Hello everyone,
I shall not give you any delay, as it seems I cannot keep it. I had finished a first version by Valentine's day, before deciding this one was quite a poor gift for that day. So I added stuffs, until I did not quite know when to stop. But I shall make more effort to describe my progress on my profile.
One day, I shall give you fluff and sweets, with banter. But that day still hasn't come. Don't lose hope, dear readers!
With all my love,
Elise
PS: a teeny weeny teasing for next chapter is included in the end :)

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On the same day, in one of India Wilkes' friends' house

It had come by the morning, in the shape of a note made with thick, good quality paper, one that was difficult to get easily these days, inviting the Wilkes sisters for tea at Miss Sarah Hamilton's little house. Holding this paper, Uncle Peter had been sent, and he was very persistent in delivering it, his tall figure straight with dignity as he waited and commented loudly he expected some quick reply.

Honey, who had come only recently for one of those indeterminate visits that could either lasts a few days or months, had made a point of going upstairs as the invitation was made, but her act of outrage over Scarlett's theft of Charles was only a thin veneer of propriety, as it was clear she wanted to stay to listen and gossip with others later. Yet, if she had expected an insistence for her to go, she was bound to be disappointed.

India though seemed rightfully resentful, with all her crepe and black taffetas. Nonetheless, as the invitation was dropped beside her with Melanie Hamilton's signature, she decided she would be the better person and forget her unfortunate cousin for her lack of judgement and taste in friends.

However, the true feeling was that she would be damned if she was shown to be afraid to face such a fancy piece as Scarlett !

For a moment, she wondered if she could see Suellen to see what it was all about, but the idea was quickly dismissed. Poor girl was very discreet these days and was certainly very harassed by the presence of her sister.

She would go, and what a triumph it would be if she managed to get poor, influenceable Melanie back to the proper side, and that, before even the Meades' reception!

.

.

.

Miss Pittypat's house, in the late afternoon

As she stared at her reflection, Scarlett could not help but think she looked like a pale, frail thing. She hated that hint of vulnerability and sternness that was accentuated by the mourning black. Still, taking it off even for a day would be another proof of her inconstancy, and she had been proved flimsy enough.

She tried to think of poor Charles, yet the image seemed a blurred face of dull brown eyes and brown hair. She felt saddened by this, and the gloom of it added gray to her skin tone, and she had the impression of a corpse bride clinging to something that she never truly had. She tried to shake that feeling, but it clung to her like the black on her.

She had to be strong. But not come out too much.

It was beginning to be grudgingly clear to Scarlett the Wilkes always managed to be at the center of things, though she had tried to deny it. If they were not in the old Guard, they had an influence that Scarlett could not take from them.

She couldn't count always on Melanie to defend her always. As for Randa, her eccentricity, if excusable by others, could not make her any protection, though the fierceness of her loyalty could not be denied. One conclusion was clear then: Melanie alone would not be able to open every door for Scarlett and her son in the society of Atlanta at least.

Yet Melanie's tendency for interference could prove useful for the creation of new alliances, and Scarlett was ready to take it, for the sake of her son, at least.

They had discussed it together, and settled on the organization of it, and if anyone had appeared at that time, they would have been quite dumbfounded by the very serious air of these two talking over the rosewood table of the living-room, that seemed about to prepare strategies for one terrible battlefield, and not a meeting over tea.

After some reflections, it was agreed that Melanie could not stay for the entirety of the meeting, for it would bring in it a very forced air to the affair, and thus add suspicion that could prove very detrimental for their purpose. Two against one was quite an unfair fight, and there had to be a balance in everything, even with Melanie's discreet ways.

So, Scarlett had to be on her own for this time.

The raven-haired lady squared her shoulders. She could do it.

Oh, she was aware that she was much more at ease and certainly more skillful in the handling of gentlemen. But she was not afraid of the challenge, and certainly not of India Wilkes! Thank the Lord Honey was not to present herself, or she wouldn't have been able to refrain her contempt!

Confident on that point, she turned to Wade, barely awakened from his nap.

"I'm doing it for you, you know," she said with a coquettish smile. "So, you better smile, mister!"

But Wade only looked at her curiously. He tilted his head and frowned and seemed to consider it quite a queer thing.

"Bah, don't look at me so seriously!"

She chuckled and kissed him on his soft cheek.

A little book with illustrations was dropped by his side, and he suddenly appeared to think it was more interesting. His hands were almost careful as he took it and opened it, but the delight of looking at pictures he liked (generally new ones) almost made him rip several pages.

She watched him for a moment, proud of this bursting energy he had, relishing in it as a strength, and then left him under Uncle Peter's eager care.

It was still quite amusing to her, but Uncle Peter loved little children, perhaps even better than young persons, and seeing him and Wade had often made Scarlett thought the house must have been very joyful when Melanie and Charles were children. Time had added the necessity of other rules to inculcate to his charges as they grew up. But with Wade, he could be playful and loud, and Wade delighted in it.

She found relief in it. Knowing Wade, he would make mischief on purpose, and she couldn't allow that...

At least, not quite yet.

She was all in these thoughts, on the way to the parlor, when she had the surprise to hear Cheyenne talking, her silhouette leaned in front of a mirror, visibly in pain by each word. Her mouth was opening widely in exaggerations of the words, her face high in color from her efforts.

"Go'd mo'nin'… Goodeee morrrniiiingeuh… my laydeee… Ah… I, I hope yer… you haaarrrr kam-commfortable…"

My, realized Scarlett, hiding to peek as she realized she had not been noticed. She's training herself to talk!

She watched curiously for a moment as the same words went on repeatedly, the assurance and fluidity dropping by each little failure.

It must be because of India, she thought. She wanted to show her how well she talked.

There was pride then, in that dark little woman. Pride and a will to improve and be respected. That, she could understand, and somehow it made her think of her younger self, thrown away too early in a world of men. It made her feel good about herself somehow, and it did not come to her mind that the comparison could never be fairly made. If the notion of privileges wasn't lost on her, she was one to forget it in these little moments of sympathy and indulgence toward herself and others. All was laid on the same level, almost equal in the unfairness of it all.

As one last repetition came, lower and with a defeated note on the tone, she finally decided to leave her hideout and make her presence known.

"Well, I am, Cheyenne, so nice of you to ask. And how do you do?"

Cheyenne turned abruptly, startled, red raising to her cheeks.

"I b-am faine. S-thank you."

Scarlett tried to make her smile gentle and soft.

"Good. I'm… I'm glad to hear it. It is quite a good day, isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss, it iz," Was replied nervously to her. "Bright and sanny."

Scarlett nodded, not knowing what more to say.

"It is very fine indeed. I do believe we shall succeed."

"Miss?"

She flustered and turned away, lest her uneasiness was shown.

Being gentle was not her forte. It required à patience and a use of kind words that still weren't spontaneous in her, as she had learned to consider it as a mean to an end. She felt she had made progress in the matter. But fie, how she hated to blunder in such a way!

