a secret smile on her freckled face. "Oh, believe me, you'll thank me when you hear what I've learnt..."
The green eyes brightened with the avid curiosity of unveiling a secret.
"Do tell!"
Randa leaned in, her clear eyes twinkling.
"Well, it is said your dear little Butler - with a big b or a little, as you wish – is about to enter a big negotiation with Frank Kennedy to sell cotton to the English, with a secret goal to it. And it is said also he wanders around not so far from Tara..."
….
Twelve Oaks Plantation, October 1860
The Wilkes' library was quite reputed in the country, but still, it lacked some important volumes (important yet one had to admit very shocking for who cared about propriety). Most of them were quite dull and grandiloquent, yet so very far from reality; the darkest of the books being Thackeray's Vanity Fair, visibly recently bought and read. Which was already quite telling.
Rhett did not know how it came to that talk. His negotiation with Kennedy had been quite fruitful, despite John Wilkes' subtle attempts to cast some doubts, so subtle the younger man was almost admirative and respectful. But then, Gerald had grown restless and excited by the abuse of liquor and the talks of possible incoming wars, and as a perfect host, John Wilkes decided, with the help of Frank, to get him out of the room.
Maybe it was an attempt to dissuade the old boy quietly. But Rhett knew all about him now. He knew how to sway him.
Yet it meant also he found himself with the little gentleman, alone in the library.
And what had been only a little innocent –yet not so at all – remark about that one last addition, with a bit more bite than intended at first, had now become something quite different, a cold, passive and aggressive exchange of glares and acid remarks, almost as that little moment before a duel, when the two opponents try to seize the other.
One other day, Rhett would not have indulged in this. However, in his mind, a torturous sensation haunted him. The feeling of a kiss, of a perfume, numbed by a halo of drunkenness and search for oblivion.
Oh, that night, he had almost finally succumbed to Belle's proposition of easy love and lust, but the good it did him! One woman could not replace another, and he was slowly realizing it.
Many times, he had asked Belle over that new girl, hoping to erase the ache in his heart whose name was Scarlett, a name carved on it, bleeding when he was away, pressing when she was near.
Yet, she had disappeared like a dream, so she must have been just that. An illusion provoked by the violence of his need of her.
Rhett hated being in love. He hated the dependence of it, the uncertainty, and the way he found himself considering abandoning it all just to be with her, and damn the consequences. He hated not being able to do much about it, to know it could not be, not if he respected his friend, not if he respected himself.
For he would have her all or nothing, and he knew nothing was probably where all of this was leading.
So, he had kept himself quite away. But now, with the sight of that foolish boy, that was too much to bear!
"You're made of dreams," He bit, scrambling his cigar on the ashtray. "Little girls' dreams. You think the others are unreal, but it is you. You are fed on it, it's the only thing that can make you strong."
The boy faltered, like a piece of paper blown by the softest of wind.
"That's... maybe true."
"Maybe? That's an euphemism," There, instead of the dreamy boy, the only thing he could see was a ball on Scarlett's delicate foot, preventing her from running. A leech, taking the life from her. His teeth gritted. "Let Scarlett down easy, boy. It'd be better for both of you."
"For you, you mean?" The words were brave, but not the voice. "Why not let Scarlett make her own decision?"
Rhett scowled.
"Weak to the end, aren't you? Under the cover of giving her the choice, you're just hiding, hoping nothing shatters your little world. But it will shatter. Have no doubt about that."
"Better her dreaming after me than you having her," Ashley riposted, his fists hard behind his back and stature rigid as a statue. "It'd be like a satyr lurking after a nymph, Vulcain marrying…"
Rhett could not help the smirk from grazing his face.
"Venus? My, boy, you're never as passionate as when you're talking about dead stories. No, Mr. Honorable. If I ever wanted her, it'd be more like Mars and Venus. Passionate and explosive, making love without a care. And I want you to keep that image in your little head, boy," His flat palm hit the younger man's forehead. He grinned maliciously. "Me corrupting her innocence, kissing her like there is no tomorrow…"
Dangerous, very dangerous thought now...
Widened eyes stared at him in shock, calculation over his chances if a real duel occurred, before finally the defeat sank.
Coward, Rhett wanted to say. But it was useless. He had already won.
