Rhett Butler's people (17 page)

Her conceit was greeted by chilly silence. Scarlett muffled a coughing fit in her handkerchief.

Eulalie's tiny spaniel barked again and Eulalie said, "Empress does not appreciate your joking, dear. Who would have imagined that my sweet little dog would be patriotic?"

Scarlett couldn't resist: "She has a patriot's brains."

Another silence. Scarlett shut her eyes. Lord! She was enmired in dullness. Dullness smothered her so, she could not breathe. Scarlett's great fear was that one morning she'd be unable to remember -- as the Wards could no longer remember -- what joy was.

Juliet Ravanel broke the silence, "Rosemary, I hear your brother is back in Charleston."

"Yes, he spoils Meg terribly."

"Didn't I hear his son is in New Orleans?"

"Dear Juliet" -- Rosemary smiled, tight-lipped -- "I wouldn't expect you, of all people, to repeat scurrilous gossip."

Juliet Ravanel smiled right back at her.

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Meanwhile, bored Scarlett was populating an imaginary bestiary: Frederick Ward was an overfed yellow tabby cat, the high-colored Juliet Ravanel a cardinal. Eulalie's daughters, Patience and Priscilla, in identical green brocade, had lizards' features and reptilian attitudes. In her mourning habit, poor Aunt Eulalie was a perfect crow.

While Scarlett daydreamed, conversation turned to a Robillard connection killed at Shiloh.

Frederick set his index finger to his chin. "Pauline's daughter's husband, hmm. Wasn't his first wife a Menninger? Hmm. If memory serves, Menninger senior's son, James, had that plantation on the Ashley, below Grafton, hmm. Didn't he marry that girl -- dear me, I can't recall her name -- that Richmond belle?"

At that instant, had the Devil himself appeared shrouded in smoke, Scarlett would have taken his bargain gladly for one more barbecue, one more night of waltzes and music and fun.

But the moment passed and Scarlett's immortal soul shrank from the brink. "I believe I'll take the air," she said, not troubling to conceal her yawn behind her black silk fan.

Outdoors, Charleston's heat struck Scarlett like a wet woolen glove. Shading her eyes, she squinted against the glare. How she wished she were at shady Tara.

The garden separated the Ward house from dependencies concealed behind a thick boxwood hedge. Louisiana iris bloomed beneath flame-colored azaleas whose scent was overwhelmed by lavender.

Frederick Ward's son Willy and his friends were gathered beneath an ancient eucalyptus. Willy Ward's friends wore the elaborate uniforms of the Palmetto Brigade, the Moultrie Guards, and the Washington Light Infantry. Oh dear! Scarlett knew they

would

prate on about the War, and she must pretend to be fascinated by their gallantry. Scarlett Hamilton was so sick of boys!

Inhaling Charleston's moist, heavily scented air, Scarlett recalled Tara's subtly aromatic roses. The memory was so poignant that, hundreds of miles from home, Scarlett closed her eyes and swayed.

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"Cousin Scarlett! Cousin! Are you unwell? Let me help you into the shade. You aren't accustomed to our sun." His face solemn with concern, Willy Ward guided her to a chair.

"Why, thank you, Willy." Scarlett's smile was wistful.

Although Willy had been quickest off the mark, other young men rushed to attend the lovely young widow. One suggested a cold cloth; another offered lemonade. Did she wish a parasol?

"Oh, thank you all. You are too kind!"

Across the garden, a middle-aged man in civilian clothes was leaning against the gate. His arms were crossed and a smile flickered across his lips. Scarlett's heart started thumping so fast, she put her hand to her chest.

"Cousin Scarlett, you are so pale!"

"Yes, Willy," Scarlett gasped, "I am pale. Ladies are

supposed to

be pale. Don't fuss!"

That Man

touched a forefinger to the brim of his gleaming panama hat.

Willy knelt beside Scarlett's chair. "Your face is turning red! This dreadful heat! Let me help you indoors."

At Twelve Oaks,

That Man

had overheard her pleading to Ashley, begging Ashley to love her as she loved him, her plea rejected by the finest, noblest ...

Now

That Man

dared to put a finger to his lips, as if he knew her intimate thoughts but vowed to keep her secret.

"He ... the man in civilian clothes?" Scarlett choked out.

"The notorious Captain Butler," a blond youth in a Zouave uniform replied. "I do not know why Mrs. Ward admits him."

"Butler's bold enough," Willy Ward conceded. "On his last run, he steamed through the blockade in broad daylight. Butler convinced the blockaders he was a Federal mail boat, and they escorted him into the harbor!"

Butler approached Scarlett as a big cat might: with a deliberate, lazy confidence. Swarthy, tall, and unusually muscular for a Southern gentleman, his frock coat was black broadcloth, his shirt was ruffled at the cuffs, and his foulard was the delicate blue of a robin's egg. Though he swept his panama from his head, his gesture seemed less chivalrous than it might have.

"My dear Mrs. Hamilton, I was devastated to hear of your husband

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Charles's death.

'Duke et

decorum est propatria mori.'" He paused, smiling. "Perhaps you were not cursed with a classical education. "Tis sweet and honorable to die for one's country.' A sentiment that, doubtless, these gallant officers share."

"And you, sir -- you do not serve?" Scarlett inquired innocently.

"Some of us are not heroic, ma'am." Although his hat swept low again, his gesture reeked of mockery. "How proud you must be." He smiled at the young men. "How proud you all must be."

The young officers bristled, although they weren't exactly sure why.