"Well, then, we shall try," She finally said.

She continued her way, berating herself, as Melanie came to her and took her hands in hers and smiled with encouragement. As Scarlett nodded and went inside the room, the petite brown-haired woman turned to Cheyenne and dropped a gentle: "You've done good, Cheyenne." that made Cheyenne's lips stretch in a timid smile.

"Carreen!" Scarlett was heard then, coming from the living room as the younger of the ladies came from her shift, visibly weary, yet willing to continue the sewing of the bandages. "I did not want you to come to slave yourself that way!"

"But, Scarlett, they are so needing of help…" Carreen's soft voice replied.

"Fiddle-dee-dee ! I won't hear a thing! Do go to bed, young lady, and if I see you working another moment, I shall lock you into your room! You look too pale and weary!"

"If you think it might do me good…"

"Of course, it will! To bed now!"

"Scarlett, would you please stop your bullying?" Suellen sighed, raising from her seat when she had been failing for quite a long time to knit her own.

Scarlett startled, but before she even could say a word, her sister had taken her shawl and demanded to take her leave.

"I'm going to the church."

She repeated, ill-at-ease, yet her eyes were earnest.

"Really."

Scarlett stared for a moment, before her shoulders raised in a shrug as she went on to take care of the last details with Melanie.

It did come to her mind that having Suellen with her would perhaps soften India toward her. However, more than just the long-lasting strain of their relationship, she wanted to owe the result of this meeting only to herself.

Thus, the young girl was left alone, and no notice was taken of her troubled expression as she went outside.

India came half an hour later to a room filled with Melanie and Scarlett's laughs, and a protesting Aunt Pittypat who swore she was not sleeping. She was in the same way invited to take a place with them where pleasant subjects of conversation were presented to her, and though India said but a few words, so determinate she had been in being the dignified lady of the house, her stance was more relaxed, though she mostly seemed to focus on Melanie. Scarlett made no mention of it and continued. As expected, Aunt Pitty's fatigue could not wait any longer, and Melanie went with her to help her be comfortable in her room, an effort that was accepted with great effusions.

Scarlett and India were left alone, waiting for tea to arrive. As according to their careful planning.

There, India straightened and for a moment stayed silent, her gestures careful, and a very disdainful and grieved expression on her face.

She's setting herself as a martyr, Scarlett thought, and that thought had Rhett's drawl and lopsided smile in it. Yet, the blonde lady's curiosity seemed to be stronger than her act, for she was the first to end the silence.

"You must have something to tell me, for me to be trapped in such vicious way. Don't think I am unaware of your tricks, Scarlett O'Hara! I was prepared for the worst when I came here."

Scarlett's teeth clenched for a moment, but she kept smiling.

"Well, indeed. I wanted to say I was sorry."

"Sorry?" India did not even ask why. "That's too short!"

Scarlett refrained herself from retorting.

She was not about to bow. But she had to have India by her side.

Better be the silly one than bowing.

"Sorry seemed like a good beginning," Scarlett tried to jest, and she added, knowing uttering a mistake would make the other woman more comfortable in her superiority, and thus more pliable, and yet hating it all the same: "I wanted to give you the bay branch…"

The look of pity and self-satisfaction in India's grey eyes was almost too hard to bear, as it made her want to snap a very irritated 'yes, i know !'. In that moment, the other woman looked a bit like her brother when he thought he said something clever and she did not react, that she felt even more satisfied that what she intended with him came to nothing at all.

"I do suppose you mean the olive branch."

You could trust the Wilkes for their pedantry, Scarlett thought sharply.

She bit the insides of her mouth and smiled.

"Yes, yes, that's what I meant."

"Stuart was my fiancé. When you let him, he came back to me... he did!" India insisted, her eyes narrowed, and body arched, as if she was prepared to fight if anyone opposed her.

Scarlett refrained from saying she doubted it was on his own. But the mention "when you let him" was too amusing to ignore, and made her eyes sparkle, her mouth trembling à little as she refrained from smiling.

"He did." She nodded graciously, keeping her eyes on the carpet while turning quietly her spoon in her cup of coffee.

"He loved me."

She said nothing to that, for she knew it would make it worse. Instead, her hand patted India's, and she lowered her head, as if to admit her defeat, and it seemed to do the trick.

"And you loved him so," She replied softly, making her voice almost tender and admirative of this.

Little by little, seeing she had nothing to say in defense and seemed willing to accept any fault thrown at her, her enemy was lowering her weapons. Not without any disappointment, of course, for India, though she expressed à disgust for conflict, had prepared herself to be faced with the extreme vulgarity of a dispute, which would have been the occasion of the unleashing of her righteous wrath.

Here, she could not, without being herself vulgar.

"But I suppose you knew no better," India conceded, visibly willing to be the indulgent, Christian one between the two.

Scarlett tasted blood in her mouth. She forced herself to smile and pat again the blonde woman's hand, the gesture of a frivolous, silly girl.

"Dear India! How forgiving you are ! Here, now I have to admit to you…" She leaned in, let her eyes twinkling with a conniving smile. I envied you."

India stopped, taken aback by such words.

"Envied me?"

"You've always been so strong..."

The Wilkes woman's eyes narrowed to slits with suspicion.

"What do you want from me?"

"Only to say I don't know how you've done to take care of so many things: barbecues, balls, … I can admit it now, I was very jealous of you, and had been very unfair to you."

Her skin scratched from saying such lie, but she did reassure herself that at least there was a little bit of truth in it, that it had been obvious India had held more than she was supposed to, as the eldest girl of the Wilkes family.

A burden seemed to raise a little from India's shoulders. Her cheeks flustered with pleasure.

"It's true it wasn't easy."

The girl had been sweating at every party her family had proposed to make, had shouldered it to the point of not taking care of herself. Scarlett had seen it, pitied it.

But it was only now she thought she could have a use of it. What a shame.

And now, India Wilkes was almost eating out of her palm.

At this moment, Cheyenne arrived with a trolley filled with cakes and the long-awaited tea, which she served very ceremoniously to both women.

Scarlett offered her a smile as she took her cup and saucer.

"Thank you, Cheyenne."

The young woman nodded, seemingly a bit nervous, then stood at the corner, and as they began to drink their tea, she nervously looked right and left, let her gaze rest for a moment on Scarlett, before taking out a small bible from the large pocket of her apron. The small bible Melanie had given her to improve her reading. She opened it with clumsy, nervous fingers, blushing at the creak of the pages.

"Still sticking your nose where you don't belong, I see." India's voice snapped suddenly.

Scarlett's head turned in a jerk, so very shocked, before realizing India was not talking to her, but to Cheyenne.

"What are you on about, India?"

In reply, India put her covered fingers on Scarlett's hand, talking with a honeyed voice and a gleam that betrayed the viciousness in her soft demeanor.

"You shouldn't let her do that," She said with an arch smile. "It might give her ideas, not to mention it is useless. That animal can't talk and understand properly, let alone read. I know that kind. She's been lurking around my home for too long for me not to take notice."