"You're the devil."
"At your service, gentleman,"
He bowed with a devilish grin, his hat low as he took amusement from the outrage on the young man's face. Red erased the dreamy glow of the picture he was making, and Rhett would have liked so very much for Scarlett to see it, to see the weakness in her chosen one, and that fist that clenched but was not even strong enough to be lifted.
Still the boy faced him in a last attempt to keep composure.
"You'll not have her, sir."
But this was not to deter him. He had already resigned himself at that. Rhett leaned forward, as if to tell a secret. Teeth glinted, ready to bite, but he refrained.
"But you won't have her as well, boy. She's not an idea you can just choose to forget if it becomes too much for you. She'd give, but she'd always expect to be paid."
"You're talking of yourself."
His lips stretched out in a mean grin.
"You think?"
"You tried to make her your creature, but I won't let you!"
His creature?
He remembered her pleading gaze, begging her... to what, in fact? Had the boy filled her with such ideas?
Was he the reason she was distancing herself from him?
His blood flared.
"Oh, because you think she needs to be saved?" He sneered. "Then you're even more foolish than I thought."
There, the last bullet was shot, and he left the scene, hoping for some fresh air. But instead, there was Scarlett. Scarlett everywhere, in these gardens, laughing, running from him, claiming to be the mistress of it all. Scarlett, woman and child, angel and devil, so young and yet mature in a little queer way that made it as endearing as disquieting.
By God, what a madness it was!
He wandered around, then ran, ran from his feelings, his frustrations, his anger. Ran to the limits, ran until he thought he would scream. But as he was about to do so, her image went to him, sitting on the barrier limiting the property, the heat of the Georgian sun burning in her eyes.
"Scarlett…"
What was she doing here?
Was she chasing Wilkes in his own territory?
The bold, foolish, foolish woman!
And by God, could she stop looking at him like that?
The tender and little fold, just below her lower lip, begged to be bit, and for a time, he wondered if she might taste just as he dreamed. Just as that drunken dream he had had.
"Were you going to go without seeing me?" Her sweet voice said, pleasingly teasing him.
Oh, yes, he had fully intended to. He was not masochist enough to seek intentionally for the sting of an unreciprocated love, especially an unreciprocated love with her, so young, with the cruelty of that youth that could so easily cut him.
It was a pain to leave her. But it was also a pain to watch her dance around someone that would never make her happy.
But still, he grinned, a fool's grin that bit him as he drew it. He joined her on the barrier, defeated by his powerlessness at giving up on something that could so easily break him.
The mask was hard as he slipped in it, and the more painful when he wanted to be true to her.
"Would you have been so very upset?"
She swayed coquettishly, beaming at him like the child she had been, but he was no fool, not truly. She was no innocent girl anymore.
"Only a little. But only because it's getting boring out there."
"Oh, so the blind adoration of the county boys is not enough for you anymore? Nor their gifts, I suppose? Now, what are you doing here?"
"Mother wanted me to get Pa home."
That was obviously a lie, but he let it pass. For this time.
She nestled at his side, tender and soft, her arms embracing her folded knee covered by the silky yards of her dress. The frills rustled sensuously like leaves rubbing against themselves under the wind's force, and finally, her foot showed, small and delicate, and covered by the red leather of her mule. And then it slipped, and slipped, and oh! What a delight of creamy skin revealing itself in daylight, bright and proud, and dancing, until finally, the adorable little toes appeared, jingling with mischief.
The shoe fell without a notice, and he was remembered of that French tale, Cinderella.
But he was no prince, no, to sweep her off her feet. And she was not one to bow and obey, and wait for a man to set her free.
Not him in any case. His back would break if he knelt too much to her.
"I'm tired," She whispered, and the last word let a whimper escape.
His heart dropped, yearned.
"Darling child..."
There was a little pause between 'darling' and 'child' that only he felt, for it burned his tongue.
His arm unfolded and went around her shoulder, and when the hard calluses of the fingers met the smooth skin, it stung and grizzled on both parts. Yet he continued grasping, and she held her breath, her eyes lulling as she raised her nose in the direction of his scent, so primal, and wild, and true. A smell of well-oiled leather, cigars and.. And... warmth, incredible, irresistible warmth, like logs of pines burning slowly down in the fireplace.
