Hello everyone and thank you for your enormous patience with me! Here, I finally finished one very big chapter, and I hope to have done a bit of justice to the themes that were addressed, while still making it coherent with the points of the story and the development of the characters. But well, I believe it might never be really enough.
The scene at the end has words from the book, yet there's a twist.
With the uncertainties of everything happening these days, I hope it will manage at least to distract you for a few moments.
Love you all,
Elise
PS: By the way, I just noticed that from chapter to chapter, I've been addressing Rhett's father either as Langford or Langston. Sorry about that. I just can't seem to like that character enough to settle on a name, it seems. I'll correct it as soon as I can (Plus, I just can't seem to find the correct orthograph for Mrs. Merriwhether. Merriweather. Whatever. Let's just blame my autocorrect on that one :p ).
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...
...
Dawn was creeping through the buildings, the lingering darkness preparing for the fire of its entrance. The sky wore a bloody scar from its slow invasion, its lazy dark blue barely fighting against its eternal doom.
As she watched its setting, Scarlett tried vainly to keep Wade in his crib, the toddler fighting quite eagerly his mother's attempts with scratches and slaps on the hand.
How he had grown up! At the end of the month would be his first anniversary, and she couldn't believe it had passed so quickly! How changed, how strong! The tuft of dark hair had become quite the little mane, thick and brilliant, and his eyes, dark and slanted, seemed sharper and just a tiny bit malicious. In his mouth had grown four fierce teeth, which he eagerly used when the threat of his claws wasn't enough.
Her lion of a boy.
For sure, he was not a loud child. No, he was always quite calm, quite serious.
That did not mean he was well-behaved.
He was a devil like that.
And Scarlett loved him like that. He was certainly not of the buoyant kind, that she was sure she would have understood it more, having been quite the active child when she was young. Yet he wasn't the placid child that one could put at one place and forget. There was a slyness, cunnings beneath these serious black eyes, and she was very thrilled by it, though not caring to understand precisely why it was so.
She loved him, and that was it. There was nothing else to think about. Though she liked to think that he had also quite the noble air for a little boy, quite a strength for such tiny fists!
Footsteps tapped against the wooden floor of Aunt Pitty's porch. Absentmindedly, she touched her son's hair, and it felt fluffy and soft under her fingers. He seemed to like that, for he closed his eyes and emitted a sound between a babble and a purr. She smiled lightly, yet her body was fully aware the presence at her side.
"So, you're leaving again," She said with her heart on her throat.
"Chaque bonne chose a une fin," She heard, and she could almost feel in it the smile on his face, a tenderness in an otherwise cold and shrewish face.
I know you're up to something, she wanted to say. Something dangerous.
And he certainly guessed it, for her eyes looked at him sideways and Wade had turned his head toward him, landing on his backside with perplexed eyes due to his mother's inattention.
"Well, you know what they say," He continued. "With war may come many opportunités and I'm curious to see... Oh, I don't remember the English of it... 'ce que le vent ramène'. A least on this side."
"You mean you're curious to see if it can bring you something."
His smile widened, the eyes creasing in amusement.
"You're right, ma petite," Seeing as she was about to open her mouth again, he shook his head, half irritated and half amused. "No, no, don't ask. It is not something I can tell you. You will have to trust me."
"As you trust me?" She quipped, before taking a cajoling tone. "If you trusted me, you would tell me."
He sighed in a dramatic way. "Sometimes, ma chère, caring goes in the way of trusting. I care for you."
Her body straightened in offense as she gripped the border of the crib.
"That makes no sense."
"It does. Wind, by the way, and what it can bring," He continued in a fleeting way, seeing she was about to protest. "As words fly like wind, you'll find out I've let you a little gift before leaving."
"A gift?" Her eyes popped and fidgeted with the eagerness of a child. "What kind?"
"Not the material kind, chipie." He smiled indulgently. "I'm giving you a way out. Someone like you shouldn't be locked up as you are."
"But how? I'm a widow, and it would seem..."
"I've named you my heir."
She blinked in puzzlement and shock.
"You... But, you said Wade..."
"...Is your son, and you are my granddaughter. You will give it to him when the time comes. But as for now, you are the one I choose to represent my interests here," He grinned with a dramatically obscure air. "Remember, darling, I'm old and rich, and the patriarch of a grand and old family. My word is gold, and yours, if it isn't yet, will be. Tu seras mes yeux et mes oreilles, and, if need be, my voice."
Her eyes narrowed. By this, he was keeping her here, in an attempt to make her feel as if she was part of his plan. Why would he do such a thing? What could lead him to that?
Though the idea was pleasant, she could not quite believe it. At the back of her mind, Rhett's voice was ringing, telling her there was something she had to see. But what?
"The old crones won't like that."
"The old crones need money. Remember that. They might look at you with the self-claimed superiority of morality, but you will have words to say in the matter, and they'd be fools to dismiss you. More likely, they will put you under their wing, to guide you towards the good society. Let them think so. You have nothing to prove anymore."
Something lifted in her chest, a burden she didn't know she had still been carrying.
Yes, indeed... She would not be just the widow of Charles Hamilton, not just the daughter of Gerald and Ellen O'Hara. Not just one last relative one could dismiss. She was recognized, chosen. She was legitimate.
Pierre Robillard grinned.
"Smile, Scarlett, you're too young to be so wary," He said. "It is not in your nature. Raise your chin, yes, like that. Pride suits you well, mon enfant. You're allowed to smile, now. Not that tragic smile widows have to show to the world. A real smile. No, in fact, it is your duty. I order you to. Life is something one should smile at, and death laugh at."
He pinched her chin fondly, and there she couldn't help it. She was no child anymore, but under his tender gaze she felt she was allowed to be, and she regretted all these years wasted when she did not benefit from his presence. She felt she would be another person entirely, and she wasn't sure she would have liked that person.
"Oh, Grand-Père!" She cried, jumping into his arms. "I love you..."
He pressed her against him, surprisingly strong for his age, and she felt a tremor in his body.
"Tellement de choses à te dire, ma petite, et si peu de temps..." He whispered in her hair. "How can one fill the gaps in so few minutes?"
Her heart caught up in her throat. So many things indeed, but why did he say he had not enough time? She pressed her lips together, gathering her thoughts, and finally managed to utter two words.
"Try, then."
A flickering light was shining in her eyes, a mixture between fearful concern and a childish wish to ignore it all and be reassured, even if it was a lie.