At the words, Cheyenne startled but held on, her lip trembling. But it wasn't enough to secure the book, who fell with a loud thud on the floor, and as it did, her eyes widened with panic.

That look, that brief look!

Scarlett took back her hand swiftly. An image of her father came to her, with a strange thought.

Was it how she wanted to be?

But she knew the answer of that one.

"Out, now!" she said severely. Cheyenne gave her a pained look, before she softened her voice. "No, not you, Cheyenne. India ."

India startled.

"You would chase me from the house?"

Color rose to Scarlett's face as she raised and put down her cup.

"I would chase anyone that insults my people. God's nightgown, being ditched by a man who preferred war to marrying you does not mean you're allowed both to be mean and be treated like a lady all the same. I can pity you, and indeed you look quite pathetic, but I can't bear anything else from you. I am a Southern lady like you, but I have my limits. If you can't be decent, I will ask you to go."

At the word pity, India paled, then reddened. Words came back to her, and she was almost triumphant when she began uttering them.

"You never were one of us. We tolerated you, but…"

Scarlett dismissed it with an irritated look.

"God's nightgown! Then tolerate in silence like a good little lady that you are. You could either burn on the suttee, or… or…" she struggled with reddened rage, trying to find another reference that would compensate the prior humiliation she had forced herself to bear. "Or become a bitter old spinster like the one from the Great Expectations and you still would be as dull as ditchwater!"

India's eyes widened, her clear lashes so transparent it seemed like the orbs were about to pop out of their orbits. She was so caught off guard she even forgot all the clever repartees she had prepared.

Scarlett felt satisfied that at least there was a recognition that she was more knowledgeable than what that woman had thought.

But more than that, it was the realization that she had never felt so strong as when she was defending what was hers. At this moment, the answer was so clear she did not remember she had ever put it into question.

"I have never seen such... vulgarity," India managed to say, gathering her things.

She left in a fury, seemingly so troubled she forgot to take her leave from Melanie, who, in the security of Aunt Pittypat's room, raised her head from the book she was reading aloud, before being urged to continue by the plaintive voice of the old lady.

Downstairs, such a display was very much a source of relief, and Scarlett was still swelling with the outrage of it, reflecting on the words exchanged and taking a grim satisfaction in replaying the scene in her mind as finally, the wheels of India's carriage were heard on the street.

Humpf ! She snorted. India and the suttee… Fitting !

It pained her to think that joke on words did not come to her earlier. She wouldn't have felt the need to add the reference to literature.

However, not being one to ruminate on lost opportunities, especially when she considered herself the victor, she shrugged it off and turned to Cheyenne with a satisfied smile.

"It feels good. My, thank you, I was almost yawning at her whining."

Cheyenne grinned, her eyes gleaming.

"Sure, Miz, sure."

Scarlett stared at the woman at her side, trying to find similitudes with the one that left in a fury. In her, the grey eyes were darker, seeming sometimes to be almost black, and they had not that drowsy look of the Wilkes. Yet they shared the same high cheekbones and chin.

"Miz Scarlett?"

She raised up and clapped her hands.

"Well, let's not waste our time in idleness! After all this effort coming to nothing, I need to treat myself, and I won't be happy until I've bought something !"

Cheyenne arched a bewildered brow.

"At this time, Miz-…Miss?"

"Exactly."

It was only much later she would have a hint of regret at the failure of the plan, though she was not sorry to have showed her the issue.

Pah, she thought. She would do without India!

.

.

The street was growling with activity as they went out, men on horses coming and going on. Some saluted her jovially the way, and she replied with a smile through her veil. The air was thick with the smell of horses and powder. It burned her nose, so she almost sneezed a few times.

She almost ran into Rhett, who was talking to a group of young soldiers at crossroads, but the disaster was swiftly avoided by a retreat to the nearest shop, which proved to be an apothecary's.

She settled then on perfumes, taking delight in choosing them and imagining the reactions of those she would give them to. In this she felt so much like Gerald O'Hara's daughter it made her smile with fondness. After a moment, she settled on one for herself.

After all, she deserved it!

The owner stared at her with dumbfounded eyes but did not object as she paid for them and went her merry way, forgetting for a moment Rhett could still be there.

Which, fortunately for her, he was not.

They were very frivolous purchases, especially at that time. Yet, she felt like a contented child with her little bag in hand, and so very generous. She smiled widely, her eyes sparkling.

Cheyenne followed, with lips that seemed about to smile and curious eyes at her obvious happiness, until one of the bottles was given to her, and she stared at it in the same dumbfounded way the owner had had when the purchases had been made.

"Here, take it," Scarlett added in a begrudging way, for it certainly was not clear. Impatience and eagerness were betrayed by her tone, as she waited for reaction. Yet, it was certainly not what she expected it to be. She flustered at the girl's insistent gaze. "And don't look at me like that. It's a gift. It is rude to stare so."

Of course, it was ridiculous. What need had Cheyenne of perfume?

Perhaps a book would have been better.

What nonsense! A book, indeed! In this economy! With the war roaring all around!

Strangely, it seemed to her more absurd to pay for book now rather than perfume.

Cheyenne laughed.

"Pork be right about you. You have a chile's generosity laik yer father when ye be happy."

She did not know if it was a compliment or an insult.

But it was a good reaction nonetheless, and she decided to let it drop.

"Ah… I like it. D-… ssank you."

"Fiddle-dee-dee! That's a bauble!"

Nonetheless, it made her feel much more at ease now that it was said. She even allowed herself some mischief on the way, the excitement having not dropped, but mainly increased by the reassurance.

"Do you really enjoy reading the Bible, Cheyenne ? Between us…"

At this, the young servant raised pensive eyes at the sky, seeming to wonder if she could find the world to explain it, and if her interlocutor truly cared about it or not. She appeared to decide she could after a moment.

"I want to anderstan'…"

"What to understand ?"

"'ow ze world be made."

"And you want to know that through reading?" Cried Scarlett in amusement. "Bah, you do have a touch of the Wilkes !"

A blush came over Cheyenne's features, and for a second, she did not laugh. It burst in her with a snort until she could not help it.

"Am afraid Ah do," She said with a cheeky smile.

"And now, you're being saucy !"

Scarlett sighed in contentment.

"You know, Cheyenne… I like the way you talk."

"Ye like the way a slave talks," Cheyenne quipped, before reddening in alert.

"No ! I mean…" Tension left her with a sigh. "Hearing you talk make me think of home. Of the people from home. I see all their faces, smiling at me in my memory, telling me they are proud to have such a charming miss," she continued absent-mindedly. "With Uncle Peter… it is so very different. But the people of Tara… I remember going as a child to see them, play with them, laugh with them. They gave me food and petted me. But I've never told them… never told them how much they meant to me. Except Mammy, perhaps," she smiled with fondness. "Though she did try to scare me a lot with her 'Ah is gwine watch ye ! Ah done know yer up to no good !'"