Oh, she just couldn't think.
She snuggled closer, her nose begging to bury itself in the heat of his scent, that seemed to be located in the hollow of his neck. If she could just stay still in bliss!
"You know you can tell me anything," He said softly. "You used to, before."
She stiffened a little, tried to distance herself. But he wouldn't let her.
She pouted.
"Before, I was a child."
His body vibrated with the tender ring of his chuckle, and for a moment, she wondered if his heart beat the same.
"I miss that urchin."
"I suppose she amused you a lot."
"She still does. You still do. Always."
Is that all I make you feel? She thought distraughtly. Amusement?
"But you never were an amusement, you know," He said after feeling the shift in her mood. "You were always more than that."
"You've always known me so well..." Her chest heaved, then fell in a painful sigh. "I'm afraid I lost myself in the way, Rhett. I'm afraid I can never go back to the way I was. To the innocence of it all, the thoughtlessness of it all."
He scoffed at it.
"I fear you are modifying too much of your childhood self to make it something to be idolized. But let me tell you, I who have been there… you never was entirely innocent and thoughtless."
"That's good to hear," She pursed her lips.
"You were wild and disquiet. You still are, in some ways. And too quick for those around you."
"Too quick for you?"
He chuckled.
"My dear, I'll always be two steps ahead you, just know that,"
"You're just too full of yourself," She huffed.
"I am. And I have the means to," He grinned lazily, before his expression sobered, a dark veil weighting his black brows. "No one ever get back. Yet, none entirely lost oneself, except to madness. And you're not mad, are you?"
"Of course not!" She scoffed.
"Then you've just grown. But you're still that little urchin that fell in my arms after biting off some apples."
She looked at him very queerly.
"That sounds very much improper and sinful."
"It probably does." He chuckled, but the uneasiness was there. He shifted his position, but she was still there, that woman-child, caught between two ages that fought in front of his eyes. "You grew up, that's for sure."
"So, you've seen it?"
Her chin lifted slightly, the lids slowly raising, by fear her eyes might betray her thoughts.
Take what you want, Mother said.
Never had any one of her suggestions had been so tempting. Especially when Mother had tried to cancel it.
She tilted her head toward him, the lids fluttering once, before lifting to meet his eyes.
A numbness came over her, comfortable and familiar.
She would not have him, no. But that did not mean she had to get nothing at all.
He wanted to be her brother, and she was going to take him to the letter.
It wasn't her fault if she did not know what brothers and sisters were supposed to do, after all.
After all, she did remember hearing that in France, siblings kissed each other regularly on the cheeks, and sometimes even on the lips...
The lips... Well-formed and curved in that lopsided grin that faded as she stared.
If she could only have a taste of them again... But would it be too much?
Better have it than be sorry about yourself for not getting it, she thought.
"Rhett..." She uttered softly, his name rolling down her tongue like a purr. Her heart hammered against her ribcage so strongly she thought it might break it. "What would you do if you wanted something, something hard enough to drive you mad at the idea of not having it, yet you knew it might ultimately destroy you?"
His heart grew cold at the danger. He shifted uneasily.
"I'm not sure my answer would be suitable."
She continued staring.
"You'd take the best of it and go, wouldn't you?"
His arm dropped from her shoulder.
"Sometimes, it's not that easy."
"Oh, but maybe it should."
There, she gave him à mysterious smile, and he was nagged by it, so very intrigued. I know something that you don't, she seemed to say. It went from the kissable pit of her dimple to the corner of her mouth, drawing the red plump pulp that glistened to his eyes like a forbidden fruit. But what could she know? What...
His heart went still. What if she knew?
But no. Certainly she was thinking of her damn Ashley. Damn the boy. Damn her.
Oh, he was so screwed.
Black eyes looked at her very closely, seeking, aching for something in that calm exterior that he once could read so well. Never had he truly wondered what she thought. The child, joyful and true, had always been open to him. The little duck she became then had been sullen, waiting for pets and its transformation from a chick to swan.
But the woman... The woman was becoming a mystery, and he did not like that one bit. He could still see some glimpses of the truth, but now, he felt like something had changed, and he missed something crucial to completely understand her.
