Hello everyone and thank you for your support!

I had intended to post so much sooner, but just as I began to reread myself, a scene came to me, and I had to add it... and try to check other chapters to be sure the continuity is assured.

It's been a long time since we've heard of the Butlers, hasn't it? Well, now you will have a look at them, through the eyes of the... (let's have some drums) the mother!

It took some time, but I feel better now that it's added, for then it hints at the future.

Yeah, yeah, I know, the story goes in spirals. I'd rather like to think of it as a dance. One step ahead, two steps backwards. These two are in synch when it comes to getting in the other's way, but not when it could be good for them. They are so caught in that game that indeed when confronted to the other, they tend to forget anything else and repeat the same mistakes. Which is... not good for everybody else.

So close to be married, but not close to actually settle. Believe me, it is certainly as bothersome to write it as to read it. One day, they will meet eye to eye, but for now their guards are up, almost at gunpoint. (aha. Spoiler? 😉 )

Rhett is in a terribly innerving place here. Not down at all, but still… waiting for the doom.

Oh, yes, he's seemingly about to get what he wants. But there is also something very terrifying in that by itself, and there are also the matters of his family coming back at him, awakening things he did not want to look at, and the matters of his own relationship and family with Scarlett that is certainly not to reassure him. In the original material, he could still delude himself that it would all go well after they got married. After all they were friends. He could tease, and she would still welcome him, and laugh with him after some time. However, here, he doesn't have that same peace.

And well, you're right, Scarlett seemingly does too. It is what she wanted at the beginning. Yet, she grew up, and what she wants now is not quite the same, after everything.

Here again there is a huge difference between what they wanted and what they think they will get. That was last chapter's theme.

Now, the theme is... Debts and forgiveness? With some parallels to chapter from chapter 3. Well, quite a way had been made since then, hadn't it?

Quite a difficult chapter, but like the others I attempted to write, I hope I handled it with enough care.

Well, that was my too long rant.

Now, to the reading!

PS: the translation of the letter is at the end!

.

.

August 1863, Dunmore Landing

Mourning held a thick, dark veil over the mansion of the Butler family. Curtains had been drawn to signify the need for isolation, and perhaps also with the shame of not having a body to grieve and to show, no proof of bravery.

Nothing at all.

Ross had died somewhere, sometime, and no one knew how. The reports had stated he had been injured in Georgia and led to heal in the nearest town. But he had not returned to battle. One day, he had disappeared, leaving only a letter, with no doubt to his fate. The usually elegant writing had turned into feverish strokes on the paper as he told them Ross Butler was no more, and so was his honor.

An outrage indeed to the Butler's honor. Her husband had read the letter and burnt it, and the fire burned in his eyes as well as he declared their son had died in combat, and that was to be what they shall think, what they shall tell the others. No one would dare say otherwise.

For a moment, she wondered why she felt no grief over Ross' death. But the answer of it came swiftly as soon as she realized any grief she could have felt was eclipsed by relief. At least he had gotten away. No matter what way. She would not see him decline under his father's stature, the shadow of his shadow. She would not see him miserable, buried under a duty that ate him.

His widow had shed no tears either. Theirs had not been a love match, she knew, however she found she could not find it in her heart to blame her. They had been chosen for one another, without any care if they could ever share interests. They had lived one next to the other, yet never together in mind and spirit. Even their bodies had seemed to repel one another from the first time.

However, Langston had wanted this match, and thus it had been made.

And now, Ross was gone… She lowered her head, and her veil fell over her joined hands. She supposed she should pray. Yet, the belief had been lost on her long ago.

Ross had killed himself, Mrs. Butler allowed herself to think. That was quite a sensible notion, and even her husband's words could not avoid the suspicions.

Pauline and Eulalie were the first to send their condolences to her. They even had the delicacy to mention that unfortunately, they had not seen her beloved son's name among the list of their "dear boys that had fallen in battle".

Knowing Eulalie, she knew the words would be spread quickly, her interrogations made with innocent eyes, while her sister would shake her head in disbelief, muttering that in the quietness of the countryside, she had never heard about such things. She could almost see them protest the deepest friendship to her as they engaged themselves on unravelling the truth and "setting things right".

They were amusing, the sisters Robillard, amusing with a sharp edge when the veneer of French frivolity faded. However, the amusement they procured had never been as important as the information they could give, for their words had quite the ability to describe what others would think, but not tell. They seemed to know everything, from the emplacement of each one of the Charlestonian men in battle to the merest risk of elopement between two lovers.

There was the truth to it. If he had not died in battle then, where was the body?

No. She would not think of it.

Life was still there. She held the proof in her own hands.

Pauline and Eulalie had been the ones to point out to her the joined names of her son and Scarlett O'Hara on the bans. Their voices had been as excited with the idea of being soon affiliated with "such a good family as the Butlers, even through the black sheep", as offended at not having been invited, which they thought to be a great act of ingratitude.

Her hands tightened their grip on the paper as she regained composure.

A lady had to be proper and gentle. She had to be obedient to her father, to her husband.

A lady was never her own person, and that, Mrs. Butler had known it from the very beginning of her life.

She had even almost forgotten how it felt, to be called by her own name, almost forgotten what it was. Just another one of these popular, royal names her family had chosen for her.

Eleanor. No one truly called her that these days. It felt almost foreign. Mrs. Butler she was, she had earned that name. She had given up on so much not to be it now.

(Once, she had tried to choose a name by herself, for the son that had survived. But it had already been decided on, no matter if her soft voice had broken for a moment its usual quiet tone to make that demand.)

A clever lady would have made her husband believe it had come from him. Needless to say she had not been clever at that time. But she had learned, through successes and failures.

She feared she had grown quite cynical with age. However, she supposed the world was such for women, and she had to make the best of it when she could. She had to choose her battles.

This was one of them. She pushed the paper toward him.

His upper lip trembled, and she waited, almost anxiously. She stared at his forehead, his brows, his eyes, hoping to see a hint, a fragility in the dark orbs, something that could look like regret.

Then, at last, he lifted his gaze on her, piercing like a hawk's, and his examination of her was cutting, but she could bear it. He could not hurt her anymore.

Not directly, at least.

"What care have I, wife, of the wedding of a stranger, especially in that gaudy, offensive church?" Langston touched his mourning band with insistence, and she felt profusely he wanted to show her intervention was an insult. "Let us grieve our last son in peace. The Butler name will end with us."

Yet, even as he said that, she could see his teeth gritting, and the torturous mechanisms of his mind turning on and on around an idea that he was only just begrudgingly considering.

Her fingers tightened over the others.

She refrained from saying it won't. Rhett was still alive. Her eldest boy was alive, and his blood was strong. He had gotten stronger.

However Rhett was still so far away, and Langston still so proud. He who had be so proud of his legacy, and now... The only way to save it, and he feared to consider it.

She raised her head and squared her shoulders, her eyes narrowing unconsciously as she reflected.

Langston and Rhett.

Two men so similar in strength and stubbornness, both capable of great generosity and great tyranny, determined to be right over the other... It was a terrible thing for those in the crossfire.

Once, she had known a young man, responsible and serious, but with a delicious strike of humor, and in whose arms she had felt safe when, a little after their marriage, she felt the first shivering of love. A young man who had made her dream, if only for a time.

Once, she had known a mischievous little boy, curious and bright, who noticed more than he should. A boy who had looked at her with intense dark eyes that seemed to know every suffering in her heart, every disappointment that had since come in the way, and all the little violences that had almost shredded her own sense of self into tiny little pieces, tiny like grains of rice.

Now, young man and boy were no more, and what once had been clay had become iron, inflexible.

Only Ross and Rosemary were clay.

No. Ross was not anymore.

Langston looked at her again, a surprisingly curious speculation in his eyes. His fingers tapped thoughtfully against the band.

"Is that all?"

She gritted her teeth and shook her head, and left without waiting to be dismissed.

She was his wife, not his servant. She was not to be whipped in his stead. She would follow him until the end, but she would never be his shield, nor his weapon.