A peal of laughter escaped the raven-haired young widow, just as longing came to her heart.

"Dear heart, I miss her. I miss all of them. But I've been afraid I…"

Now she was the one flustering.

"I haven't done right by them, have I ?" She finally whispered after a time. She did not wait for a reply. "And now, how do I make it ?"

Cheyenne said nothing, though it seemed she had a lot to say.

Scarlett sighed. What could she do, indeed ?

She was reaching a conclusion to this, a conclusion she was drawn to inevitably. But her mind refused to come to it quite yet, choosing to delay it over again.

So, she continued her way in silence, and Cheyenne followed, with a curious look on her face.

With relief, she went back to her chamber to find Wade in a very enthusiastic brawl with a laughing Uncle Peter. The scene delighted her so that she joined in their laughter.

Now, that was certainly a pleasant sight!

"There, Wade, I'm sure you quite got him good!" She cheered.

Wade beamed at that, before turning to her with a questioning glance. His hands reached for her, and she crouched to take him into her arms, He seemed a bit hesitant a first, before putting his hands on her. Her smile grew as she saw him looking at her intently.

"Do you like Mama's new perfume, dear?"

The boy sniffed, snorted once, twice, until a big sneeze escaped his lips. But his little fists clang to her, and he sniffed harder. And sneezed harder as a result.

She let out a peal of laughter.

"Wade, you're too much ! Don't sniff too much if you can't handle it."

He groaned, visibly dismayed by her lack of sympathy.

"Mama!"

"What's with you all of a sudden?"

He pointed his fingers toward her with a frown and a pout.

"Bad parfoom! Bad!"

The insult was felt, and the temper struck, its limits shown by a most severe pose as the mother tried to reprimand the child for the injury it had caused on the woman.

"Well, young mister, I like it, little one and i…"

Yet such a feeling was not to last. She saw the pleading in his big dark eyes, and her resistance lost its strength little by little, until she gave it up entirely.

'Alright, dear. I'll not use it when I'm with you."

He put his head on her bosom, visibly satisfied of his power over her, sniffing some more, before smiling softly.

"No, no. Good now."

"You, sir, certainly don't know what you want!"

But he had already fallen asleep.

.

.

As expected, her gifts were very much appreciated. Melanie was certainly one to be enthusiastic when given something, perhaps just as much as when she was giving. She remarked with glee at the adequacy of the gift, with the reception the Meades were giving for that night.

Suellen took hers and gave her a hesitant smile, before quietly going to her chamber. As for Miss Pittypat, she seemed so happy with hers she looked at her bottle with childish delight and put it on immediately.

Though perhaps without the moderation an adult should have, nor the dexterity as the bottle fell from her hands, to drop a considerable amount of liquid on the carpet of the living-room.

The odor of peppermint was to stay for quite some time attached to that place.

.

.

On the evening, at the Meades

Scarlett stared at her little sister, stared at the frozen smile on the girl's lips as her betrothed talked, patting a few times her hands like he would à dog.

Suellen seemed the shadow of herself tonight, in her pale blue gown of silk bordered with laces. It was very unfortunate indeed that the napkins seemed to have the same shape as the laces, but Mother's garnet necklace, far from flattering her at the moment, had also the strange effect of emphasizing the blue veins of her tense throat.

Carreen, poor soul, had caught some fever as soon as she allowed herself to rest.

And Melanie... Well, Melanie seemed sometimes so engrossed in her fiancé's company she barely seemed aware of anything else!

India thankfully was not in sight, and it was revealed soon enough she had pleaded a headache.

With that, she could not avoid noticing.

Rhett had been looking at her for the whole night.

She had avoided looking back. Yet, she could see him through her lashes, always at the corner of her sight, always at the corner of her mind.

One ghost had haunted her mother's life, embracing her closely and covering her face with a veil. It was still there, following every one of her moves, slowing them urging her to go to sleep.

Rhett was certainly no ghost, and it had been very foolish to have once wanted to consider him as such. But he was there all the time, and she could not shake him out.

He was dressed in a smart checked jacket that was a bit thinner on the wrists than any other man's jackets she had seen these days. She supposed it was of the newest fashion as Rhett was always so picky with his clothes, and it did suit him always like a glove, though she had to wonder what could not suit him. The strength of his tanned fists was emphasized with that narrower entry. She wondered idly if her tiny hand could slip under it, or even a finger, but she was stopped in that thinking by the memory of the skin she'd touch in doing so. She tried to think of another thing, but like the chain of his watch, swaying lightly on his chest as he laughed, her thoughts were never really far from it as a part of her wanted to feel it again, even for the last time.

But she knew she ought not to do so.

Rhett wanted to shatter her veil. He urged her to act.

She certainly did not know how he managed to get invited. The devil had his ways, and Rhett certainly was one.

But even thinking of him as a devil was giving him too much importance. A parasite. An insect. Yes, a pesky little insect !

Her eyes brightened with the malicious idea.

Oh, he was decidedly like a horsefly, and she knew enough about mythology now to think she did not want to be the cow to his stings.

Satisfied with that thought, she dropped it in a whisper to Melanie, who blushed, then laughed with a guilty little pleasure, unused as she was of such little mockery of any gentleman, which she had been taught to respect as her superior. She softly corrected her that this vision would certainly have been more fitting if the horsefly had been Zeus himself, and not Hera's envoy.

If she was a little mortified by her error, it was quickly dismissed by the fact that she did not receive any look of pity, which she would have despised, but a very conspiratorial glance that made her laugh in mischief.

"Well, no matter who sent that horsefly," She exclaimed. "I shall not let it sting me !"

"Who would dare sting such ladies as you ?"

Captain Carey Ashburn smiled to them, and particularly to her with so unconcealed eagerness Scarlett was tempted to laugh.

"No one of importance."

"Shall I get you a glass ?"

Finally a gentleman! She thought.

"Yes, please."

Melanie refused quietly, returning to her fiancé, and after some time waiting, Scarlett decided to get some fresh air outside, feeling so very oppressed in the Meade's tiny house. She settled on the bench of the garden, quiet and alert to every sound.

She liked the business of Atlanta, but she did not like its silence. Its silence was the worst of all, as it gave her the impression that something terrible would soon happen, and it seemed that Atlanta's nights were more and more silent. Not even any nightingale, nor any owl crying at the moon. The world was still and waiting. It was almost a reassurance when she heard the eager pat of a little boy on the grass, but short-lived as he disappeared in the bushes, never to reappear again.

She yearned for the crickets of Tara, their song filling the air with sunniness and the assurance that tomorrow would be another tender day, with its gentle joys and easy passions.

She was surprised, and almost glad of Captain Ashburn finally joining her with the promised glass of lemonade.

His nostrils dilated as he caught her scent. His eyes darkened and glinted like a well under the moonlight.

He wanted her.

Her cheeks pinkened with pleasure as she saw that.