He gave her a little smile, his wrinkled hand grazing the crone of her head. His eyes softened.
"Non, ma Scarlett," He uttered softly. "It is not my will to put you into more worries. This is no farewell. After all, you still have two wishes to ask me."
She tried to smile, but couldn't. She had forgotten about it. He sighed in irritation.
"Your Grand-Père is strong, and though many underestimate that old fool, he knows how to get his way. Remember that. Don't underestimate the enemy, but make sure they underestimate you."
Some of the tenseness dropped from her shoulders as she saw he was confident in what he said, and she truly wanted to believe it. Yet, she also had wanted Charles to live, and Charles was dead.
"You've got one hot Irish blood, but don't forget you've got French one too, And remember, Scarlett, ma petite écarlate, we may look frivole and light, proud and fickle, and quite obsessed by plaisirs... but we look and think. Most English speakers are proud to say they are practical and cool-minded, dutiful, unlike us. They're stuck with ideas of honor, and it's what makes them so easy to manipulate. They think they are leading the game, when they are mere pawns to it."
She raised one carefully clipped brow.
"Oh, so French can't be pawns ?"
He nodded very seriously, though she could see his eyes glinting with mirth.
"Oh, we can be. But at least, we're conscious of it. Knowing that, at least we can find ways to have fun anyway."
"Tch. It's just pride against pride. Who is better, who's got the most…"
"Ah, cette nouvelle génération, pensant tout savoir…" He shook his head, but did not look vexed, rather more amused. "it's much more than that. It's about taking the opportunités when they come to you, and not be hindered by what the others think. No matter what, people will always point out your différences, whether you want them to or not. Oh, but what can we expect from a Frenchman ? It took time for them to finally accustom themselves that this Frenchman had a place, and would not be dislodged, and to decide that white silences were a proof of gentility and dignity, instead of contempt."
What can we expect from a girl born to a silly Irishman ?
Pa… a longing came to her as she recalled his clear blue eyes and the buoyancy of his stance. She could still see him galloping on the driveway bordered with cedars, hooting carelessly as if he never had more fun than in doing so.
"Fiddle-dee-dee !" She shook her head. "I still think it's a matter of silly pride."
The light danced in these laughing eyes.
"Perhaps. But the answer has never been given who has the best reason to be proud. When the time comes, we act. We survive. And we raise."
She pursed her lips.
"That's more than one. And quite grandiloquent."
"En effet. But I had to play the part, hadn't I ?" He grinned. Your Grand-Mere would say :'la barbe, avec ton chauvinisme affecté ! Tu vas encore en vexer plus d'un. Ils penseront tous que tu es sérieux, et la fête sera gâchée.' She was right, of course. But still, she played the part with me. Play the part… yes, she always wanted everything to be perfect. She so wanted it that it would bring her to cries if something infringed decorum and made her lose her poise."
His lips curved just a little in tender remembrance, before the shadow of his eyes caught up with the smile.
Scarlett lost her smile and looked at him in concern. He was talking more and more of Grand-mere, these days, and there was in his voice, in his whole presence a sense of fatality that creeped from him to her with a cold touch. There was something she couldn't see, something she didn't want to see.
He was talking about his love... A great love, and she craved it for herself. An image came to her, and suddenly she wasn't really sure she was thinking about her grandfather anymore. Did not dare to admit it.
"Do you know what your grand-Mere used to tell me when I had to go ?"
"When you fled from her, I suppose it more likely," SHe quipped.
He flashed her a smile. "That too."
She bit her lip, trying to shake off the picture carved in her mind.
"Now, what was it?"
He smirked.
"Le diable t'emporte !"
"And what would you answer ?"
With a grand gesture, he pointed his hand to the sky, his head held high and a wicked smile on his lips. In the dark, his features seemed darker and perhaps younger, and the picture in her mind became him. Her smile froze, and eyes went misty with longing.
"Seulement pour me ramener à toi, chérie !"
She giggled, and the merry sound splattered lightly on the porch, followed by Wade's, who, if he as a toddler, was certainly not able to grasp the meaning of it, still seemed to enjoy the music of his mother's happy laugh. Pierre Robillard's eyes twinkled, until a shade of melancholy dulled a little the orbs.
"It seems like a long time since I've heard you truly laugh. For one moment, you seemed hazy, far away, and now you're back. Toute rougissante et rêveuse. That must be him, then." He whispered softly. "Great love always leaves you wanting for more. And the pain is even more acute when it seems lost."
Finally, it faded, and she shook her head, dismayed with herself.
She looked away, pouting. Her arms crossed, as if to contain her wrath at being so discovered.
"Another lesson you'd like to add ?"
His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps."
He tucked some erring hair behind her ear, and caressed her cheek lightly. Suddenly, she was remembering her mother's touch, and the miss of that touch tore her heart more than she would have thought it would. She shook her head, eager to dismiss it.
On his lips, the smile turned wistful, the jaw tight. She looked at him with worried eyes, and to distract her, he teased her nose with the tip of his finger. Unwillingly, she laughed, until her cheeks became wet with tears as she took him once again in her arms. Only here was missing Pa, who would have shouted long and loud about how he would not tolerate anyone leaving him with such insufficient notice and would have argued for a longer sojourn with gifts and strong protests.
His chest fell with the depth of his sigh.
"You get what your mother had no time to get, sheltered as we tried to keep her. She made the appearance her own, and did not see the sharpness underneath, and the aim for it. Not that we wanted to show her. Your Grand-Mère loved your mother to death. She was to be all that she had wanted to be, kind and happy and loved. Bah, l'enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions. Love wants to keep, but it's freedom that makes you learn. Prends soin de toi, ma petite," He kissed her brow. "Remember that you're your grand-mère's grandchild, and no matter what, I'll be on your side. There is no greater gift than to have people on your side that understand, love you and want to keep you free. Keep them well, Scarlett. Give them your loyalty and they will give you theirs."
She nodded. The words had flowed over her like waves over a child, and she struggled to understand it all. Oh, why was he saying all of this when she was so sad he was leaving?
"I will."
The bells rang, announcing his departure.
So soon! She looked towards the sound, surprised, saddened.
"Et un petit au revoir pour le rejeton," Pierre whispered fondly as he leaned on the crib to kiss one cheek.