She supposed their marriage at least was better than most in that aspect. She was no martyr, she had made her own choices and lived by them.

At least, most of them.

Her feet led her from dark rooms to other dark rooms that she knew were decorated with perfect taste, but that hadn't waited mourning to feel empty. Her heels clattered against the parquet, echoing sharply until she found the door to the porch and quietly opened it. The damp, yet fresh air of the plantation welcomed her, and she allowed herself to push the veil over her hair and breathe. Her chest heaved, and she realized she had been suffocating inside that house, now that he was there.

He brought a dark cloud everywhere he went. It was poison, but it only had the merest effect on her peace if she let it. She had grown enough used to it for it not to have a fatal effect.

Rosemary still was clay, she feared. Like Ross, she would have done anything to be loved, for one little glance of appreciation. Her skin was still thin as paper, and every sharp cut susceptible to send her into a dramatic strike that only young people could afford to do, and thus she was still dismissed like a child, when her body was that of a tall woman. This gave her that air of a wilted flower.

Her daughter, a wilted flower! She clenched her fists. She had wanted her strong, wanted her brave. She wanted her to be a help in the tyranny of men.

Her eyes quietly swept around the grand, efficient machine of labor that had been Dunmore Landing. All these clear lines of rice plants that had stood in front of them like soldiers waiting for their general's order, now laying into waste for lack of care, whether it was of the slaves that had once bled for them, or of the master that had let his hatred ruin all that had made their lives.

.

So one day you rage and rage,

Into both your hands take the cage,

And break it to pieces, oh, your jealous heart!

.

She smiled. She had written these verses when her heart was still pure, hoping for her marriage to work again.

Very few remained here now. When the first escaped, Langston had gathered most of them, to spread the word they could all go to hell if they so wanted, but that if they did, they would lose their shelter and his protection for something that would never work. He had played on their fear of the unknown, and presented himself as a father to them all, and herself as the one to represent him. For once. Then he had left it all to her, to maintain in order while he went from people to people with Rosemary as his puppet, being the perfect Southern gentleman they needed in their rumination for a Cause that could never be anything but lost.

Their neighbor had not been so honest. He preferred keeping his slaves ignorant, isolating them and himself in the process, making them work as if nothing was happening; and getting rid of those who knew.

Langston was no mediocre man. He was a man of his world, and that world was one of honor and power, power that he justified by many things, his race, his religion, his intelligence. There was a logic in everything he said, and doubts in everything the others presented against him, and he had the genius to enlarge these little failures into big holes until his point of view seemed the only one reasonable. He could make even the most innocent of slaves believe he was punished for the greatest sin imaginable.

(and how many had believed him!)

Even in his more dubious arguments, he could make others follow him till the end of the hill, and beyond.

But he was not a good man either, and she would not pity him for the nightmares he created.

She did not curse Alexander Butler anymore. She was no superstitious woman to think he killed one of her sons and cursed the other. Death happened. Babes were taken, monsters were made. With time, she thought she understood the man better, rake as he was. He never was the true enemy in her story. He had been free and had wanted to stay free.

That freedom led him in the end to be killed in a saloon brawl.

She wondered if he had been happy, then, after so many years kept recluse. So many years of silence, proclaimed as dead before even the birth of his first grandsons, and then the rush to a fight and its violent end.

Langston had said he had wasted his death as he had wasted his life.

Would he be terrified of her if she told him danger looked quite tempting after so many years between these walls?

She did not blame the bird for wanting to fly. She blamed the one who had put him in his cage and cursed him for an unpleasant song.

Dunmore Landing was a pretty cage. She was not quite sure if she was the guardian of it, or the mere bird now. It did not matter, truly.

Soon, there would be nothing left. Barely the shell of a grain. She had known it would come; she had watched it creeping like weeds. Yet, she had said nothing. Let it be wasted, she had thought. Let Langston stay in the ruins of the dream he had forgotten in his wrath if it pleased him. She would stand in the end, if only to say to him she told him so.

One day, she would see her son again. Even if it was the last thing she'd do. Until then, she would be the obedient wife, the perfect lady. She would not raise her voice, would not waste her breath. Her breath was too precious to be wasted on useless pursuits.

"Mother?"

Mrs. Butler blinked.

Rosemary had joined her side, her wilted flower of a daughter, and was lifting her eyes timidly.

Only her mother could see the hint of resentment, and Rosemary knew it as well. Her upper lip curled in distaste, vexing tears beginning to form.

"Is it true, Mother? Rhett is marrying that girl!"

'That girl'. A strange, improbable mixture of the remains of good, aristocratic and the stain of Irish peasantry. A woman in two worlds, never to be truly accepted in either.

"Her grand-père's pet, willful and spoiled and unrefined", Pauline had described her, and her tone barely hid the jealousy she felt. Eulalie had been more delicate in her description, insisting that, coming from different backgrounds, they could not find any interest in one another. After all, wasn't Scarlett's father an Irish man, born who knew where and to whom knew who? Cats don't make dogs, Pauline added more crudely, and that girl, under a sweet appearance, was a cheeky little fox.

And Rhett.

A man who had accepted neither, and navigated his own way. A man who had chosen her, and Eleanor knew enough of her son to be sure it was neither for honor nor the pleasure of the flesh only.

He must have been so very much in love to want to take her for wife.

Her heart pounded with a mixture of hope and apprehension. Rhett, in love! Her Rhett, so fiercely independent, willing to make a family with this girl, even as she had a child from her first marriage!

She should be quite extraordinary indeed, to provoke such a tumult in her wake. To be loved, hated, envied… her future daughter-in-law left no one indifferent.

Just like Rhett.

Yes, perhaps it was for the best.

"For the best ?" Rosemary cried in earnest this time, and Mrs. Butler realized with dismay she had thought out loud. "How can you say so ? Oh, Mother! You don't know what I do! You never see anything!

There, her daughter leaned, her brow on her mother's shoulder, and while she caressed her hair, just like she used to do when she was little, her girl threaded a strange tale of bets and disappointed expectations. The gest was natural, motherly, yet the mind was not blinded by compassion for her daughter's self-pity.

"If it wasn't for her… oh, Mother, he would have come home! He did this all for me, and she… she turned him away from us!"

From her words, Mrs. Butler could see clearly how Rosemary had relished in that story. Her daughter had always been too obedient, and she supposed the repressed desires went free in that head of hers. She wanted to be the one people fought for, she who had come after two brothers, and early on pushed into a mold too small for her tall frame.

But she could also see Rosemary had not said the entire truth.

Boys were easier to love than girls, Mrs. Butler had discovered, but she loved her daughter nonetheless. That love was perhaps harder because she could see herself in her, and it felt like the repetition of a long story. Rosemary, like her, had been born to make a good marriage and keep the lineage intact. Her fate had been to carry on that endless chain of faceless women standing in the shadow of their husbands, the richness of their dresses and quietness of temper more important than the sharpness of their mind.

It was the tragedy of these women, to be born sharp. Rosemary still struggled with it. The one that had ended up as the main focus of the story had not been her in the end, and she was yet too young to realize her feelings came from the pettiness of injured pride. But she would learn it when she was older. Until then, she had the jealousy of a little girl.

"That Scarlett is unrefined, a stubborn, shifty little thing, she never does what is expected of her…"

Somehow, this gave her hope. An unexpected hope.

"Shifty, she must be in this world, and what is unrefined can still be under other circumstances," Eleanor softly pondered. "Even diamonds are mere stones when they are not polished. If what you say is true, daughter, and that she managed to stay herself while he tried to shape her, then she might be the only one that could bear him. And perhaps a hope for us as well to one day have your brother at home again. You say that there was a deal. What did Rhett have to lose if he did not what your father said ? What price was asked of him to pay if he did not succeed?"

Rosemary looked down. Her jaws seemed to tighten.

"I don't think there was any."

"There always is."