After a time watching her, he settled by her side, and she looked at him curiously. Why wasn't he leaving now? Couldn't he see she wanted some peace?

Instead, he began to talk.

"We have been... dear friends since that day, haven't we?"

Could that be called friendship? She idly thought, nodding, looking elsewhere. They had talked about the weather, about how good of a mother, an actress she was and other silly things. She had been very flattered by the attention, taking it for granted as the results of her charms. Yet she never had considered it seriously.

"It cannot have escaped your notice that any feeling of friendship in me have turned into a much... oh, much! Deeper feeling. I... I love you, Mrs. Hamilton."

From the tone of his voice, it was obvious he had been training himself to say the words without stuttering, and to any other young woman, it would certainly have seemed endearing.

But to Scarlett, there was certainly not any endearment.

She dropped her head, unwilling to let the amusement in her eyes show. Oh, he loved her?

Well, that had been very obvious indeed, so obvious she had taken it like one would take the sun in July, something granted and very predictable and pleasant by its warmth.

But she hadn't expected him to dare to declare it to her.

Well, she thought, she had her own practiced words as well.

"Captain Ashburn... I cannot..."

He cut her, visibly intending to say his piece.

"I respect your feelings about your belated husband, and it just highlights how delicate and loyal your heart is. But would you consider... Would you consider that perhaps, in the near future... Your heart could warm itself to the idea...?"

His eyes were pleading, telling her of a long-heard tale of dying if she did not reciprocate his love.

She tilted her head away slightly from that man, making her chest raise and fall in what seemed to be conflicted emotions.

"Oh ! I certainly do not know what to say…"

He pressed.

"I shall go back to the war soon. I need someone to come home to. Delightful Scarlett, would you be that someone ?"

She softened.

Wonderful words !

But why were they said by the wrong man?

She almost started as her eyes looked away, trying to say the right words to let him down slowly.

Ahead of her, Rhett was glaring. The tip of his cigar was red in the night, glinting like the unique eye of a devil.

She frowned.

Oh, he had the knack to always be there when he should not!

A delighted thrill climbed up her back, from her loins to the roots of her bristling hair. She cocked a brow slightly.

So, he wanted to look? She would give him something to look at.

She turned back to the other man and leaned in, her lashes fluttering like butterfly's wings, in a show of deep trouble, her lips opening slightly as if to say a secret. Captain Ashburn's grip strengthened on her hand, squeezed ever so softly, as if afraid to break her.

See, Rhett? She thought. I don't care a whit for you. I can choose any man, and that one doesn't look that miserable...

What would happen if she kissed him on the lips? Would she feel at least a spark of something?

Rhett had ruined her for other men, and for a moment, she cursed him. Had he been like a gentleman, had he controlled himself and curbed his desire, then certainly, that same desire wouldn't have touched her. She would have stayed like a little girl oscillating between shrugging at the duty wives had to bear, and disgust at such bestiality on her person being imposed on her.

Yet, as soon as the thought came, as soon it went, for even to herself she had to admit that was one thing she did not regret knowing.

It is you that came to him… a sneaky little voice said in her minds sounding a bit like India. It is you that kissed him first.

She shimmered.

And what if she had ? She had not been a ninny.

Her mouth opened lightly, lips curving and pressing for a moment, just a short moment to give them a wetted glow. Her brow creased softly, obvious sign of trouble.

She was the picture of virtue being tempted.

"You're so very sweet," She whispered, far away. "I shall consider it. Once my pain fades away."

Impulsively, she lifted her veil and gave a quick, light kiss to his mouth, and the clean scent of soap came to her, pleasant yet not what her heart wanted. His lips were cold and too thin, and the pressure he exerted back on her not quite right. She hummed, trying to hide her disappointment as she drew back and let the veil fall like a curtain over her face. Her head dropped, and she turned it away. Color rose to her cheeks from the irresistible shame it brought, that no matter what she tried, she couldn't just decide to love another man, even to spite Rhett. And in fact, why had she even tried? That very spite prevented her from doing so, for it was still love, and she was too tired to pretend.

After a time of wonder, he gave his assent to her previous words fervently, dazed by the burn of her lips on him, so promising to him.

But on hers was only the burn of her dismay, and as she distractively looked around, she realized that Rhett was gone.

She looked back, disappointed.

Carey Ashburn continued to stare at her in such a manner that the deep shame in her grew.

"Please don't look at me that way !" she cried, hiding her face in her hands. "Do forget it, I beg you ! I can't, I can't !"

He put a hand on her elbow.

"I shall wait, and keep hope."

He left her like that, so very pitiful on her bench, and she stayed so for quite some time until Mrs. Meade came to enquire about her.

"Dear girl," The older lady said with the consideration of a true hostess. "Do get inside, you'll get a chill. You do seem quite under the weather."

She smiled weakly and tried to deny it. But Mrs. Meade did not intend to let her.

"No, no, I assure you, you are very pale. Go to the library, my dear. Here, you'll have quiet and warmth. No one shall bother you there."

Scarlett nodded and let herself be led to it. Mrs. Meade seemed willing to follow her to give her comfort, but she was quickly called elsewhere, and she was with genuine dismay she excused herself, so very disappointed she could not bring to the end all gestures that could mean her guests' comfort.

Scarlett opened and closed the door quietly. The room was dark, barely lit with by a brass oil lamp, its flame flickering lightly over the heavy mahogany furniture, which seemed to have passed from generation to generation. The room smelled of faint lavender and old books, though well-loved books, on which dust had never been allowed to settle. Another scent was mingled to it, warmer and masculine, and she felt sure Rhett had gone to this room at least once, and recently.

But he was certainly gone now. Gone who knew where, and to see who knew who.

Scarlett took off her veil, fatigued by the act, and watched it fall with a fluttering sound.

She was not satisfied with herself. Not only wasn't she making herself proud, not only was it an insult to Charles' memory, who did not deserve such behavior, but it did not even have any effect.

Not even the flattery of Captain Ashburn's confession was enough to smother the deep feeling of waste she felt.

Of course, Rhett wouldn't care. And she shouldn't have This was the act of a silly little girl, unhappy that she didn't get the attention she wanted. Now, she could see this, and she felt ashamed at herself.

She leaned on the door, trying to regain her breath. Her chest heaved quickly but failing to match the disquieting disappointment of her heart.

It would all go away, she thought. If only she was strong enough, it would.

Her eyes closed, and she breathed in. Then out. In. Then out. In. Then…

The sound of a hand slamming on wood.

She startled, the door trembled. Warmth seeped from body to body, and scent met nose, filling it with the familiar, beloved sting of whisky and well-oiled leather. She stayed still, paralyzed. Her knees trembled.

She should have known right from the start. She should have looked harder, at each darkened corner… Fire ran through her veins, ice prickled her skin in painful goosebumps. Thunder, she should have known!

And yet, she wasn't afraid. This was not fear that gripped her heart. She was…

Thrilled.

She kept her breath. Counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Fi-...