Her boy pursed his lips, before letting out a little sneeze, provoking his great-grandfather to laugh. Scarlett turned to the scene and looked at the portrait, and found it lacking. Yet, she smiled nonetheless, because she knew this was what he wanted.
"And you… You better be safe too !"
He turned to her, and his smile was fierce.
"I've come many times to hell and back, haven't I ?"
…
…
January 4th , 1863
"I don't know what came to Mr. Robillard's mind, to put so much on a woman," Grumbled Uncle Henry as he looked through the papers, his lip upturned in vexation at what he considered at terrible waste. "Well, at least you're not as silly as some. Yet, how strange. But I suppose it's the Frenchness. One cannot talk reason with a French."
Scarlett bit her tongue, offended on her grandfather's behalf, and tempted then to evoke Descartes and Montaigne, two philosophers she knew by name, yet never really cared to properly study them. Their writing style had always seemed too complicated and pompous for her. She bit until she could taste blood, and her eyes lowered, waiting for the papers to be examined and certified.
There. She was an heiress now. Not just of Tara, for Tara now was but a little of what she owned now.
Yet, Tara would have been enough, she thought impulsively, with a sudden craving for the red clay. Pierre's will, though flattering and indeed opening doors, proved also quite a burden, for she wasn't just allowed to leave the house more, she was asked for literally every dull thing ever, not just the pleasant ones.
Still unsure of it all, she had decided to keep going to the hospital though, yet regret always came over as she entered and the smell of gangrene and waste came to her nostrils.
Not to mention that, but she also had another thing to think about!
Suellen had come two days earlier with great whims and petulance, and Scarlett swore it was like nothing had ever happened between them, no truce, no understanding. Name of God, there was no understanding to have of this! She regretted ever inviting her!
Only Melly seemed to, yet Melly would find a reason to cry for a fly hitting on the glass of a window.
'Oh Scarlett... You mustn't be too hard on poor Suellen," She once said. "You know how hard it is for her, with the arrival soon of Mr. Kennedy..."
Well, did that give her the right to be so irritating?
Though Scarlett had to admit she wouldn't be very pleasant indeed if she had to marry that fool.
She sighed and quickly dismissed it. The morning was dusty with the sound of hooves as she finally left Uncle Henry's office, and the air was so thick she took shelter on the way on a fresh shadowy alley.
Though she had to admit it was more the sight of a woman's red hair that had led her to stop there, to avoid any odd meeting, rather than the freshness. She leaned on the cold wall and sighed.
Though, now that she thought of it, it would have been better if the woman had herself changed street.
She was about to come back when the sounds of muffled voices came to her. She went still.
"I wanna have me own home. Me own crops. 'Nd I wanna me man wit me."
"Then what are you waiting for ?" Whispered a familiar voice. Scarlett looked askance, surprised. "Up there, in the North, there's freedom. Up there, in the North, there's hope."
Pansy. Scarlett froze, dumbfounded. Yes, Pansy had eloped years before from Tara. And now here she was, talking in shadowy alleys about freedom, and the Yankees...
"Hope ter die, yea. Ain't anything ken come from dem Yankees."
"They'll come for us anyway, so why try? I don't want to be sold."
"Why try? Because we have the rights. We, as human beings, have the right to freedom."
Something seemed to stir as eyes looked up towards her, and she went still, numb. Pansy's eyes widened in recognition, before hardening in defiance. They stared at one another, yet Scarlett had nothing to say. She could not think at that moment why it should be wrong, for every time she tried, her memories brought her so many moments when she had doubted when she had been helped, raised, and loved by black hands.
So, she nodded softly, as a sign of acceptance of the situation, and Pansy's shoulders relaxed as she seemed to whisper calm words to the servants she had talked to.
Well, she could do what she wanted! Scarlett didn't give a fig! And she was certainly no tattletale!
She turned away with red on her cheeks, and a surprising need to cry as finally the words came. Tara's image was behind her eyes, and she felt the need to defend it with all her might.
Yet, Pansy and the others were gone, and she could not do it.
She was still in her thoughts, wandering on the street to the way home when she heard someone calling her, and the sound of a buggy stilling.
"Hello Scarlett," Rhett, dashing in all his masculine glory, grinned at her and reached out for her. Intrigued, she took his hand, and he settled her at his side, leaving her hiccupping at his audace. "Marry me?"
She stared at him in horror, her cheeks red as he looked at her with his laughing eyes.
"What? No!"
"I thought I'd try a direct approach. Well, better luck next time," He shrugged as if what he had said did not mean anything, before answering quietly to her narrowing eyes. "Don't worry, my dear, I'm not about to abduct you. But I've heard no ride home could be offered for you. So I volunteered. Quite innocently, of course. One ought to be respectful of your reputation."
She lowered her eyes. Yes. Now that she thought of it, she was tired, and her feet ached. So, she ignored his barb.
"That's quite thoughtful of you." Yet, not quite discreet. She could feel gazes on her back. However, she could not feel anger when he was looking at her like that. "Thank you."
His lip upturned, as if not entirely at ease with her answer, and his voice came, crisp and mean.
"So I've heard you managed to snatch the old man's money. Quite convenient."
"Not everyone is as mercenary as you."
"More practical in that case," He softened. "It was good of him to do so. He must really love you."
"Well, I'm quite lovable," She quipped. "Why, everyone just seems to love me!"
His jaws tightened, eyes flashing with what she could only describe as his own little meanness of the moment.
"Certainly, your great qualities are better highlighted by your considerable..."
"Oh, hush, you crude thing!"
"You're their new... How would your very respectable grandfather say it again? Ah, pigeon. You know, there are many pigeons in Paris..." He held out his hands in defense as she glowered at him. "I'm talking of true ones, really."
"Hmpf."
She crossed her arms and looked away, pondering if it was suitable indeed for an heiress to take the whip from his hand and to whip him.
"But you know, if you married me, you wouldn't have to try so hard to fit in that society that doesn't suit you and would only use you until they have enough of you. You'd be with one that understands you and likes you for it."
Her head tilted a little as she examined him closely. His role as a blockade-runner certainly had opened doors and given him a romantic air. Girls had been giggling at his sight, some blushing and fanning themselves quite vigorously, and Scarlett had been as proud as she had been irritated that the man she loved was so admired and looked for. She liked it as much as she disliked it, but what puzzled her extremely was this restlessness in him, which told her he could drop the act as quickly as he had played it, without any care if it had any repercussions on others he claimed to care for.