Her daughter's eyes flashed. Yes, the girl knew it. She had always been of a curious kind, and the only rebellion she allowed herself to have was a few eavesdropping then and there. What she could do with the information she gained, Mrs. Butler did not know. She did not want to know.

Nonetheless, it must have been a terrible price, the one Rhett had to pay, if she had to judge by the hardening on her daughter's face, and the stubborn lift of her chin.

"I don't know, Mother. But as for myself, I prefer to grieve for my only brother."

"Rosemary," Mrs Butler said quietly. "You are hurt in your pride, and I see you think you have been replaced. I know you, daughter. I saw you hope and prepare for the day you would finally meet him. You would have to have quite a weak heart if your affection faded away so swiftly."

"He has forgotten me. Why shouldn't I?"

"No, not Rhett. He forgets nothing." Nor does he forgive.

.

.

.

August 15th , Twelve Oaks

There was a deep, alarming quietness in the County that had worked so diligently, giving its men, its weapons and its blood and sweat for the Cause. Or, at least, it seemed so under the roof of the big house of Twelve Oaks. The elegant mansion was as still as a dream, despite its thin veil of dust. Scarlett could almost remember the flutter of ladies' crinolines as they climbed up the ancient stairs, and the polished steps of the gentlemen, prepared to make their courtesies and produce pleasant conversations.

Once, she had walked in that place, hoping it would be the turning point in her story.

"Are you listening to me, my dear?"

Scarlett blinked, and opened wide eyes at John Wilkes, who was looking at her with a questioning gaze.

Oh, why couldn't she just stay at home?

The answer was so simple that it came as soon as she thought it.

Mother.

Staying at home meant praying with her, as it was all she did these days, and as much as she wanted to be a good daughter, the idea of long hours of emptiness and silence terrified her, as if something in her would crumble if she ever stopped. She had tried for a few hours, but the effort was too much, even with the best of her resolutions

So, she stayed mostly at her father's side, trying to fill him with the energy of before, when he ran from house to house and delighted in that new world he had discovered, and in which he could be King, he, the little cock from Ireland who had to leave his homeland.

Her head lowered in embarrassment as she could not remember at which point she had stopped paying attention to his speech.

"Oh, well, I suppose it is true," she muttered.

John Wilkes sighed, and in his eyes, she could see the disappointment of a man he knew he should have expected it, but still tried anyway.

Why couldn't he talk of pleasant things? The war was already terrible as he was, and, Mother of God, did he have to bring ancient history as well? She had no care for Greeks, and Greeks would be no help at all to them!

To her shame, Pa's chin had fallen to his chest. He had fallen asleep just as John Wilkes was reflecting on the war and its outcome. Yet, somehow, the lines had been blurred between fictional battles and real wars, and his attention had been rather unsubtly swept away by his greater need for rest.

"I am sorry..." she began, mortified.

John Wilkes dismissed it with a kind smile.

"Do not be. It was to be expected."

She was about to reply with gratitude, however the words hit her with their certainty, and she felt ticked.

"What do you mean?"

His face was smooth and gentle as he shook his head with something that looked awfully close to pity.

"My dear, I fear I had not been a great host. I should have known you and your father would not appreciate such talks. I suppose I forget myself. I am so terribly alone here. Please, forgive me."

He supposed also she would apologize for their own ignorance.

She pursed her lips for a moment, before dismissing it.

Oh, and here she was, second guessing his attempts at kindness! Once again, she cursed Rhett for urging her to see beyond. Why, with Mr. Wilkes indeed! That man had always been kind to her!

Despite his faults.

"I hope I am not bothering you. Pa wanted so much to see you," She said demurely, choosing to forget it.

Whatever he wanted to make her understand, she did not want to go there, even if she felt there was certainly something in it she would not like.

Pa needed to get out of Tara for some moments. He needed some fresh air. Else, she feared he would succumb to the nervosity lingering beneath these whitewashed walls. She had seen him pace too many times to be at ease with it.

"You know, dear girl, that you will always be welcome. Know that I should be here, always, as your father's friend, and yours. How are you doing ? My daughters tell me but only very few things, like all girls tend to do."

There was slight dust on the table, and round traces of glasses. Scarlett could follow the visible shapes of the trays that had been put down, then taken back in hurry, without anyone affected to the task of cleaning after it. Most certainly, varnish and other housewares were not a priority to have in a time of war, but Scarlett almost felt pity for India as she discovered the state in which she would find the elegant home of her childhood. She could see the red flare of horror on her usually pale cheeks, and the anticipated weariness of realizing once again that without her to order it, disarray could still taint the sanctity of Twelve Oaks.

"Oh, I am sorry to say I have not seen much of India and Honey, she said, looked at him through lashes as she took her cup and saucer and lifted for composure. "Melanie and I had been so very busy lately…"

"Melanie, uh? I was sorry to hear about what had befallen her. Poor girl… perhaps it is for the best. Don't you think?"

She searched for any trace of resentment, any insistent gaze, but there was only an air of self-satisfaction she could see. She could almost see him pat her on the knee lightly and say that she had played her game and had failed, and now life had to go on as it should.

She could see now he had been very embarrassed at even having to try to interfere in such based, mundane thing, and was now relieved. The old gentleman lay back on his chair with more ease.

Her eyes narrowed. She had once thought there was some kind of unreadable wisdom in these clear eyes, despite all the things she had known about him. Now, she could only see it clearly.

He was all courtesy, and condescending indulgence. She was but a child to him, a turbulent child that perhaps had altered a course of events with her friendship to his niece, but also taken a suitor from his eldest daughter. However, a gentleman can bide his time for the inevitable outcome.

"Ashley will soon return. I am sure the cousins will enjoy seeing each other once more. I have never seen two young persons as he and she so well-matched in personality and interests."

She bit the inside of her mouth, yet it was not enough.

"Oh, to be sure. One would think they are brother and sister," she could not help but say.

He straightened, and she almost thought she had befuddled him. She blinked innocently. But his gray eyes went thoughtfully ahead, through her, a gaze she had often seen on Ashley, and she realized he had not quite listened to her at all. His brows almost furrowed, and his voice took an insistent, earnest quality.

"The blood. It is what is truly important. In our blood is the truth of our history, of our greatness. Blood needs to be preserved. I do believe you can understand it. Your father is proud of his Irish blood. The blood of the Wilkes… it links generations and generations of English nobility finally meeting their fate in the land of America. Nothing good happens when blood betrays blood, and fate is thwarted. I think Melanie is coming to understand that. She was made to be Ashley's wife, and bear my grandson."

This was said not only to her, but to the world, as a finality no one could oppose, for it was fate, and fate could not be fought. It had to be accepted. Something grander than him, grander than her.

Needless to say, Scarlett was not one to accept fate when it did not agree with her.

She bit her lip. He nodded absentmindedly.

"I hope you will send my kisses to them when you return."

"I will."

He seemed to relax on her obedience, taking it as an acceptance.

"And… how are your darkies these days? I do believe some of us faced a little bit of unrest. Oh, but don't worry your pretty head about it. Nothing quite terrible. They think they want to be freed."

She forced herself to smile.

"I do believe I once heard Ashley say he wanted to free them."

He sighed.

"Oh yes, he has quite the modern ideas. Ashley wants to free the darkies because he sees he will have to, as other countries are now saying it is quite the unlawful thing. He is young."

She lifted quietly her eyes to the old man.

"He thinks the old way of life can still prevail without them. He sees the beauty, but barely what is behind it."

His smile was indulgent as he nodded patiently.

"That's… an interesting perspective. I do believe he shouldn't have to. A man flies higher in the sky if he doesn't have to worry about the mere ground beneath. Our society is made to produce doctors, artists and intellectuals. We are not meant to dig the earth. This is why our fight is important, Scarlett. Without it, what could we be? Mere barbarians."

She did not like at all that discussion.

"Well, Tara is fine," she insisted almost petulantly, and could not help but add. "And Cheyenne as well, if you wanted to ask."

His eyes widened, this time with a hint of interest.

"Cheyenne? Old Alice's daughter?"