She pressed her lips.

The cold tip of his nose met hers, gaze burning her even when she was not looking. She gasped, and as her mouth opened for air, it was taken over by his lips.

Softly first. And then… Then…

Then she stopped thinking and melted. Her body arched, his arm snaking around, pressing her against his hard frame, so caressing, so firm. She was a bloc of soggy clay under his hands, and at that moment, she did not care a fig. Her knees were buckling, the monster in her belly growling.

A kiss did not mean she bent, she tried to excuse. A kiss did not mean anything. A kiss was pleasant.

Why, after all, she had kissed some boys before! She tried to rationalize.

But it wasn't any kiss, and it wasn't a boy. It was a man, and not any man.

She kept her hands to herself. But as for her lips, he seemed to model them through his wishes, pushing, biting, licking, sucking until cries escaped her, and even them he did not stop. She would not even try to stop him. It was terrifying to think she did not want to. In his arms, she was like a newborn kitten, blind, looking for warmth and care, and even if she knew it would all end up the same way, now that she was here, it felt like tearing herself apart than to try to get out.

She did not fight. Why would she? She was comfortable here. She belonged here .

His claim over her thus expressed, and so obviously approved, though Scarlett would have been horrified to know it was so, his hold relaxed. She felt his lips, soft again, so full and gluttonous, following the curves of hers, once again grazing the thin corner to the defined twin peaks of the upper middle, before tasting hungrily the flesh of the lower lip. And wanting her. wanting her !

In this time of doubts, it was a certainty she held onto, as a desperate woman would try to hold onto a lifeline in order to keep her head out of the water.

God, who could compare? She thought. God, who was she trying to fool?

She breathed in his breath, whisky and cigars, so familiar, beloved, and the tip of her nose touched his as she leaned in, entranced, eyes on these full lips, open in their glorious gluttony.

"How you scratch, then purr, dear!" His voice was caressing, as soft as a cat's fur. "Are your kisses that easy to get, or are you just so very pliable to mine ?"

Her eyes opened wide. If he thought...!

He laughed cruelly and the rings of it fell over her like cold water, shaking her from any illusion she could have.

No, she did not belong here.

She was about to protest, struggled to get out, but he swiftly continued, his eyes so intense that her trembling, first from vexation, then from the terrible turmoil of apprehension mixed with desire.

"No, don't ruin it. I have that, and you could take as many kisses as you want from that little gentleman, or any other for that matter, and it wouldn't change a thing about it. You know it."

Angrily, he plunged his nose into her hair, tucked in the Waterfall she had taken so much effort to make, and from this waterfall, thin black river-like strands fell and flew against her skin. She whimpered, the heat of his body burning her through her clothes. He went stiff and he pushed her back with a cold hard stare.

"You've changed perfume?"

She was about to reply, but as she opened her mouth, he grunted a raging "nevermind" kissing her hungrily, angrily, pressing her even harder against him.

She tried to turn her head, and his lips fell over her cheek, his nose rubbing lightly as he tried to find his way back. Her chest heaved with a shudder, and she held her breath. She saw his half-closed lids, mouth agape in a brief moment of confusion and loss, before his jaw clenched, and hands cupped her chin.

"Yield, damn you," His voice drawled low and hot.

His kiss softened, almost gentle, but with that same terrible, insistent patience that made her think he would not stop until she gave in. And how she wanted to give in ! His tongue teased lightly the slit, tasting her, lips grazed, pressed until a moan was drawn from her.

Beads of sweat crept between her breasts, making her uneasy, but so very impatient. She had been expecting this, she knew that now. She had been wanting this just as much as she wanted to avoid it. Trying to dismiss it only made the desire stronger. She promised herself she wouldn't, promised herself she would be better than that. She had been doing so well!

Why with him was she always failing ? Why did it always have to feel that denying him was denying herself ?

"You've been ignoring me..." He mumbled, watching her through half-closed lids. "Did you truly think I would just stop if you did so? And that perfume… God, you're maddening!"

In fact, that was the very thing that infuriated him, he thought. Everything was better than absence, better than that cold silence she imposed on them when so many things needed to be said.

He did not like that change of perfume. Not because it did not suit her. The scent of lily was heady and teasing, with an air of false prudery mixed with sensuality, a "don't touch me" followed by a mutinous gaze.

He did not like it because of what I implied. That she was changing before his eyes, getting out of his grasp.

There was also a tiny, petty little voice telling him she ought to have told him before deciding such a change. She couldn't change just like that!

His jaw clenched.

She looked away, biting the insides of her mouth. Her gaze fell down as she attempted to regain her breath.

He exhaled. His hold relaxed. "Run away with me, Scarlett. Let's take Wade and leave this place. Let's go to Europe... Or Mexico, if you wish to stay close..." He said quietly. "You don't want to be my wife. That's fine by me, I don't care much about the title 'husband' as well. I can do without. Then why not my mistress? I can take care of you and Wade, settle you in a house…"

Blood rushed to her head.

Now, that was a thing she absolutely did not want.

Her eyes narrowed in slits. She pushed him, hands flat on his chest.

"And have a passel of brats that won't have a name?"

"You already have my bastard. "

"Don't you dare…" She hissed, red and feeling swollen like a balloon by the intensity of her rage. "Don't you dare call..."

"Call my son a bastard? Oh, but he is, despite your little stratagem. And there might just be another on the way."

"No," she cut swiftly, with a brief feeling of triumph.

That was one thing he could not impose on her, as so many men had imposed on women.

I am in charge of my destiny, she thought with glee. At least I have that.

"No?" He looked at her, then paled. "Scarlett…" His big, bronze hands caught her shoulders, shaking her lightly as he examined her. She stared, shocked by what seemed to be a flicker of fear in his dark eyes, even more surprised to see he seemed to tremble as he gripped her so.

Rhett, afraid? Why so? She cocked a brow as his mouth opened. The triumph faded as she saw it, and somehow, while losing that feeling of hers, she caught some of his, even though she was not sure how to define it. Yet the question on his lips never came as he let go of her and dusted himself, all fragment of previous emotion gone from his face.

He shrugged .

"It doesn't matter to me if there's one more or none at all, but if it shall happen, I'm not to do nothing at all. Society may accept to turn its eyes, but you know it, I know it, and it's hurting you as much as it's hurting me. But I want to remedy the situation."

Rage came back again with a force that made her shake in a bitter, very jerky laugh.

"Hurting you? Ha! And why would I trust someone who's asking me to be his mistress? For all I know, you have a mistress in each town!"

He shook his head in amusement.

"Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett… Your faith in my charms is lukewarm…"

"I know you," She cut him.

"You don't know me," He retorted quietly. "You only think you do. If you did, we wouldn't be there. Now, let's…"

"It's always the same thing with you, isn't it? If you did know me, we wouldn't be there as well!" She flared, trying to keep her voice low. "For all of you supposedly knowing me, you 've done nothing here but insult me when you're asking me something. I don't need you to rescue me. I can take care of myself, thank you. Now, get out."