Scarlett certainly wanted him to keep it on, for it was much easier that way. Yet, more and more, he seemed to slip and return to his mean self, pointing lazily the lacks of each reasoning and turning them around to make everyone look ridiculous. And the doors that had opened wide for the brave blockade-runner were softly being pushed as he did not seem to care and invest himself in the Cause and seemed in the contrary to mock it.
Already, matrons were beginning to put themselves in front of the girls.
Not that Rhett would take any interest in any of these ninnies!
Still, it was something to think about.
"You don't like that society, do you? Ever since we met, you were always so critical of it."
"I don't like a society that'd want to hit me for having my own mind. A society that would want to decide for me what is right or what is wrong, and would like to make me pay for any imagined outrage. That would be giving the whip to all those that would want to hit me."
"You'd rather be the one to whip them."
The corners of his lips twitched.
"The place suits me well, I think. And you would be at your place as well, little bully as you are."
"That's quite flattering," She raised her head, vexed.
"I meant it as a compliment. You're not so good as to be made a saint, nor one to be petted with pitying fondness. They'll make you miserable, my darling, and try to crush your spirit, so that you'd become their shadow."
"Then, stop petting me," SHe protested vigorously, slapping his hand on her hair. "You're infuriating, you know that?"
"So I've heard some said," He shook his head with a lopsided grin. "But irresistible, am I not?"
She was about to retort, yet it was not to be as the buggy stopped, and she noticed a crowd gathering in one corner of the street, so close to Aunt Pitty's house, whispering with bewildered indignation as a pathetic sob was heard. Rhett pulled on the reins swiftly. His body tensed beside her, the muscles flexing through his white suit. Her eyes flickered at the frills of his shirt, fluttering with the shortness of his breath. As the chest heaved and fell, she was tempted to put her head on it, to see if his heart beat with the same rhythm.
However, another cry broke her from her thoughts, and she let him help her out of the buggy. Her poise was kept, yet her eyes wandered sharply, alert to the situation at hands. Lacy little parasols had been dropped with the excitement, and the whispers grew louder and angrier. On the corner, Melanie was attempting to calm Aunt Pitty, the poor little lady reclaiming with cries her vinaigrette and threatening to swoon. Just besides them, Suellen was looking at the crowd, with a haughty triumphant air that puzzled her, that seemed as loud as if she had been screaming "Ah, you had it coming all along!"
She joined Melly at Pitty's side, joined the cajoling which almost led the older woman to demand Scarlett's retreat with her "to give her courage". To her great dismay. Melanie raised thankful eyes at her, before taking advantage of this additional help to call for Peter to help his mistress return home.
Uncle Peter's expression was somber as he took Sarah Hamilton in his arms, and the woman's cries softened, her big eyes looking up at him like a child would her father after awakening from a nightmare. He looked warily at Rhett as he went closer, before seeming to decide that his biggest priority was the rescue of his charge, which leaned with such faith on him.
At her side, Melly's hand joined Scarlett's, and she finally allowed herself to ask.
"What is happening?"
"Well..." Melly hesitated, ill-at-ease. "It's that darkie, Beef. He's one of Mrs. Merriweather's nephew's, or so I've heard. There must have been a misunderstanding… they say he escaped…"
"And of course," Suellen cut. "Mrs. Merriweather treated him well, tried to plead for him to return to his place. Yet the wretch wouldn't hear of it."
Scarlett went still, tilting her body to get a better view, before going still at the sight of one tall and thin man in rags with skin as black as ebony, just as Mammy was, on his knees in front of the stout body of Mrs. Merriweather, her plump little white hands raised in an attempt of reassurance.
"Calm down, Beef..."
The hapless man shook his head, trying to step back. His eyes were haggard, yet pleading.
"No, Mrs, I'm no Beef, as I told you..."
"Stop your nonsense, Beef, and..."
"No! My name is Stuart, and I was taken from New-…"
On her cheeks raised an angry flush. She slapped him hard, her eyes vicious with wrath, and the sound vibrated through the crowd like a wave of cruel satisfaction. At Scarlett's side, Melly stilled, pale and horrified. Yet, Mrs. Merriweather continued to cry.
"That filth… this is a good man's name! A gentleman's name. Not fit for the likes of you! Beef, beef, that's what you are!"
Scarlett's stomach lurched as she looked at the man as he stayed still, beaten down, yet unwilling to fight back. There was a dullness in his gaze, a fatal resolve that meant he knew if he fought back, it would be much worse. That if he fought back, he would be giving them à reason for further cruelties. Some were already looking for it.
Beasts, she thought. Beasts, Beasts, all of them.
Mother... No, Mother wouldn't have done it! Mother wouldn't have done it at all!
She looked at Rhett, her mind searching for clearly cut answers, facts.
At her side, Rhett's eyes were dark and opaque. His lips were moving quickly, angrily, as if saying 'fight, damn you ! You're letting them hurt you !'
Yet, there was also a cruel twitch on the mouth, that suggested more 'go on, do it and I'll make you pay for that.'
Mrs. Merriweather turned, and her proud voice raised, with the tone of one who had tried to reason the unreasonable.
"I shall have to wash my hand."
Her hands were shaking though. Her plump white hands, with that flushness brought by the aggression.
Hands… Scarlett went still, with the feeling of a soothing hand on her cheek, and à voice. Which one ? She thought anxiously. Which one ?
Mother's soft voice. Mammy's big hands. Mother's fine hands. Mammy's warm voice. They clung and mixed, and fought in her brain until she saw hints of black on her vision. In front of her, the limits blurred, and she saw à pale and thin silhouette, no, a dark one and… oh, couldn't the earth stop moving ? Couldn't the bees stop buzzing ? Couldn't Mrs. Merriweather stop talking ? Already, she was mumbling with Mrs. Whiting and Mrs. Elsing, and she could hear from the men... She could hear...
"If it doesn't work… well, I suppose we won't have any choice… we have to set out the example…"
Example?
Suellen scoffed.
"Tsk. We're too soft, in Tara."
"Tara?"
Suellen snapped her eyes at her sister, irritated.
"You still don't see anything past your nose, don't you?" She couldn't help her snarl. "Quite a few of them had left already, the ungrateful fools. Mother had been running wild for them, and Pa doesn't see anything!"