Your daughter, she wanted to hiss back.

"Melanie is teaching her to read."

"Melanie always had a good heart."

"Cheyenne is a good learner," she retorted. "I suppose it's in her blood."

He studied her quietly, but nothing on his dignified face could tell her if he was ever troubled. He leaned in, his elbows on his knees and hands intertwined.

"So, you know, then?" he said calmly. "Every man has fancies. You've found one of mine. Does that change who I am? I am a gentleman of the South."

Her eyebrow went up.

"You like your life to be pleasant and filled with beautiful things, don't you, Scarlett? I know you since you were a child, of course you do. For all of what you said, when you look at a lovely garden, you see its beauty first, not the dirty hands that had worked on it."

"I suppose so," she replied cautiously.

"Then, you will have to understand it, and turn your pretty head the other side, as every other Southern lady has to do," he added with the uneasiness of a gentleman having to discuss sensitive issues he felt beneath him, awkwardly patting her knee. "You may not truly know quite this world, with your father and family having just come to good society, and that with the help of me and my late, dearest wife. With the exception of your dear mother, of course, but no doubt her duties had prevented her from educating you on that aspect. And with Charles being gone so fast! For the peace of your future marriage, and that of your descendants, I shall tell it to you, and then say no more. Southern ladies are... delicate creatures, meant to be admired. They are meant to elevate the souls of those who love them. Their purity must be preserved, and this is why us gentlemen, who as men have needs, such as God created us, protect them by finding release to our base pulsion in the roughness where they belong. In fact, I've heard your future husband himself already has found his own way to fulfill his… peculiar needs. "

She stayed flabbergasted, her eyes widening.

There, all the remains of admiration she could have had about that old gentleman shattered before her eyes, and this time, this usually perceptive old man did not see it.

"Accept it, little Scarlett. Accept it, as our dear ladies of the South learned to accept it for their own welfare. Only then would you be cherished and protected like other Southern ladies, and understand our Cause properly. It is for your own happiness."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Mister Wilkes," She answered icily. "that I like this talk, especially not in front of my own father. I am sure your late wife herself neglected to give this important lesson. You would have to ask for India. I do think she does not understand, even with all that good, noble blood you share. I doubt she would think her hands are not dirty."

"I regret you take it so," He nodded patiently, unfazed. He rose graciously, every inch the gentleman, his hand lift as a sign to accompany her.

Her cheeks flushed. She dismissed it.

"No. No need to escort me. I and my father should be able to leave well on our own, thank you."

He stiffly bowed, this time at least a little vexed, then left the room.

She nudged her father and insisted gently. Then more forcefully.

"Pa. Pa, wake up."

He startled awake, blue eyes widening like an owl, and she felt a surge of affection for her bewildered father. He seemed confused for a moment, not quite knowing what was happening, until he saw her. The blue twinkled like a child's.

"Oh, you're here, lass?" He murmured. "Where are we?"

"You feel asleep on John Wilkes' talk on the Illiad."

Promptly, he jumped out of the couch, and she linked her arm with his. He inquired once why John Wilkes wouldn't escort them back. She struggled to find an excuse. She could not say his very presence irked her and she had been the one to dismiss him. He seemed to accept her answer, though she thought that perhaps he would have accepted anything, still so hazy from his nap he was.

However, as she saw her father, so old and weary, she felt the regret of causing him trouble with his friend, when it had taken him so much time to have them.

"Methink this Isle of Liad is not even on the map," He grumbled. "Him and his darned poetry. Queer, so queer, the Wilkes."

Her heart squeezed.

"Yes, they are."

He beamed as she helped him on his horse.

"I'm glad you agree."

She checked the saddle carefully, smoothing it, before finally deciding to be direct.

"I do believe I offended John Wilkes."

He laughed at that.

"You, offending him? That would be quite a feat even for you, with him so proper and cold-blooded. No, lass, I believe I offended him by not listening to his… what was it, again?"

"The Illiad."

"What's that thing?"

She finally smiled, relieved.

"Nothing important."

Yes, it was.

"See, that's why I like Southern gentlemen!" He bellowed enthusiastically as she climbed her own mare and began to ride her. "They always talk about non-important things!"

"I am a Southern gentleman," he added, as if to remind himself. Then he nodded, as if satisfied.

He was still swaying on his saddle as the hit of Irish passion took him, his blue eyes firing.

"You know, me lass, when we fought for our beloved land..."

"Yes, Pa, you fought valiantly."

"These damned Englishmen... They tried to starve us, the rascals, but we Irish are not to be killed like that. They tried to make us the servants! In our own house! God's Nightgown, could we tolerate it?!"

"Of course, Pa. We could not."

"No man can tolerate it. We are... We are meant to be the masters of our life... That, me lass, is why now I am a Southern gentleman. I am my own man, and I have my own land." His arms stretched wide open toward the first hints of his beloved Tara. "They did not make me bow!"

She grinned.

"No, they did not, how could they?"

"I made me own destiny with these hands, daughter," He held them toward her, to emphasize his words. "And now, here I am. I have a beautiful wife, and three.. Two pretty daughters."

"Three, Pa."

Red came to his face.

"Would you tell me, Scarlett O'Hara, that we should tolerate the betrayal of our own blood?"

"No, no, of course no. But I dare say it is all your fault!"

He swelled with outrage.

"Me fault? If you weren't..."

"Yes, Pa, your fault. With a Pa who seized his destiny with his own hands, do you really think she would just wait like a ninny ? Do you truly think she would elope without marrying and without any guarantee? No, you raised her better than that! Ha! I dare say, Pa, that she took example from you! See it if she will not come back in a few years, and show us how she was right all along to go and not contend herself with a silly man!"

He seemed to think of it, then beamed and thumped her shoulder good-naturedly .

"Tis true, me lass. I suppose you are right."

His speech went on and on on his pride, and Scarlett stopped listening to him at some point. Since she was there, Pa always repeated the same things over and over, and she swiftly realized that any pleasant encouragement would not change anything, so she stopped trying. Her eye swept on the surroundings, on the red clay that seemed almost crimson with the greying sky. It was a sad, melancholic day, and she felt it deeply, even more deeply as the hints became full shapes.

Pork was there, as always, the eternal guardian of Tara, his teeth glowing white in a smile as he greeted them. Gerald was still focused on his words, and she realized he might have done so for a long time. This time, she herself was too tired to feel anything but her own weariness. Her amount of patience was gone.

"I am me own… me own… " Gerald struggled.

"Pork, will you help Pa to his bed?" Scarlett called absent-mindedly as she climbed down. "He is so very tired."

"I am no child to be sent to bed!" Gerald bellowed, before almost tripping to his own feet. A sheepish grin grazed his reddish face. "Oh, well, I suppose I need a little bit of rest."

Mammy welcomed them with a frown, releasing an excited Wade who swiftly came to his mother's arms as his grandfather was escorted home.

"Mama!"

She delighted in his cry. Why, just seeing him like that made it all worth it!

"Oh, sweetheart ! Have you been missing Mama so?"

He did not answer, but he did not need to. She kissed his cheek and smiled with utter satisfaction. She held him for a time, singing him a little happy song, then settled him near his toys. She looked at him for a moment, relishing on the moment, until she could not ignore any longer Mammy's insistant scowl.

"Mah lamb, Ah Doan like it, you comin' and goin' lak dat, lak a hen widout head. And Mist' Wade doan lake it either. We iz barley seein' you..."

"Oh, Mammy, enough of your berating. I have only gone with Pa," She snapped, innerved, before softening her tone. "How is Mother, Mammy?"

"She be prayin'. Lake yesterday."

Mrs. O'Hara prayed more and more these days, but Scarlett never knew if it was for her soul, or her own. She could not quite understand this new behavior of hers, especially after the way she had been welcomed home, but she supposed it was better than her risking her precious health for the Slatterys, for example. She had heard they were sick.