She tried to push him, but it was to no use, and he knew that. His eyes twinkled in amusement as he watched her effort, his hands mockingly drawn behind his back to make her see he wasn't even trying.

"You look like an angry little kitten. Don't say that. You may think it. Yankee girls say that, and some may be able to do what they proclaim, but don't ever say that to a man…"

"Am I supposed to get offended by that?" She scoffed, pushing him harder. "You are the one that said Yankees are like Southerners, but with bad manners. Now get away!"

She tried to push him again, but he caught her wrist, and she was forced to look at him.

By the light of the lamp, she could see the glint of his white teeth between his lips, and these lips were set on a smile she wanted to erase, though she would not admit how she would like to do that.

"Are you admitting to having bad manners?"

She lifted her head proudly.

"Manners never won a war."

"My Scarlett, you do talk scandalous." He whispered, his voice sounding almost tender with the rolling consonants. His other hand came out, almost reaching for her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, expecting a caress. But it did not come. A finger played with a strand of hair that had escaped its pin now, twirling it, softly pulling it, and twirling it again.

She cursed his accent. How it stretched the words, caressed them. How it raised and fell, somehow between a growl and a purr.

She cursed all of him.

She took a step back and shook her head. She had talked too much with him. She should go.

"I'm not yours."

"Yes, you are."

"Never." She hissed.

For a painful moment, he stared at her, with something in his eyes she did not quite understand. A look for something, and it took a second before she realized he was looking for a breach. She stared back, affronting his glance with defiance.

He let out a painful groan, releasing her wrist, his hand raising, fingers stretching then clenching as if he was preventing himself from touching her. Then he turned away abruptly and leaned onto the chimney. His big, bronze hands were almost white with tension as he gripped the hard marble, and he turned again and he looked at her in such long, intent stares she had to hold on to the doorknob to keep herself from fainting from the burning despair of it. She wanted to cry, cry like a little girl, but she stood firm and held her chin high. Despair? Why despair? The despair was only hers. What did he know of such feelings? What did he know of longing?

"You want this... You want me..." He said breathlessly, almost to himself. "It is unfathomable that wanting me, you would still refuse me ..."

She shook her head, feeling the loss of all bravado.

"Stop..."

But he did not seem to have noticed. He began pacing like a lion in a cage, his fists clenched, the very tension of him filling up the room, making it suffocating and unbearable. But what was even more unbearable was that he was not looking at her anymore, and she realized she had been holding on to his gaze like a thread to keep herself together. With him not looking at her, she felt so very powerless, almost guilty, and as he raised his hands in demonstration of his speech, she had the strange thought he was not fighting her but fighting himself. And the thought was quite innerving, for it made her feel he was not taking her seriously, had not listened to her at all.

She felt powerless.

"Am I to never get any full satisfaction? Do I have to be thwarted by each turn? That isn't to be born! It won't be!"

She opened her mouth, closed it, so very terrified, for him, for herself, but more shockingly for him.

Until he looked back, more composed. And as he did, strength came back to her in a relieving wave of power, and she straightened. His eyes were a black pool of dangerous water, wild, alight with terrible patience, a patience as fragile as a thread of wool.

He prowled toward her with the swift, dangerous stalk of a panther and leaned in so closely she felt she could not see anything else but him. Her heart pounded swiftly, rapid, dizzying beats in her chest.

He did not touch her, no, but she felt his strong embrace all the same, shaking her lightly till she broke. His accent growled to her ears, and she felt the tension of it vibrate in her head.

"Here, little capricious child, I'm appealing to your reasonable side. I'm counting on your intelligence to see this. We are two intelligent people, aren't we? Why are we here, on what soon would be a battlefield?" He urged, in his barely controlled, hard voice. "Can't you see I'm trying to tire you out, so that you see reason, and finally accept my proposal? You're so ruffled by the wrongs you think I've done you that you don't see there's a simple, easy way to end our misery. The only way, in fact, after that other night. We've already lost too much time arguing about it. I think I've been patient enough..."

A battlefield? The wrongs she thought he had done her?

"It won't happen again," she tried.

"Oh, believe me, dear, it will. And as the horns should soon blow over our heads, I do believe you and I should tie the knot and get the hell out of here while we're still rich and comfortable. That's the most reasonable thing to do."

He attempted to say it with a nonchalant air now, with a lazy smirk on his lips. Yet his eyes were still dark with the strength of his outburst, and his voice dripping with a more pronounced accent that made her think he was mocking her.

She shook her head once more. He wanted to divert her attention to get what he wanted. She knew his tricks.

However, she realized with dismay some part of her believed it too, that part of her that believed everything he said, and now the images, the words kept flooding in her mind, to make her see the truth in it.

"That's what you want me to think." She resisted, uttering words through clenched teeth, and as she gathered her thoughts, so came back the feeling of deep anger she had been dismissing all along, filling her veins with thick, boiling blood that felt like a fierce surge of strength. With it, she felt like steel. With it she was whole again.

No, she was not to listen to him, relying on him like when she was a child. What he suggested was a flight, no more, no less, and it would be disastrous for her reputation, and that of Wade.

She plunged in that last resource of relieving anger. The misty, powerless green of her orbs darkened and lost their trembling glow for a fire much more destructive. Yet, her voice was calm, firm. Cold. But her eyes sent fire.

"It's always the same with you, isn't it? The very same, and I'm getting awfully tired of it. Are you deaf as much as you are a cad? You ask me to sit and listen to reason like a good little child indeed, no, a good little dog , after complaining so loudly about my not yielding to you, not satisfying your wishes, but that reason is only yours to grasp and to explain. Great balls of fire, you won't make me!" Her voice raised a little in temper as she said the words. "Do you truly think I'm going to accept it in that way, you who always urged me to look for more? To be more?"

His feet stopped abruptly, and the parquet creaked as he turned. His hands reached for her, grasped her shoulders and shook her slightly. Scarlett gasped. From the bottom of his eyes, a fire was answering back to her furiously, almost eating up his features, his veins heavy with anger, throbbing.

"Because it's true, damn you! How can I make it enter that thick head of yours?"

That was what wrath looked like, she thought.

She should have been afraid. Perhaps she was, a little.

And yet, she was a moth to that flame, heavily attracted even if she knew she would burn. Black spots clouded her vision, her temples beating with the drum of her blood's song. It was a violent feeling, urging her to fight, to succumb, to burn and forget.

However, she would not allow herself to burn and forget.

And now, she had his attention. She was a worthy opponent. She could handle his wrath.

And she still could not bear him calling her a child.

"I am a woman, Rhett, not a child!"

"Prove it!"

The words brought them closer, almost forehead against forehead, green against black, woman against man.

She breathed in. Then out.

He breathed in, then out.