Willy Ward thought Butler presumptuous to approach the finest girl Willy had ever seen, right here in the family garden. Willy was concocting a rebuke when Scarlett dumbfounded him. "Gentlemen, please do excuse us. Captain Butler and I have something to discuss."

Reluctantly, the young men withdrew out of earshot, although Willy kept a sharp eye on the couple, as if, piratically, Captain Butler might seize the young widow and escape with his prize.

Rhett Butler appraised Scarlett impertinently. "Black isn't your color, my dear. Paris fabrics are subtler this season. They have a taffeta the color of your eyes."

Scarlett looked at him straight. "Captain Butler, at Twelve Oaks, matters were not as they may have seemed. I indulged a lighthearted flirtation on the eve of my old friend's wedding. Neither Ashley Wilkes nor I actually

meant

what we said. I'm sure any gentleman" -- Scarlett almost choked on the word -- "must understand."

Rhett placed a hand over his heart. "How well I do! Doubtless the gallant Wilkes took your pretty entreaty as whimsy; of no more consequence than the butterfly's flirtation with the flower." Butler's eyes were laughing at her. Laughing! "For my own part, should I ever have the pleasure of meeting you again, I'll pretend your meaningless flirtation never occurred. Why, we can pretend we've never met." The man beamed in the most aggravating manner.

Scarlett had never met anyone so hateful. She stamped her foot. "Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!" Her dramatic exit was marred by a slight stumble on the doorstep.

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As Scarlett burst into her aunt's withdrawing room, Frederick Ward's eyes widened as one of his habitual opinions rolled toward its inevitable, unstoppable conclusion, no longer Frederick's creature, but its own: "Perhaps Philippe Robillard was too breakneck for sister Ellen, hmm? But to marry a coarse, striving Irish immigrant like Gerald O'Hara ..."

Frederick's opinion was trampled under Scarlett's impatient query. "Aunt Eulalie, why

do

you admit Captain Butler? He is no gentleman." Flustered, Aunt Eulalie wagged her several chins. "Why, he, he ..." Having dispatched her aunt, Scarlett turned on Frederick. "Did I hear you correctly? Did I hear you say my mother married beneath her? God's nightgown, sir!" Scarlett erupted, in a passable replication of her father Gerald's earthy brogue. "Faith! If it's thin blood my father was wantin' to marry, look no further than the Robillards! Begorrah, they've no blood at all!"

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Chapter

Chapter Eleven

Some Lovers

The Ashley River rolled brown and dirty in spate. The rice fields had been planted and flooded and plantation houses stood above glistening water like islands. Rice birds exploded from the roadside as a bright blue phaeton sped past. Drays and farm wagons pulled to the verge to let the gentlefolk by.

"Oh look, Rhett," Rosemary said. "They're repairing the old Ravanel place."

Rhett reined in Tecumseh.

Workmen swarmed over the farmhouse roof, pulling up broken cedar shingles and letting them fall into the head-high weeds around the foundations. On a scaffold, three workmen were extracting a rotted window, casement and all.

Rhett said, "William Bee bought it for his son. Bee has made so much money running the blockade, he can afford whimsey." Tecumseh champed at the bit. "Easy, boy. I wonder how much paint it will take to cover that house's sins?"

"Were you there often?" Rosemary asked.

Rhett shrugged. "When I was young and filled with despair. The last time ..."

"Rhett?"

A warm September rain glistened the cobblestones as young Rhett Butler rode Tecumseh toward Grandmother Fisher's. Rain dimpled the

Charleston harbor where distant Fort Sumter floated in and out of the mist.

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Rhett was in a black humor. Last night, Henry, Edgar, and Old Jack

Ravanel had helped him celebrate a poker win until his winnings were a memory. Rhett had drunk too much, and at daybreak, when he stepped out of Miss Polly's, he'd flinched and squinted against the scorching sunlight. He'd thought, For you, Little Rosemary. L must change my life.

Last night, Henry Kershaw had been coarser than usual, Edgar Puryear's sycophancy more irritating, and Rhett had noticed Old Jack Ravanel eyeing him with the affection a bobcat reserves for a plump hare.

Why had he come back to

Charleston? To flaunt his West Point disgrace before his father's political cronies? There were so many places he'd rather be, so many things he'd rather be doing. Rhett Butler was weary of annoying, stupid people, tired of shocked dismay on dull, utterly predictable faces. After a bad night, young Rhett Butler took a deep breath of salt air. He'd go to Rosemary. Perhaps her child's love could save him.

When Grandmother Fisher answered the door herself, Rhett's hopes crumpled. "Rhett, I'm sorry. I don't know how your father learned you'd been visiting! I've never seen Langston so furious. If I'd been a man, I believe he would have called me out." Grandmother set her lips. "Rosemary is Langston's daughter. There wasn't one thing in the world I could do."

"Where is she?"

Rhett demanded.

"At Broughton. Langston said

..."

Rhett jerked his head, as if pulling words out of her.

"Your father told me she'd stay until you were dead or gone from the Low Country. Damn the man! Come inside, Rhett, and we'll talk. I am not without influence and

..."

The clatter of Tecumseh'

s hooves obliterated what more she might have said.

On rain-slick cobblestones. Rhett galloped Tecumseh through the city. Cabbies cursed, riders drew up sharply, and servants leaped from his path. The great horse hammered along, tireless as a steam engine.

After an hour, he slowed Tecumseh to a canter, then an easy walk. When the horse shook his head, hot horse spittle spattered Rhett's cheeks. They were well out of the city on the River Road.

Young Rhett Butler believed the years to come wouldn't be different from the years he'd already lived. He was disgraced; he would be always be disgraced.