Perhaps Mother was praying for them as well, she thought, before shrugging. She had not a heart big enough to care. Her mind was fluttering from place to place, untied to any. She was exuberant in her gestures of kindness, as well as in her moments of irritation.

At the beginning she had tried to care for her mother, to urge her to rest and do nothing. However, Mrs. O'Hara was of a too quiet force to be budged so neatly by Scarlett's forceful energy. Her efforts were met with a fond pat on the cheek, and a very weary smile.

"She barley ate today. Ah doan lake it, miss Scarlett. She be sayin' prayin' is food fer ze soul."

Scarlett knitted her brows, feeling quite vexed. What could she do about it? She could not feed her own mother herself !

She could not even remember her mother eating more than three dutiful bites. But now, even these bites seemed less and less. She felt a sense of failure as Mammy continued to look at her as if she could do something about it.

"Well, we should try harder, Mammy," she tried weakly. "She'll eat soon enough."

Mammy nodded vigorously, as if her own pride was in line. Then her eyes narrowed with a thought that glinted sharply in the brown irises.

"You has received a letter from yer gandfadde. Ah put it on de box dat kaim yestahday," Her sharp eyes examined Scarlett. "You ain't openin' it today, mah lamb?"

Scarlett pursed her lips, forcing herself not to look at the big, beautiful box on the table, with its silk ribbon tenderly knotted over the lid. Her heart hiccupped in her chest, but she held on.

It was certainly a mighty beautiful gift.

She would not be taken by this. No, she would not!

Her foot ticked with the need to stomp on the floor with irritation.

Oh, if he thought she was a child, to be diverted with a simple gift!

"No, Mammy, I will not."

Mammy nodded, approving.

"Good. 'Tis not proper. Ain't fitting at all."

She smiled. "I know, Mammy. Yes, it is not proper at all."

She took the letter and went to her room to change and refresh herself.

The seal broke with a satisfying crack as she cut it with the paperknife. She eagerly unfolded the paper, her eyes devouring each word.

.

My dear little écarlate ,

You talk to me of wanting the truth, and here I will give it to you, in my own terms. French is the language of my truth, just as English is yours. I have always felt more at ease writing in it, as you know. Read it carefully and make your own opinion about it.

Je me trouve à un âge de ma vie où je suis prêt à remettre en question ce qui a été établi sans que cela ne trouble le courant de mes pensées. Mais toi, ma chérie, n'en es pas à là. Les circonstances t'obligent à regarder, mais même cela, je sais, sans avis contraire, peuvent te pousser à retrouver le réconfort de pensées faciles, celles sur lesquelles s'appuient ta patrie. Je te laisse le choix, ce qui est plus qu'on est susceptible de te donner.

Nous avons tous des dettes à payer un jour, ma chère, tôt ou tard. Le sang appelle le sang. La France, ma patrie.. un jour, elle aura à le faire, ainsi que l'Angleterre, les Pays-Bas, le Portugal Nous aurons tous à payer de ces beaux traits faits à la règle sur la carte du monde, ces terres, ces vies prises. Mais pas maintenant. Si la révolution m'à bien appris quelque chose, ma douce, c'est qu'un peuple ne peut pas tout questionner en même temps. Il y a des limites à l'esprit d'un homme, une petite voix qui lui dit qu'il ne doit pas toucher à certaines choses, sinon, il aura mal. Il est ainsi fait, naturellement peureux et cherchant son confort. Il se donne des excuses, se dit que le monde est comme ça, il ne peut rien y faire, et parfois c'est assez.

Jusqu'à ce que tu touches à la racine du problème, tu tourneras toujours en rond, peu importe à quel point tu essaies de l'ignorer. Ça, c'est une autre vérité. Néanmoins, savoir l'origine ne résoudra pas entièrement la situation, et tu risques de te retrouver avec une boîte de Pandore ouverte, et l'espoir s'envolant sous tes yeux. Ou peut-être seras-tu tellement aveuglée par la tempête engendrée qu'il aura beau rester, tu ne le verras pas.

Le veux-tu vraiment ? Je n'ai pas l'impression, avec tes nombreuses hésitations, que tu le souhaites sincèrement. Personnellement, je ne le veux pas pour toi. Je te conseille de suivre ma philosophie. Ce prix-là, tu n'as pas à le payer. Laisse les autres générations baisser la tête pour toi. Tu as déjà assez à faire, assez à vivre, et je te veux heureuse, ma petite. Laisse tes descendants décider ce qui est bien, et ce qui ne l'est pas.

Laisse d'autres payer la dette. Ne te force pas à regarder quelque chose qui ferait pencher ta fière petite tête.

Un jour, il faudra te rendre à l'évidence. Tu ne peux pas tout porter.

Peut-être préféreras-tu le confort des bras de ton futur époux, et je suis sur qu'il sera ravi de te l'accorder si tu lui demandes suffisamment gentiment. Les hommes apprécient un peu de vulnérabilité et de laisser aller, ma chère, ça leur donne l'impression d'être forts et en contrôle. Ton Rhett ne fait pas exception, et je crois même, le connaissant, qu'il le désire fortement.

.

Of course Rhett would desire me to , Scarlett thought. He would desire it too much for my sake! But I won't be weak! I won't allowed it!

The paper crinkled to the pressure of her fingers.

She kept reading.

.

Peut-être est-ce mieux ainsi. La maison de ton père et de ta mère, ou le foyer que tu construiras avec l'homme qui partagera ta vie. Le passé ou le futur. Que choisis-tu? Ton père, puis ta mère ont fait leur choix. Ils le paient toujours, j'en suis sûr. Toi, tu as encore tant de possibilités. Il y a un jour où tu devras renoncer, dire au revoir à quelque chose.

Ainsi, nous grandissons. Nous faisons notre chemin. On donne, on prend, on se bat, on fait la paix… La vie doit être nécessairement en mouvement, Scarlett, autrement tu seras morte avant d'avoir vécu. Ne sois pas de ces dames qui ne font que rêver leur vie et qui se laissent porter par le courant. Tu as le pouvoir. Utilise-le et sois heureuse, ma petite.

Tu as ma bénédiction quoi que tu fasses. Tu sais que je ne pourrais rien refuser à un petit chaton aux longues griffes comme toi. Ne t'inquiète pas pour moi, ça ne te va pas de t'inquiéter. Je suis la et je ne serai un jour plus là. Telle est la vie. Ne t'appuies pas sur quelqu'un qui risque de partir, Scarlett. Dis au revoir, comme la femme forte et résiliente que je sais que tu es.

Je serai toujours,

Ton grand-père, Pierre Robillard

.

There, at the end of the letter, the sight of his name in his elegant writing made her cry, and had anyone asked her at that moment, she wouldn't have known why.

Later, she would perhaps say she had enough of these letters that made her cry so. Why couldn't she receive happy letters, promising her all would be alright?

.

.

Wade was restless when the night came, and nothing could hold him in one place. She tried to sing him a lullaby, tried to attract him with beautiful pictures that had seemed to captivate him not so long ago. Nothing worked. He was there and elsewhere, aware of any sound, from the intolerable chirps of the yellow-breasted chats to the mournful call of the great horned owl, which seemed to Scarlett's ears like the call for a lover that would never come back. There was light as well, smells, everything, and she knew it triggered him so, just as it had triggered her when she was a child.

Holding Wade close to her, she slipped away from her room, barely breathing when she passed her parents'. Behind the door, she could hear the loud snores of her father, but nothing of her mother. Yet, she knew she was still there. There had not been any steps on that corridor besides her own and Wade's, not any soft call for Mother's supplies.

Just as quietly, they went down the stairs.

It was just a little walk in the night, just to calm Wade down, she thought. Just a little walk to clear her head.

The night was fresh ad she pulled her shawl closer to her. Wade was alert like a hunting cat, his little face pursed in concentration. She kissed his brow and smoothed the layers of his clothes, that he had protested on as she dressed him. The grimace he made at her attention made her smile and she repeated.

"It's just a little walk, Wade. Not for long. Then you will go back to bed."