She stared, the green light in her eyes, so deadly, so fatal, loomed over his features, and he felt their burn. He leaned in, attracted by the warmth, knowing it would burn, but wanting it even more. Their breath intermingled and they looked at each other like two fighters knowing they were of equal strength but unwilling to admit defeat before the other. Brow against brow, at war like at love, they were pulled in together, two pieces of the same soul.

Couldn't she see that? Rhett thought, his shoulders lowering as he regained composure. His hands fell to his sides. He was almost shaking in his boots, waiting for her white flag.

A silence before the storm. He had lived it so many times. Come, little storm, he wanted to say. Come. I'd rather dance to your song than be drowned in that expecting silence! Come, I'm prepared.

He felt the scratch of his empty fingers, cracked them to prevent their dullness.

She startled.

Her lashes fluttered, eyes like guns lowering. Her lips opened, and he followed their tantalizing move. His heart made a deaf, painful thump.

Then came her voice, low, vulnerable.

Yet the fatal shot of the gun sounded certainly like that, he reflected.

"You make me your problem, and that's the problem. You don't see at all that you did wrong by me. That you are doing wrong by me," Scarlett said softly. "If being a woman means I have to give in to you, then I won't be. I have nothing to prove to you anymore. I don't go on simple, easy ways anymore. I don't run. I can't run. I can't give everything up. I've tried, but I just can't. I can't let you rule my life like you did my education," He never was entirely satisfied, and so she wasn't. But not anymore. She was not to live by his expectations, and neither should Wade. Wade, her wild little boy, so seemingly independent from her already, so bright and strong-willed! Her fists closed in a tight grip. "I am tired of repeating myself to you. I am no pupil of yours, no ward you have to guide. Like you said long ago, there are other, perhaps even better ways, for me and those I care most about, and it can be without you. It has to be. What you offer does not satisfy me, and that is the last time I'm repeating myself," she raised her eyes to him as he tried to proceed what she was saying, and they were clear yet slightly moisty. She bit her lip for a moment, and he waited for the sentence. "Good-night, Rhett."

She turned away, and he let her go.

"And yet, you run from me," he whispered, watching her silhouette fade into the darkness, hearing the quiet closing of the door. "Oh, love, you leave me no choice."

On his heart, there was still that oppression he couldn't shake, like the vision of a woman in a pool of blood.

No, she couldn't have done anything. Despite her triumphant air, she was not one to get into something that could kill her just to prove him wrong. And if she had… the thought that he could lose her if he did not take care was terrifying, and it had taken all of him not to embrace her, touch her, reassuring himself she was whole, and alive.

He shook his head. Fear would only blind his judgements, and with her, the lines had already been blurred enough. He had to be the rational one, even if she refused to be so.

She had made her choice. He had given her the choice, had wanted to give her a chance to come to him on her own, which was more than he had intended to at first.

He closed his eyes, but it still pained him to even think so. He had delayed too much, and still he was still very begrudging at coming to it. He, so determinate and strong-willed, was in front of that little woman, with her delicate wrists and tender neck, as hesitant as a baby trying to make first steps, and he hated every second of it.

Why couldn't she just let him love her? Why couldn't she come to him freely, lean on him?

By her words, she seemed to resent him for everything that went wrong, when she had been the one to leave him.

Not that he begrudged her that. Not entirely. He would have allowed that revenge as for her it certainly seemed he had done it to her. He would have allowed her making him work to get her back.

But not cut him so!

And that kiss she had bestowed so freely, just under his nose!

His fists closed with a crack. Jealousy was below him, and yet, the creature had growled quite viciously during the night, only being appeased when he had regained his claim over her lips and desire.

She wanted him to treat her like an adult. Fine, he would show her how he dealt with adults.

But it was the last time he would let her turn away from him.

...

...

Fairhill plantation, by the morrow

Hetty's eyes seemed stuck to their lids, the lids incredibly sharp on her skin. Her mouth was dry and her throat appeared to be pierced by tiny needles.

But her hearing, when she applied to it, was correct, even when it added weight to the guilt in her heart.

"… still believe reading the Bible to her while she's in bed is terrible."

"And what do you want me to read? The Romance of the Forrest? And anyway, I believe it's right of us to make her realize her sins. You heard like me, it seemed she even had a b-"

Randa cut Camilla.

"The Romance of the Forrest would still be better than hearing how women are the inferior of men and should be judged for their sins. She did not kill anyone; I don't see why she should be judged as a criminal."

"You and your queer ideas!"

"You are just jealous because you would have wanted a romance for yourself."

"And now I hear the voice of Scarlett O'Hara."

"Scarlett has it right sometimes."

A soft rustle suggested Camilla had leaned in, and Hetty imagined the twinkle of eagerness in her eyes as she whispered swiftly:

"Is it true, what they said about her?"

"Hush your gossipy tongue, Camilla."

"But…"

"Scarlett is my friend, a widow and a mother . I shall not bear any one of you girls' libels about her. If you're bored, take a book, and don't impose on others like that. Or do send a letter to Suellen. Both of you like to talk about Scarlett so much !"

"I have you know Suellen has not sent me any letter for a long time!"

"Perhaps she's getting wiser. Or maybe she's running out of paper."

"Now, you are the mean one. Pah, I shall let her to you then!"

By the accentuation on 'her', Hetty knew Camilla was talking about her, and to be talked about like a burden was still very painful to hear, especially from a member of her family.

But wasn't she?

She did not want to be. Ever since she came back, everything seemed even worse than before. All their boys, their precious boys were dead, Pa was absent most of the days ever since he had examined her, and discovered she had had a baby. She had seen his face go white as chalk as he questioned her, quietly, his voice barely hesitating over the words. And then he had nodded and went away, just as quietly, with his old dark brown leather bag.

Ma watched her with anger, and she felt she was resenting her for not being dead in the boys' place. She had no words to say, she who had always been able to throw the angriest tirades. Her silence was worst.

"You know I have to go back soon. Melly is marrying her Mr. Goldin soon."

Hetty's heart skipped a beat.

Goldin? Where had she heard that name?

Her lover had a friend that had that name. But his name... His name... What was his first name again?

If only she could see him, perhaps she would know... Perhaps he would tell her...

What was his name?

Her eyes squinted as she tried to dismiss the clouds of her mind. They were like brothers, her lover said. Had grown up together. He would know...

Oh, but why was it so important now?

Her heart was so weak!

What was his name?

"Ed... Edward... Gold…"

Randa's head snapped toward her, and she paled. Her little sister, so vivacious... Why did she look like death?

"It's him... Isn't he?"

Through her heavy lids, she saw Camilla's eyes widening, and the Randa's brief look of horror and high color as she realized her blunder.

Hetty opened her mouth, yet the words wouldn't come. They stuck her tongue to her palate as images of the past came behind her lids.

She lost consciousness again.

...

...

...

The promised teasing:

Rhett cleared his throat, used a little spoon on his glass to gather the attention of all on him.

"An instant, if you please. In this moment of hope and happy unions, I would like to make my own announcement…"

..

And I believe I shall stop there, shall I not ? ;)