No, certainly, she did not know his feelings. Else, she would have eaten him out, and he'd be already crawling at her feet.
I know how you kiss, she thought with growing triumph as she met his eyes. I know the burn of it and I'll get it again. I'll get it and make my own way, and you won't have any say in this. I'll be so much more than what you thought I'd be, you'll see.
But then I'll leave... Oh, why should I leave? Why would you have to leave? If you did not leave, I would not have to be sure to be the one that did it first! If you did not leave...
But she could not fool herself and say that if he did not leave, he would be hers forever. Rhett was not that kind of man, and even if he loved her, he would not let her tie him to one place, to one people.
She leaned in, putting her hands on the wood between them, and stared into his deep black eyes, a hint of the darkness that was to come. Her mouth opened but slightly, and she felt the burn on her palm, consequence of her gripping so strongly. With the sunset, his bronze skin was red like an Indian's, red like the clay of Tara, and then suddenly, she saw it. Something raw and dangerous in his eyes, overpowering and hot, like charcoal finally being lit, the flame vibrating in and around the orbs.
She shivered and fidgeted a little, feeling feverish and sweaty everywhere.
What it was, she could not decide. But it almost looked like he wanted her, and she wanted dearly to believe it.
She closed her eyes and waited, hoping. Oh, hoping!
"Scarlett!"
Name of God! She jumped and fell from the barrier, while Rhett straightened, and briskly, without even a look, offered her a hand. She refused it, glaring at his indifference.
Why, he did not care at all! She had only been dreaming!
Pierre Robillard snickered meanly as he looked at them, the interrupted would-be lovers, a bit disparate in chronological age, but certainly not that much in mental one. And so, so unaware they were two magnets begging to meet.
In another time... Yes, in another time, it would have been a story he might have entertained himself with.
But this was his granddaughter, and she was more than an entertainment.
His eyes twinkled as he seized her, disheveled and sheepish, but with a glow and a disappointment that fooled no one.
Well, at least no one but that Rhett Butler who was too preoccupied with keeping his own expression in a blank indifference.
Fools, the both of them.
He grinned and opened his arms.
"I've just arrived, and this is how I am welcomed? Your mother told me where you might be and asked me to look for you. Please, dear girl, do stop playing around, and come greet your grand-père."
This was not entirely the truth, but it was still hard to admit even after all this time Ellen did not seem to have forgiven him.
Her face lightened with a begrudging smile as she met him, and let herself be kissed on both cheeks.
"Well, aren't you happy to see me?"
Her smile stretched a little more.
"Of course, I am!"
But she would have liked for him to come a little bit later.
Well, the girl ought to have her fun.
He shook his head in amusement, before raising it to meet the eyes of one Rhett Butler, who had stridden very nonchalantly towards them.
The two men stared at one another, defiant, daring the other to say anything about it.
Pierre lifted a brow.
"I see you've watched well over her, boy."
"As much as she can be watched," Rhett retorted.
Scarlett went still, frowning as she heard it.
Wrong words, boy, Pierre thought.
"Oh, you're both infuriating!" Scarlett cried, stamping her foot in protest. "I'm going home!"
Fury became her as she got away, her silhouette bouncing at each step. The skirt fluttered and fluttered, tainted red as the feet dragged her farther. She was in such a state she did not care to walk with bare feet, the mules long forgotten as she fed red anger with her ruminations.
And Pierre and Rhett stayed face to face, staring at each other as if for a duel.
Another one, at least.
"Don't begin something you know you won't be able to engage yourself for."
"I don't take any advice from you."
"So do you?" Pierre smirked, his hands gripping on his holsters. "Want to engage yourself?"
Rhett looked after Scarlett for a time, wandering away, very much unaware of his turmoil. But what turmoil was there, when he knew what he knew? And when now, he was so close to other ambitions, more materialistically profitable?
"No."
Pierre turned away, towards the future. Towards his granddaughter.
"Then let her, boy. You're making your way, and I doubt you'd like having to care about another's life while risking yours. Let her make her way."
That being said, he joined her, laughing. His look was fond as he ruffled her hair, the chignon loosening to let escape a river of black silk.
"La récréation est finie, petite sauvageonne," He told her. "Savannah nous attend."
And the world as well. But he'd have to prepare her for that part.