But the walk went on and on as they strolled around the house, and further, listening to the whispers of the wind on the leaves, and the birds quietly murmuring, a secret they could not say in the daylight. The darkness enveloped them like a blanket. And still, Wade did not seem to tire, and seemed even more awake by all these little noises. He pulled her and pointed with insistence to each direction, and seemed so very disappointed when she could not give him any answers. That look on his face hurt her, and she began to invent, but the words ended up repeating themselves and she feared he would get bored.

It was only when the sounds became humans she began to realize they had walked quite far from the house already, and were close to the cabins.

She heard drums and singing. The sounds drew her in like a moth to a flame.

Music! Dancing! Life! Oh, how she missed it!

"Come, Wade," She whispered excitingly like a little girl. "We have to see! We have to see!"

And her little boy laughed with her, visibly sharing her enthusiasm. "Huwwy Mama, huwwy!"

They came out of breath, the light taking shapes, the shapes becoming bodies and fire.

She froze. The cheer in her went away like a breeze.

A long time ago, she had been among them. She had danced, the red dirt flying around her. She had been one with them, with the land.

"Mama?" Wade's little hand pressed her, and she turned her head, baffled.

Now, she could not. She pulled her son closer to her. His cheek was fresh on hers, and it gave her courage as they watched quietly. Wade's eyes were in awe, fascinated by the shades.

They were singing and dancing, the people of Tara, and she could not recognize the language they were talking of. The feeling they expressed was foreign to her. She could not tell if it was joy or sorrow. She had the impression of seeing strangers in her own home.

Or, perhaps she was the stranger she realized as one of them noticed her and stopped. Just like dominos, once triggered, they all seemed to cease and stared at her, baffled.

There, one of them swiftly came to her with resolution in her steps, and Scarlett reared back, threatened.

"Yer place are not here, Miz. You shud be goin' back," The woman scolded. "You know dis not your place."

There, previously sat apart from the others, a long silhouette rose painfully from its resting place and intervened, and the light of the fire made him longer than he truly was. For a moment, Scarlett blinked, and it took her some time before recognizing her father's beloved valet.

"Doan ye talk to Miz Scarlett lake dat!" Pork scowled.

But his words came too late. After the first hint of outrage came the weariness that fell over her like a cape. She was tired of fighting against everything that was coming.

"Ah doan go paradin' in skert like her folk wid de gempmums! She shuddent be dere!"

Her head lowered, fists closed, and she gritted her teeth. What could she say?

And how dare the insolent chit talk like that in front of Wade?

She looked at him. He had pressed his little face to her skirt, suddenly fearful of that change of atmosphere. But more than that, she realized he was staring at her, judging her reaction.

She could not let him down.

She swallowed and squared her shoulders.

she could not fight against the people of Tara. She could not! She was already fighting against the world, but not against them!

Her lids lowered, lashes fluttered with the pain, but she still forced herself to stand straight. She would not fight, but she would not surrender either.

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. Her voice was quiet, but firm.

"I've danced once here. I want my boy to know it as well."

There, the woman stood, taken aback, and looked at the others, as if to gauge their reactions. Seeing no one would follow her directly, she scowled.

"Your life be bond to ours. Don't ye forget it! Yer kind forgit izzily."

"Hildy, don't ye… forgive, Miz Scarlett…" Pork intervened again.

"Oh, ah know, by morro Ah be gone. Ah doan have no apology ter say!"

Said Hildy huffed and went away, followed by others, and the music started again. One of the children took Wade with him and began to hit the floor with his feet, and dust flew heavily around them. Then, Wade, overjoyed by the attention and the mess tried to follow, sometimes falling to his bottom, before raising again and continuing.

Scarlett watched, as Rhett once watched her as well, and smiled to herself. It was perhaps the first time she could feel so close to him, so close to understand him as he was then. It was a quiet feeling of kinship, away from the bitter ache of her heart that settled when he was here.

She wondered what he had seen then. There was a certain melancholy to it, mixed with the sense of peace. She watched as the red powder tainting Wade's little feet , then all of his chubby body. Her heart felt drowned in water.

That peace was not meant to last. She knew it now.

No, she had known long ago, but could not admit it.

It was a wave she could not stop, that had shaken her entire world, and now she had to live with it. She had to choose what she could live with, and what she could live without.

Some things are better if you handle them with your own hands and find a way to settle your debt in your own terms.

That was what Rhett had once told her, when he was her friend, the helper of a little girl that thought she could hold her entire world together and lead it with the tip of her fingers.

But how could she settle it?

Her brows furrowed.

No, that was not the real question. She had known from the very beginning. But was it really up to her to do so? And how to?

Laisse tes descendants payer ta dette…

She shook her head. No, this had to be settled now.

Letting others pay was tempting…

Letting Wade pay was out of the question.

She was responsible for lives now. Perhaps some lives were never to be her responsibility from the first place.

However, she realized the only thing she could truly secure was Wade's smile, and the laughing quality of his eyes. She wanted to protect it, and she would, with all the fierceness of her heart.

Her grandfather had said she did not have to bow her head. But how could she not?

They were her people, or at least she had thought they were. But now, she realized she had barely branded them, and they were something else, something she could not entirely grasp.

After the dance, they gave Wade food and he hiccupped from the mixture of warmth and spice. Scarlett almost raised up, her heart on her throat as she saw him cough, but as he finished his mouthful, he cried an enthusiastic "'gain!" his hand hitting on his lap with vigor. It made them laugh and he laughed with them. She laughed too, looked at the plate from which came a delicious scent, but did not touch it. Not because she did not want to, but because she did not think she could. It was not offered to her, and for the first time she felt so very self-conscious, when previously, she would have just served herself.

She did not realize that it surprised many as well. Some, who had seen her grown, though Hildy, who had not been there for long anyway, had driven their lady away. Others worried they might have done something wrong, and that she did not like them anymore.

Some thought, especially from the fields like Hildy. that after all, their lady was like other white folks, and white folks were not meant to be with them, and that was the proof of it.

Embarrassment was a highly contagious disease, and it spread heavily on minds. What once would have been done without a thought was now filled with doubts, and doubts led to questions that seldom wanted to answers.

It was Pork who acted first, dissipating the tension. He pushed a plate toward her and she accepted, almost timidly. It was unrefined, the texture unfamiliar, but she found herself suddenly famished, and it seemed like the greatest meal in the world. They cheered for her appetite and she flushed with pleasure.

She would make sure they would have more, she promised herself. She would not let them down.

Covered in red clay, Wade ran to her and fell to her arms with a laugh, and his babble was filled with deformation of words, and some language she could not grasp.

He was happy, her little boy. But why did it make her even more chagrined?

He suddenly stopped and studied her, with that piercing stare children sometimes have, and that often surprised adults.

"Mama sad." Wade stated.

She shook her head quietly.

"No Wade, mama not sad."

"Mama liar," he accused. "Mama sad!"

She sighed, irritated.

"Yes, sweet-heart. Mama sad."

"Mama not sad!" He continued, and this time it seemed like an order.

There, seeing the seriousness of her baby's face, she could not help but laugh.

"No, darling, Mama will not be sad anymore."

"No tear," He warned, before pointing to himself, then, to herself. "Wade baby. Mama big."

"Mother of God, but you are a tyrant!" she cried."There, are you happy now?"

"Mama happy," he insisted, before smiling widely. "See, Wade happy."

Sometimes, that child scared her. He was too precocious for his own good. She had but very little experience with children besides her own, but she doubted it was normal.

More than that, she felt vexed to be so easily read and berated by a child. She could not understand that, to that child she had born and tucked to her side fiercely, she was the easiest book to learn emotions from. He could read into the snarl of her lips, see the feelings in her half-closed eyes. He could feel the anxiety in every inch of her body, in the tightness of her shoulders, in that little gesture of the little finger she was not even aware she was doing, arched and nodding just so.

They stayed until finally the songs were over, and the burning fire seemed to have tainted the sky. Then, Scarlett finally had the will to leave, followed by Pork.