"Hush, Susan," Melanie intervened with a surprisingly angry voice, seeming to recover from her shock. "You wouldn't have seen it if you hadn't been there at Tara to witness it, would you? You're just being mean!"
Scarlett snapped back at Melanie, with the feeling of her head getting out of cold water.
Water... Yes, she remembered. There was a boy, and he had saved her... Was it? She was so young, and there were the Tarletons, so loud...
But Melanie... What did Melanie know of what was going on? What had Scarlett missed?
"Did... did you know?"
"Our people wouldn't dare! I shan't believe it, yet!" Melly protested, trembling with indignation at her vision being so questioned, before faltering. But I've received India's letter..."
"Tsk!" Scarlett tried to dismiss it carelessly, yet her voice was too weak. "As if India could say anything worthwhile!"
"India is not that bad and she tells the truth," Suellen hissed. "I wouldn't say about Honey, for she is a gossiping, fleeting thing like you, but if you hadn't made India your enemy by stealing Stuart..."
"Susan, I said enough!"
Scarlett thought about it, feeling the thunder pass through her from her hair to her feet, and she stared dumbly ahead, not really seeing anything.
No, indeed, she could not say that India would lie about such a thing while including her own situation. She may be quite dull and dutiful, and with a sense of prudish pride that irked Scarlett, but she had to admit that Suellen had the truth on one point: India never had any reason for animosity until she settled her sight on the one that had been chosen for herself, and that she loved. Her animosity only worsened when she took Melanie by her side and encouraged her to dismiss Ashley.
Perhaps had she thought that by Melly marrying Ashley, she would be free to let go of her role of mistress in Twelve Oaks, which she had taken at her mother's death.
Her forehead creased. Was she really taking pity in India? When she had been part with the making of the gossip? When Scarlett had seen how she acted with Cheyenne?
She winced. No. Too close to home. Somehow, it was easier to think of India and the wrongs she may have done her. It was foolish indeed that her mind rested a little on that idea, and Scarlett wondered why for an idle moment, until finally Melly talked again with her nervous prattle, and she was thrown back to reality.
"Oh, Scarlett, I'm so sorry!"
"And why would they want to stay ?" Suellen continued to grumble, still not berated. "I hate Tara. It's so boring and out of date. In fact, the whole County is boring and..."
Scarlett shivered. Tara… Yes, that's what had happened, and she cursed herself for not seeing it. Pork... That was what he had tried to hide... They were leaving, and with them, the blood of Tara was running out.
Do ye want me gone? A voice was asking.
"I want to go home," She whispered weakly, feeling the strength leaving her, replaced by a violent wave of something unknown, something strange that felt neither good nor bad. A dizziness as if she was about to fall into deep slumber, and she was awaiting the crush of her head on her pillow.
Do ye want me gone?
Suddenly, she felt like a little girl again, waiting on the threshold of her door for the light steps of Mother, her body flowing toward her, stopping, surprised, before giving a light caress on her cheek. She closed her eyes and heard Mammy's voice, telling her lovingly to go back to bed, that everything would be alright. Yes, everything would be alright... Her lids dropped slightly as her head dropped like a wilted flower.
Do ye want me gone?
No, no! She shook her head numbly. She didn't want her gone. She knew she had suggested it, yet she did not want it!
Stuart, he said his name was Stuart. Like Stuart Tarleton, her childhood friend who was fighting for the Cause at the same time. What was Mammy's name? She wondered idly. What was it? All these names that had been given... Pork, Beef, Cookie... These were not people's names. What was Mammy's name? She had heard it once, but when?
Esther, replied a deep, masculine voice with a teasing French accent. Esther...
Do ye want me gone? Do ye want me gone?
"Scarlett? Scarlett!"
She closed her eyes and fell, finally succumbing to the pressure. But the hurt of the fall never came. And when she opened her eyes again, she was inside, laying on Aunt Pittypat's couch with said-woman fanning herself in nervous jerks, Melly jumping from her to Scarlett and Suellen sat at the foot, her eye downcast as if slightly repentant.
Yet, it was Rhett she was looking for. He had called her name. She was sure of that.
…
Atlanta, on the night of the same day
"Naw, be a good darky, let dem treat ye right. Doan scream lake dat, yell make dem afraid. An' ef yer cl'ver enoff, dey'll be yers. All yers. Dere lake babies, dey need ter be scold'd 'nd spoild."
Leaning on Miss Hamilton's fence, Rhett watched as Uncle Peter berated with a loud voice the darky that had been caged in the street as a sanction for his misconduct. And certainly an example for others that might want to follow his example.
"But that's not freedom, brother," The man replied softly.
"Am not yer Bruder!" Miss Pittypat's man began to take umbrage. "Friddom, friddom! Ain't noting lake it, fer dem 'nd us."
"There is. You just don't see. You've been born in that world, and you've learned to think it's better that way. But there is a world where nobody has the power to whip you, to harm you and those you hold dear. I know it is."
"Ye no good nigger!"
Uncle Peter raised his hand, yet something stopped him as the man held his gaze, both men still in their contemplation of one another. The sweat on Uncle Peter's brow was shining with the moonlight, and he finally decided not to, and turned.
Swiftly, he went back to the house, and Rhett tipped his hat at him, before going still as their eyes met.
Uncle Peter's eyes were filled with fear. Not the fear of getting whipped, no.
The fear of doubt. The fear of a world being shattered under his feet.
But as he met Rhett's eyes came a defiance, proud defiance: 'I own you', he seemed to say. 'I own everyone in that house.' His shoulders straightened as he entered it.
Rhett stared more at the street, his hands coming in his pockets to graze the object he had managed to snatch, while still berating himself that he had taken so much pain to get it.
Yet, the man continued to be still, calm, in his cage. So calm he seemed to make one with the environment he was in, just like one of these trees planted on the street to guide toward the people's favorite place for picnic.
This felt so ridiculous and revolting he felt his blood boil. His fist clenched as he pondered on it.
"How long has he been there?"
"Scarlett!" He took a step forward, one tiny bit of embers burning in the coals of his eyes as she appeared to his sight, draped in her shawl. Concern marked his features heavily on his brows and the corners of his lips, and she felt the urge to smoothen the hard lines with her touch.
"Are you alright?"
She pursed her lips. Now, certainly, he was thinking she was a ninny.
"You're no woman to swoon easily. As a child, you never were afraid of spiders and snakes, and it's not a little blood that shakes you."
She looked at him closely, and he didn't hide.
"You knew it too."
"I've had words of it. A few field hands, and some of the household. Upsetting, yet better than most. The people of Tara like Tara," He said simply. "Your family is safe."
"You should have gone to Tara."
He shrugged helplessly.
"It wouldn't have changed anything, would it?" "
The question lay between them, a void that neither dared to fill.
She nodded. "No. I suppose it wouldn't have."
Her eyes went to the cage, to the man now weeping inside, weeping like a child as he whispered his name, as if trying to take strength from it. For a moment, she wondered how she would feel, if she wasn't Scarlett anymore, if she was forbidden of that name. Her brow wrinkled at the thought, and she looked like a lost child, unsure of the answer.
"Oh, no," He cursed and raised, taking her hands in his. They were cold, the little hands, cold and delicate, the skin so white and translucid he could almost see the green of her veins. Yet, they were strong hands, they did not shake, and they had sharp nails. "Drop it, Scarlett, it's too complex for you, and it defies my purpose."
She looked up at him, and her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, intense and searching.
"Oh? And what is your purpose?"
To make you happy and without a care in the world, you little fool.
Somehow, he couldn't say that. Not even now. It would have been giving her more clues, more power than he would have been at ease to give. He had already given her quite enough, to the point that the peace of his mind was shattered by each turn of her pretty head.
Instead, other words came, easily uttered, mindlessly uttered, and his smile froze with a jeering quirk of the mouth as the meaning came back to him.
"To corrupt you myself, of course."
"Great balls of fire ! Rhett Butler, corruptor of innocence!" She scoffed, taking her hands back. "why, you quite like that role !"
The words hit hard, and he cursed himself. Well, wasn't he? Didn't he?
She sighed, looking away as her temper fell just as it had raised. She was her father's daughter, alright. He had avoided the explosion, yet some hints of it had spilled over him. It still baffled him how her impulsive words could hit so close to the truth, so close to the fears he didn't want to admit he had.
"But you haven't. I was already quite tainted," She said softly as her mind went back to her primary notice, to his dismay. "What do you think of it ?"
He sighed heavily. God, she was so persistent!
"You've asked me that already."
Yet, her eyes were pleading, and he couldn't bear it.
He looked in the same direction, and gritted his teeth.
"Besides, it won't matter anyway."
She gathered her shawl around her, and for a moment, she looked more like the lost little girl that ran down the hills of her birthland.
"The South… it's all crumbling down, isn't it ? It's only the beginning, and yet… people are leaving, and there's this… fear that comes, that hopelessness…"
"Then, you know what I feel. And the slaves… they are feeling it as well. The power is shifting, places are changing. It will never be the same. The South will never be what it was once it is all over. And all those that could have kept its passion alive will meet a foolish end in a war they're doomed to fail. It's a waste, and I hate waste."
"They're going to lick us, like you said." She said it as it was a matter of fact.
"Yes," He answered, before drawing a lazy smile on his face. "Have you reconsidered about marrying me now that you've established it?"
"No. Because you try to make me think marrying you and escaping everything unpleasant are inevitably linked. You try to play on my fears to get what you want. That's not going to work."
He hummed.
"Sometimes, I would have preferred you a little more ignorant."
"Your fault."
"Indeed. Curse me."
They fell back into a comfortable silence, side by side, their shoulders touching lightly, her head so close, so close to lean on him.
"This isn't a comforting question you're stepping on."
"Even for you?"
A weary smile crept in the corner of his mouth as he admitted it.
"I've seen you many times got closer to it, then step back. Is our way of life right ? Is it good for everyone? You're not one to linger on questions that could bring you unhappiness and still, it comes and goes, comes and goes… But here's the truth, that I will repeat you because I know you know it. You just need to hear it from me. This world is built on blood and sweat, it has always been Scarlett, you and I were born in that world. It is as it had always been. Some are at the top. Others are at the bottom. Everyone wants to go up. Wants to stay up. Don't you ?"
She looked at him with wide eyes.
"I suppose so. But is it right ?"
He sighed, the headache settling.
"I don't know. And frankly, my dear, I've ceased to care. I'm up, and I quite like being there."
"Hmpf ! High enough to judge everyone !"
That was certainly a more secure subject.
"That's a lot of fun, to do so."
"You might want to drop a little, Captain Rhett Butler. I know many of your darkest secrets !"
"You know nothing," he laughed. "Else you would already be lording them over me ! But that doesn't matter. What matters to me is what I care about. And I care about you. I may have made a poor show of showing it, but I'm trying."
"You should try harder."
"There. I know you're better now. You can scratch."
She sat by his side, her arms around her knees, and the moonlight teased the curves of her body by a subtle play of light and darkness. It made him want to put his arms around her and kiss her head, to tell her that everything would be alright, even if he knew that it wouldn't.
"It seems Tara was my last illusion, then. And I… I wanted so much to believe in it !"
As she thought about it, her head seemed to drop like a wilted flower, two strands of black hair dropping from her chignon to hide the tip of her nose to his sight. Her fingers nervously wrinkled the fabric of her gown, thin, so thin...
"No... Tara was Pa's dream. Our home. How can I let it go?"
Oh, how he wanted to take her into his arms and soothe her worries! To touch her, feel her, and bring her warmth when she so seemed to need it!
He could not. Not as he wanted to. Yet, he could bring her something else.
"Scarlett… Darling, Tara is your home. You've grown in it. I've seen you run with your bare feet on that red clay, and call everyone in there yours. No one will take it from you. And if that can appease your sudden realization of all that's wrong and unfair in the world, then…"
His hand patted comfortingly her shoulder, and she caught it, clinging to it fiercely. It clung and squirmed, and the eyes widened and lightened as she felt the metal on her palm.
"You have the key ?"
"No. You have, now," He said simply "I know you, I told you. I saw it coming miles away. Once you have something in mind, it turns, steps back until you think it's gone, and comes back kicking open the door of your mind."
She went still as the words settled, like logs added to a fire. Let me help you, he was saying. Let me open that door.
He grinned and she couldn't help but answer it.
"And I must admit it could be fun to see the old cats' faces as they realize their victim is gone."
She let out a soft laugh, before going still. As they talked, three silhouettes had approached the chained man, and seemed to work at the lock, quickly freeing him. The wind carries their soft whispers, whispers of reassurance, and Scarlett and Rhett looked at them, almost bewildered, as they swiftly made their way to darkness, to safety.