She had to hold Wade back to the house, but he was getting too big now to be held, and too groggy with sleep to bear anything else.

Pork seemed to understand implicitly, like he always did. He gently lifted the boy's legs for her, taking a part of that beloved weight.

When they began to climb up the stairs of the porch, someone was already waiting for them. A big, matronly figure and her big apron, a moon eclipsing the sun, her shape underlined by the light of the porch making her even more intimidating.

Mammy scowled, her eyes were slits of fire filled with anger.

"Dere ye are, and ye Pork! Ye ain't no good! 'Nd you, Miz! 'Tis were folly, Miz Scahlett, to go and taik the boy here, in this cold! To go take him wid de oder darkies laike dat, laike white trash chile! Ah done raised you butter dan dat! Ah... Ah am very disappointed wid you!"

There, she took Wade from her arms.

"Dere, Mist' Wade," She cooed with her big lips, swaying him vigorously on her strong hip. "You be never let Mammy down, you."

He protested from the interruption of his sleep, but soon she coddled him and sang to him lovingly from her deep, grave voice. Scarlett heard it still long after she'd gone. She stared at her empty arms, dumbfounded, and fell quietly on the stairs of the porch, like a leaf, until a strong hand took hers, and she realized she had merely sat down at the end of the stairs, and Pork was at her side, patting her fingers.

She felt suddenly devoid of purpose.

"Doan ye be worried, Miz Scarlett, it will pass"

She blinked tears she had not realized were already forming at the corners of her eyes.

"It seems I disappoint many."

"What Hildy had said... Pay um no mind, Miz Scarlett. Nor yer Mammy. She be upset."

She wasn't intending on talking about it. And yet, there was a perverse, contrarious thing in her that made her ask when she shouldn't, when she thought she already knew the answer, had accepted long ago and closed the door...

Yet, she now was realizing the door was still very much open.

Her lips were cold and dry. In the night, his black skin seemed to have merged with the darkness, as if he was it, had always been it all along, and all she could see were two twinkles of light that looked at her like these little benevolent spirits in the tales her father used to tell her. She squinted her eyes, trying to see his features, but could not unsee it. Her hand gripped the one who had patted her, and here it felt like pushing the opening even more as the words escaped her, urgently.

"Pork… oh, dear Pork, tell me, I need to know…"

He stared at her, then stood back, suddenly frightened.

"Chile..." He shook his head. "You ain't askin' it from me."

"But I do!"

"No. You kain. You kain wan to hear it."

"I need to know what I have missed, what has been before my eyes for all these times. If you love me, you have to tell me! Else... I should not know what to live for! I should not tell lies from truth ever again!"

This seemed to make him smile, slightly. He watched her, and there was a fondness in it, a sad, sad fondness, that gripped her heart.

"Til you touch the root of the tree, you be always be walking aroun' it, ain't you, chile? No matter how hard you be trying to take it down."

She lift her head, alerted by the familiarity of the words.

"Alwight, chile. Ah shall tell you," He cleared his throat, and his head fell like a puppet's whose strings had been cut. "Ah iz born in a gempmum's land, at St Simon Island."

"Pa won you at cards," She forced herself to encourage him.

This made him smile.

"He did. We did."And before she could even ask him what he meant, he said, urgently : ""Ah done help him. Ah… wanted to go. Mah master was no good gempmum, Miz Scarlett. He be mean, and cruel, and he be worse when he was on his likker. And Ah saw yer Pa, and he smiled at me, wanter shake me hand. and Ah done dink.. dis white man don't know "nytting about slavery. But he done know about being hungry, and he see me.

He took a long breath.

"Mah Master had his tricks. Cards in his sleeves. Yer Pa was good, very good, but he were honest. Ah done always prepare de cards fer Master. But dis time, ah done not de good ones. But he kudent say dis. Else, he be said he be a cheater. He be dat furious, but he kain do nothing. Bit he done try ter buy me back…"

"And Pa refused."

Tears fell from Pork's dark eyes as he nodded solemnly.

"Mist' Gerald say he keep me. And Ah know he dought Ah be a gift, but Ah done wanted to go. But when he saw me back…"

He swallowed a sob.

"He say 'Pork, ye be mine man now, 'n Ah be treatin' ye raight. Ah doan've 'ny clue bout bein' a master, but Ah sure can be bettah dan some. Dis man was no soffern gempmum.'"

A laugh came out of his mouth, disbelieving even then.

"But he never know. No, he never know. A soffern gempmum… one day, he be offerin'me plenty of meat and mead, chird me laik ah iz his friend, eat wid me, 'n sayin' dis be what gempmums do. Dat he heard it be so, bitwin master 'n slave. No. Soffern gempmum doan offer meal freely. Dey choose a day, call it of friddom, den be makin' us eat 'til we kain hold it no more. Dey watch 'n dey say we kain handle friddom.. dis be not for us. 'n we believe it. We believe it…"

"Oh, Pork!"

He laughed even more, and in his laugh, there were also bitter tears.

"Pork, pork. Ah've never known anudder name. Porks be made to be in mud, dey say. Porks are dumb, porks are filthy…"

She opened her mouth to ask a question she had once already asked, to her dearest Mammy, but never had any true answer. Pork, maybe now, dear Pork could tell her.

"Have you never thought you could change your name?"

"Why? Dis de only way…"

"The only way what?" She insisted.

"Not ter forget."

She froze. She could not make sense of it. Not to forget? Why wouldn't he want to forget? This was terrible, what happened to him, and had she been him, she would have wanted to, so very despairingly. She would not have looked back, no, she would not!

"Many has not see the Land we was bound to, and those who do barley remember wat it were. Us sing, us dance and dream of a dream of wat be, and stuck in anothers dream, but dat is not ours. What we build, what we be hurtin' our hands for, notting be ours. Some of us kain dream at all. And dat, chile, is the worst."

Ye no good nigger! Uncle Peter's voice rang to her ears, and in her memory, she could sense his fear.

She shuddered.

I wanna have me own home. Me own crops. 'Nd I wanna me man wit me.

Dreams like hers. How could she have not seen it? How could she have dismissed it?

We're too soft, in Tara.

I shall have to wash my hand.

"Forgive me!" She gasped. "Oh, you have to forgive me!"

But she could not quite explain what she had to be forgiven for. She could not even think .

He seemed to understand it as well.

"Raise up, chile. Tis no one thing Ah muss forget, nor forgive. Has ter be born, and ter be answered… till…."

"Until ?"

"Till finally no one is ever be made a slave."

"Then, it shall never be. Oh, Pork…!"

"Un has to hope. Else, what Un have?" He shrugged. "Ah done love you, child. Ye may never know me all, but Ah do. Ah've watched you grow. Love is not a thing that can be erase once the seed is buried deep and grow. And Ah done love your fadder. Ah done love 'em as much as Ah done use 'em. Tis a strange thing, kare for der man who bought you, but Mist' Gerald… Him never understood watter was.

"Did ye know before he married your mudder, him done always want to eat wit us? Drink wit us? Had to be pushef to go, and even den.. and den came your mudder, 'nd, den, him stopt. Him done stop, because dat was what he fou' she be wanting. He done sp because he done cared fur her. A po'r lil bird wit sad eyes and clip't win's. She be a kind woman, yer mudder, you know? But even kind pipole can be cruel when dey doan know. And when she came, many of her people came, 'nd what once was kain never come back, not truly. One learns to love their chains, and as dey did, we done de saime. Tis a love dat makes un forget who dey are, and what dey should be."

"This is no love," she cried.

He cocked his head, seeming to reflect on it.

"Perhaps. Tis all so strange. Me and your fadder… de pipole of Tara… us dream de same dreams, 'nd yet, sometimes Ah feel a stranger ter me, as if Ah shuddn't be dere. Ah shuddn't love you. Ye pipole grow and forget, use and neglect. Ye be à good chile… but as oder, ye change, ye forget... ah shuddn't love ye…"

She let out a sob. He pressed his lips, his gaze so far away he felt like a ghost by her side.