"Seems like your little charity folly got thwarted in its bud."
Her eyes widened as she looked again. She smiled a little. She had recognized two of the silhouettes, for she had seen them on the morning.
Pansy and Cheyenne were behind this. Of the man, she knew nothing, but the fact that she knew both women brought her a strange satisfaction.
"Somehow, it just seems better."
He chuckled. Was she real?
"With you, it's like opening Pandora's box everyday. Chaos is on the way."
"Pandora ?" She squinted in concentration, before her eyes lit, the brain recognizing the name. "God's nightgown, that old story ! Well, You were the one urging me to open it, weren't you ? Look what's hiding behind ! You'd say with that intolerably smug voice, as if you know everything !"
"Well, I do know many things."
She huffed, bristling like a hissing cat, though she was feeling more under his gaze like an outraged hen with the amusement he took from her. The city lights casted fleeting shadows on his face, pointing out to his full red lips that were grinning at her, grinning so very mischievously.
She turned away, ruffled by that moist warmth she couldn't shake off. Her eyes tried to outline the frame of the houses, these charming little houses that had so pleased her when she had come, until the glow of novelty made them feel dull and confined. All was so still, so peaceful, and it innerved her.
His breath was on her ear, and strands of hair were lightly being pulled, as if to make her turn toward him. He was still so very close...
"Indeed, the box is open, and I fear there's only hope to keep me company. Unless…"
She could see clearly beneath his silly words. He knew she had. Yet, that did not mean it had no effect on her. And he could see that clearly.
"Hope is the most terrible thing," she couldn't help but say, defiant, but with a little tone in the voice that was almost like flirting. But it couldn't? No, she wasn't flirting with him. She had promised herself she would not. "When you hope, you always get disappointed."
His index, that had been playing with the shorter hair nestled on her nape, grazed her jaw until it came below her chin, softly caging it with his thumb. She opened her mouth in an attempt at protest, yet he shut it with his mouth, and she melted through his kiss. Her fingers found their way to his lapels, and clung to it, and she felt herself being pressed harder against his chest, her breasts almost crushed with the echo of his beating heart. Oh, his heart! Pulsating against her, so close! His hands, closed around her waist!
He chuckled warmly through the kiss.
"Not always. That one did not disappoint me," Her eyes half opened, dumb, and she felt the shadow of his lips on his brows. "I shall have sweet dreams, Scarlett. And you too, from that look on your face."
She blinked and gasped, before finally gritting her teeth at his smirk, sobered.
He was playing with her!
"Oh, hush, you cad ! And may the devil take you !"
She pushed him away from her, and he let her, his hands raising in the mockery of a defeat.
A large grin marred his features, digging on his cheeks. She saw the white teeth shine at her as he tipped his hat at her.
"Oh, but I'll come back. Always."
Her heart skipped a beat, and she watched him go, his steps smooth and light as she stood, burdened with the urge to call him back.
Yet, quickly, a wicked courage filled her blood, warming it till it boiled.
No, I don't just want you to desire me, she thought, watching his retreating frame, hearing his whistle. I don't just want any crumbs of love that you would carelessly throw around when it suits you. I want to be your obsession. I want to make you lose your head and eat your heart, until you come begging me to be yours. I want you on your knees, and I want you so crazy about me that you can't even conceal it. Until then, I'll not be satisfied. Until then, I cannot offer my love, for you wouldn't respect me with less than this, as a man should respect a woman.
I deserve it, she thought. I deserve it and I'll get it. Just you wait, Rhett Butler. I'll get you this time.
...
...
…
Atlanta, on the morrow in the National Hotel
The words were laid on paper, with an elegant masculine hand. His father's writing, demanding that he acted on his earlier claim and gave up on the name of Butler.
At first, he had been tempted to snort. He had wanted to reply, to taunt the author of that letter.
He had said he would wash his hands off it. Yet, he found himself very unsettled by the dismay of being reminded of it, and with a strange clinging and pride to a name.
What was a name, after all? It wasn't what made him a man.
And yet... He had been born with it, born with the history that surrounded him and that had amazed him as a child, and he found that giving it up was not quite as easy as he would have liked to. For suddenly, it wasn't only his name. It was not only the name he had wanted to give Scarlett. It was also the name he wanted to give to their boy.
Their boy... He hadn't wanted to think of him. He had tried to dismiss it. Yet, he was there, a product of them both, linking them forever whether she wanted it or not. Whether he wanted it or not.
He shook his head. Little Edward had entered the room. Back from one of his secret escapades, he guessed. Rhett clipped a cigar and lit it.
"So, you've finally asked little Miss Hamilton, haven't you?"
"She said yes," The boy seemed still amazed by this. "She said she wants me to take her away from here. To wear my name and be my wife. She wants a family. She wants me in it. We will marry by the end of the year."
"Why not now?"
Edward grinned with feverish eyes.
"I want to do things right. I want her to be proud to walk toward me in the aisle."
Envy gripped at his guts, but he tried to ignore it. The taste of Scarlett's lips lingered on his, and he wanted more, yet he knew it was too early. Little by little, she was opening herself to the idea. Little by little, she was putting away her pretense.
What did he care after all of a name? He could get another, and how it would unsettle the old man's stance!
Yet, the idea did not quite please him as he thought it would.
"Do you have any news of your friend, Eugenio?"
The smile faltered.
"No."
If he didn't know, Rhett wasn't about to tell him that his friend had enlisted, finally choosing the Yankees' side. An impulsive move, and to that point, Rhett did not know why, couldn't fathom how one would choose to leave a profitable middle ground, to run to his death. Especially when that man was not a gentleman. Young Eugenio had other qualities. His talent for music opened him many doors on each side, while his obscureness couldn't make him the embodiment of any of them. He was a man Rhett had used sometimes as a diversion, when the opportunities arose, just as he used many others. Edward was no different, though his bond with Melanie Hamilton was at the same time a blessing and a curse, for it always brought him back to Scarlett, and if anything happened to the lad, he was sure he would be held responsible for that.
He shrugged. It wasn't any of his business, after all.
Little Goldin fell on his chair, fingers intertwining before him, before leaning his brows against them.
"Eugenio... He's like a brother to me, you know? He's a bit fleeting, but generally... I don't understand why he's so silent these days..."
The boy seemed as if he needed to talk. Rhett rolled his eyes, yet still he sat down next to him.
Age was making him more sentimental, it seemed. Not that he was old, by God!
"I know there has been a girl. But he wouldn't say anything to me. I don't know, it's like something angers him and saddens him at the same time."
"Don't think of it, boy," He patted his shoulder in a very condescending way, to relieve the pressure.
"Don't call me boy," The boy protested. "You use me to get works of art shipped and sold to the Old Continent. I think I deserve to be called a man."
"Indeed," He said with a mean little smile. "You took your time to finally claim it."
Edward grinned, the lovesick fool. "She made me, so who am I to deny what she called me?"
And Rhett had never wanted to hit someone more than ever in his life, and just for one thing he wanted, and couldn't claim it for himself just now.
…
…
..
January 15th, 1863
His eyes focused on one very irritating point, Rhett frowned and took another sip of whisky, the words buzzing around him like bees nervously fleeing from a hive on fire.
A fire he had delighted in making, a cold delight that had quite a bitter taste afterwards, but satisfying when first tasted. He supposed it was the curse of those who saw things with clear eyes, but he was not one to cry and despair about it. Anger, perhaps. Frustration, most certainly. But if there was pleasure to be had, he'd take it.
He indulged in another bite.
"All wars are sacred to those who have to fight them. If the people who started wars didn't make them sacred, who would be foolish enough to fight? But no matter what rallying cries the orators give to the idiots who fight, no matter what noble purposes they assign to wars, there is never but one reason for a war. And that is money. One could shout anything, really, but in reality, it is all about money. Money and what could be bought with it."
Protests began, and he felt the delight of the confrontation, a confrontation he needed when the horns of wars were screaming so close. And he joined, for this was his own war, and he knew he was right.
Yet, he could not fight against the powerlessness of that position, where he knew he was bound to fail anyway. Just like these hapless chaps about to die in the war.
A waste, such a waste.
The corner of his mouth went down, and he heard the soft rustle of skirts advancing toward him.
"Let him go," He heard Mrs. Elsing hiss.
At the corner of his eyes, he saw a more seductive vision, and did not linger on it, for fear she might catch on. She would be only too satisfied by it.
Scarlett... So, finally, she was attracted to the show, uh? It was certainly more interesting than that play she had with the hapless Captain Carey Ashburn.
The vixen was back to her own tricks again, clad like a goddess and wanting to be worshipped. He was aware of the thinness of the fabric against her body, the folds only highlighting tenderly the shape of her curves.
"He is a traitor, a speculator!" Continued the frail, faded harpy at her side, her arm in front of his woman as if she could protect her from his eyes. "He is a viper we have nursed to our bosoms!"
Amused, he looked at said bosom. As if such meager things could nurse anything! A mean little grin came to his lips as he was about to bow and take his leave when...
"He is the one we need!"
The world froze. Eyes met. And from the darkness of his winter heart came the greenness of her spring.
The cry was so heartfelt Scarlett herself seemed surprised. By the Devil, Rhett also felt the shock of it, as if thunder had fallen over their heads, with the horrified 'oh' of their auditory.
Yet, she seemed to recover, and with a poise so strange to what he expected, she continued, her hands gathered on the fabric of her skirt and eyes glaring at the crowd as she pushed her way toward him.
Just as she had pushed her way to him during the Bazaar.
"How many of us owe him something ? How many moments of happiness has he managed to keep so that our spirit would not be crushed ? Yes, money indeed has quite the value to war! It is not honor that keeps our men warm. It is money, and what we make with it! It is... the food we send to the battlefield, the blankets that they can cover themselves with..."
She paused, taking a tragic mine, as if remembering a lover he knew quite well she had never loved.
"He may doubt, and who never doubted anything ? He's a Southerner, and his blood boils as hot as ours! I've lost my husband to this war. I don't want to see Southerners turn against Southerners. I don't want to lose anyone..." Her voice came out a bit hoarse at the end, and it rang true to his ears as she looked up at him, but she radiated strength and conviction. "Not any other Southerner !"
His heart leaped with joy.
She was with him. The rest, she did not believe in it, did not care a whit, and he knew she felt more sympathy for the slaves in fact than for the Cause. With their talk had come off the last veneer of Tara, the one that made her want to believe at least à little in the South, and her eyesight was broader, somewhat a bit clearer. She was thinking of the long term, and a woman with her child needed to keep her sympathy to the society she lived in, while still keeping eyes on new opportunities. Or so she had claimed. Though he hated it, she had finally decided he was part of that, and he wasn't about to miss that opportunity she was throwing at him.
Oh God, how he loved her ! He could have kissed her toes for it!
She held his hand, and he felt so very powerful. It was even better than her telling him she loved him, though he craved the words. Here, she was taking à stand, where she had been so reserved, unwilling to leave her zone of comfort. Here she was fighting for him to the risk of getting scorned for it, and in him, there was still an awe that she had done such a thing, but the firm pressure on her hand left him no doubt. I'll fight for you, but you better fight with me, she urged him. I've heard you, she said, but we still have need of them. We ...
He kissed her knuckles, and she looked at him with burning eyes.
"You could make a believer out of me," He whispered silkily, and his breath left through his teeth with a thrill.
"Then, believe," She mouthed back at him, so fierce that he wanted to laugh in mirth, and take her in his arms, pressing her against his body just to feel the stings of her claws on his skin, and smooth the ruffled fur of his darling, wicked little cat with kisses.
"Well talked !"
Eyes turned away, back to the world and its increasing applauds, bewildered it was still living around them.
It seemed money was indeed higher than honor, he thought. At least when reason could twist and turn enough to make its decayed corpse look saved and preserved. Scarlett's speech had given them an incentive to bestow their mercy on him for the sake of the greater good, and they had taken it eagerly. He was a man, he was a Southerner, and she had made them remember he would be more useful as a friend than a renegade.
Her hands left him as she was taken away by Mrs. Whiting, but he wasn't afraid of her. He would have it again. He would have Scarlett again. What could she do about it, that nosy and prude old woman that delighted in scandals while attempting to show she was horrified by it ? Her voice irked him, but he knew she had no power over him and Scarlett. He knew that now.
So his head bowed in a great show of respect, as if he asked for repentance for his sins, and turned away from the scene which sealed the second act of this play.
"You have a kind heart, Scarlett... But I have to enlighten you..."
"Fiddle-dee-dee!" He heard her cry in frustration. The corner of his mouth twitched.