"But Ah do. But do Ah you because Ah have no other choice, or cause it be true? Ah never know."

Her head shook, as she could not hear any more. The fabric hissed under her nervous grip, and she wanted to tear it, tear it until she could not hear anything else.

"I love you… I know I do. You may not be sure, she swallowed her saliva with anguish. But I am! You've… always been here and… I love you, and I wouldn't know what to do if you weren't there anymore!"

He opened his mouth for a broken smile, some of his teeth gone, but his eyes seemed weary.

"It done make me happy to hear it. Zo Ah done tink ye doan hear me at all."

She lifted her head in protest.

"Yes, you said… you said…" She repeated, until finally the words imprinted her brains, with their terrible fatality. Her voice came out quiet, almost cold. "You want to go, don't you? You're saying it is all a trap here, and you want to go and I… made you suffer?"

Yet, he did not see it. Did not seem to see the denial was turning into anger in front of his eyes.

"Doan ye cry. Dere, Ah know ye ain't understandin'. Ah doan wan ye hatin' us."

"No, never!"

He seemed not to have heard it.

"Oder be hatin' us if we go. No. Dey already do. And you... You be hatin' us soon."

"No, I don't! I love you! But you don't, you don't!"

He stared at her, his placid brown eyes softening as he looked at her. His arms opened for her, tenderly cradling her like a child, and she almost let herself be in his arms, her heart full and wanting to be comforted.

"Dis wat be. Yell forget it. Doan cry, Miz Scarlett. Dis noting, just Pork saying silly tings, just..."

She rose from the steps, unable to hear any more of it.

"I'll not forget it! I swear I won't!"

"Miz Scarlett!"

Yet, she was already gone. Gone without knowing how, without knowing where. The wind pushed her, and suddenly she felt she was it, that wind that suddenly turned into a tempest and that could destroy anything, trample on anything, and just make it all disappear, until nothing ever mattered.

They wanted freedom, oh, yes, they wanted to be free from her, from them!

Her feet stumped the ground wrathfully, but each angry step she took could only dig her deeper into the red clay.

She stopped.

Oh, but it was so simple! She wanted to laugh, at how simple it was!

Grand-Père was right . She did not have to do anything at all!

Their freedom was not hers to give. Tara was not hers!

A mad giggle tumbled from her lips, and as it left, it felt like a hand choking her throat.

Triumph came to her for a brief moment, until it shattered before her eyes.

Do ye want me gone? Do you want me gone?

Ah done love you... Ah done love you...

And yet, she realized, she wanted to be the one to free them. In her mind was the image of Rhett holding a key, grinning at her, making her heart catch in her throat. Yes, there was a feeling of power in giving freedom and she…

She was powerless.

She was even more powerless there was still Rhett's voice taunting her in her mind, telling her she was still having this too easy, and there was something she could do, if she would only look...

If she would only look...

She fell to her knees.

No, she did not want Mammy gone. She did not want Pork gone. Nor Dilcey, Prissy and the others.

And yet, she could not see any other way that seemed right, when everything was already falling to pieces.

She realized then that what she felt was not anger, but despair.

They would leave her, sooner or later.

She had to say goodbye. Goodbye to them, to her life, to childhood that still lingered when she had thought she had dismissed it long ago, and she was not ready. She was not ready at all.

It tore her apart. She opened her mouth, out of breath, trembling the lump in her throat growing and growing and growing…

There, a cry of agony, almost inhuman, came from the forest of pines. It seemed it arose from the trees, foretelling the suffering ahead, when the land would be taken bit by bit, torn into pieces until there was nothing left of it.

We thought we could take it back, they seemed to say. But it's all over, all over...

Scarlett shuddered, dumbfounded. She felt cold. She wanted to go back. But it was a call, and it drew her in. Her heart slowed as she took hesitant steps. The misty moss wet her thin sandals, making it an unwelcome layer on her skin. She took them off, and tried to listen, to follow the sound.

She felt very much irritated with herself. Why, she was being such a fool, running off like that, and being drawn to what should have been a simple blast of wind !

She was about to go back, when it happened again. A whimper. Softer, broken into pieces.

It was human. It was familiar.

It was Mother.

.

.

Hey! I hope you liked it!

Here is the letter's translation:

.

My dear little scarlet one,

(You talk to me of wanting the truth, and here I will give it to you, in my own terms. French is the language of my truth, just as English is yours. I have always felt more at ease writing in it, as you know. Read it carefully and make your own opinion about it.)

I am at an age of my life when I am ready to question what had been said without it troubling the flow of my thoughts. But you, my darling, are not quite here yet. Circomstances make you look, but even that, I know, without any opposing view, could urge you to go back to the comfort of easy thoughts, those on which your homeland lay. I give you the choice, which is more than what you are expected to be given.

We all have debts to pay one day, my dear, sooner or later. Blood calls for blood. France, my homeland... One day, she will have to do so, such as England, Netherland, Portugual... We all have to pay for these fine lines done with a ruler on the map of the world, these lands, these lives, taken. But not now. If Revolution made me learn something, my sweet, it is that a people cannot question everything at the same time. There are limits to a man's spirit, a little voice telling him he should not touch something, or else he would be hurt. He is thus made, naturally coward and seeking his own comfort. He gives himself excuses, tells himself world is so, he cannot do anything, and sometimes it is enough.

Until you reach the roots of the problem, you will always turn around it, no matter how you try to ignore it. Here is another truth. Nevertheless, knowing the origin of the problem won't solve it entirely, and you may find yourself with an opened Pandora's box, with hope escaping in front of you. Or maybe will you be so blinded by the tempest it made that hope may have stayed, but you wouldn't see it.

Do you truly want it? I'm not quite sure, with your numerous hesitations, that you wished it sincerely. Personally, I wouldn't want it for you. I advise you to follow my philosophy. This price, you don't have to pay it. Let other generations lower the head for you. You already have enough to do, enough to live, and I want you happy, little one. Let your descendants decide what is right and what is not.

Let others pay the debt. Do not force yourself to look for something that would make that proud little head of yours bow.

One day, you will have to accept it. You cannot hold it all.

Mayhaps will you prefer the comfort of your future husband's arms, and I am sure he will be happy to give it to you if you ask him nicely enough. Men love a bit of vulnerability and abandon, my dear, it gives them the impression to be strong and in control. Your Rhett is no exception, and I do believe, knowing him, he desires it quite a lot.

Mayhaps it is better like this. Your father and mother's home, or the home you will make with the man who will share your life. Past or future. What do you choose? Your father, then your mother made their choice. They pay it still, I am sure. You, you have still so many possibilities. There will be a day when you will have to give up, say goodbye to something.

Thus, we grow up. We make our way. We give, we take, we fight, we make peace... Life must be necessarily in movement, Scarlett, otherwise you will be dead before having lived. Do not be of these ladies who only dream their lives and let herself be taken by the flow. You have the power. Use it and be happy, little one.

You have my blessing whatever you do. You know I could never refuse anything to a little kitten with long claws such as you. Do not worry for me, it does not suit you to worry. I am here and I will one day not be here anymore. This is life. Do not lean on someone who may leave, Scarlett. Say goodbye, life the strong, resilient woman I know you are.

I will always be,

Your grandfather, Pierre Robillard

.

.

And here, as a treat, a little extract for the next chapter:

.

"Mother…" Scarlett urged. "We need to do something. Pa is lost. He tries to hide it, but he's lost."

"This is our life. We can't let that go," Ellen's voice was calm, too calm. "These are our people."

"What if they aren't?" Her daughter insisted. "Mother... how can one own someone without it being wrong? Letting them go doesn't mean abandoning them."

She looked, looked until her eyes hurt, but nothing changed in her mother's dark, sad eyes. There was no hope at all.

"In deo spes mea. That was the devise of my mother's family," Ellen said quietly. "In God is my hope. So we shall pray."

"Praying won't stop the war, Mother!" Cried Scarlett. "Praying won't save Tara!"