Rhett Butler's people (69 page)

"Mr. Watling, what are you doing? Why are you tormenting us?"

He cackled. "There's torments and torments, Miz Butler, but the worst is the torments of hell." He pointed a bony forefinger at her. "Archie says you are Jezebel, but you don't look like I imagine Jezebel to be."

"If I catch you sneaking around my property, I'll have you horsewhipped."

"Whipped, Miz Butler?" He considered. "Miz Butler, as much whipping as I've seen and done in my long, long life, I can't say it ever did a lick of good." Isaiah Watling's eyes crinkled with amusement, "I b'lieve I made a joke. 'A lick of good,' my, my."

When Scarlett looked around the empty square, she felt a chill. "Where's Sam? He was supposed to wait for me."

"Was that big nigger yours, Miz Butler? I believe he has done run off."

"Sam's a good negro. He wouldn't leave me."

"Well then, I'm right sorry he's run off, ma'am. But might be that boy won't quit runnin' until he's far away."

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Chapter

Chapter Fifty-three

A Telegram

The Georgia Railroad telegrapher reckoned he could send a telegram care of Rob Campbell in London, England -- they had the transatlantic cable -- yes ma'am. But it might take some time, account of he'd never sent a telegram to London, England, before. He checked his book and whistled. "Ma'am, it's gonna be a dollar a word."

Scarlett's pencil pressed deep into the message pad where she wrote. "Rosemary needs you." She handed the pad to the clerk but snatched it back to add, "I need you. Darling come home."

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Chapter

Chapter Fifty-four

Glasgow

Tazewell Watling wanted to tear the damn thing up, but he returned it to its envelope and gave the boy sixpence.

Who touched his cap anxiously. "Sir, you will deliver this to Mr. Butler?"

"When I find him."

Six months before, when Rhett Butler had walked into Nicolet and Watling's office, Tazewell had scarcely recognized him. Once-elegant clothes hung on his gaunt frame. He had the face of an old man.

Rhett rolled his hat in his hands. "I'm going abroad, Taz." His weary smile was sadder than no smile would have been. "The grand tour. Museums. Historic places. Fine art." He paused. "I wondered if you might join me."

It was on Taz's tongue to say October was the firm's busiest month. Ships were backed up at Nicolet's wharf and so much cotton was coming in, they'd rented a second warehouse. Taz looked into his guardian's blasted eyes and said, "Of course I'll come."

They caught the mail steamer that same day.

Belle had written Taz about Rhett. "Honey, I never seen him so bad. First Bonnie Blue and then Miss Melly. It'd be hard enough if Rhett and Miss Scarlett could console one another, but they can't. I'm fearing Rhett ain't got much to live for."

Rhett didn't speak about this, and they were in England's Bristol Channel before Rhett mentioned Melanie Wilkes. Seabirds whirled and dipped

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over white chalk cliffs. "Miss Melly couldn't be deceived," Rhett said. "Melanie Wilkes never doubted her heart."

Tazewell Watling looked away so he couldn't see the tears streaming down his guardian's face.

Taz didn't ask about Rhett's wife. That Scarlett's name never crossed Rhett's lips told Taz everything he needed to know.

The bellman at their London hotel unpacked their luggage while Rhett sat, hands between his knees. Taz wanted to call on the Campbells, but Rhett said he was too tired.

Taz spent a pleasant afternoon renewing his acquaintance with the Campbell family, but when he returned to the hotel, Rhett was gone. The doorman said Rhett hadn't taken a cab; he'd walked into Mayfair. "The gentleman seemed distracted like," the doorman said. "Like the gentleman had something on his mind."

Rhett's tailor hadn't seen him and he hadn't been to the gambling clubs. Of course they knew Mr. Butler. Was Mr. Butler back in London?

Three days later, wearing the clothes he'd worn when he disappeared, Rhett came back to the hotel. He was filthy and unshaven. Perhaps he'd slept in his clothes. "It's no use, Taz. I can't forget. Drink, laudanum, women -- I never thought I'd curse my memory." He looked at his hands. "You may as well go back to New Orleans. I am grateful you interrupted your work to come, but..."

Taz said, "I'll draw your bath."

Rob Campbell provided the necessary letters of credit and would forward their mail. Taz bought tickets for the Dieppe steamer. Taz made sure Rhett had fresh shirts and tempted him to eat.

In December, Paris was bitter cold and its famous light was unforgiving. Rhett couldn't keep warm. Sometimes when they went outdoors, he wore two overcoats.

Like a dutiful son with his frail parent, Taz escorted Rhett to the Louvre, Notre Dame, and the Opera Gamier. Taz chattered through the long silences. When Taz did ask a direct question, Taz's companion replied courteously, but Rhett made few observations and no suggestions. He initiated nothing.

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One afternoon on the rue de la Paix, they strolled past excited young ballet dancers entering a

maison de couture.

Taz tipped his hat to the girls and observed, "There are other women, you know."

"How dare you say that to me!" Rhett's eyes flared so hot, Taz took a step backward.

Taz would wake in the middle of the night, to find Rhett sitting at the window. Winter moonlight bleached his face.

Every week, dutifully, Rhett wrote the children. He asked Taz to read his letters before he mailed them. "Just the musings of an utterly ordinary tourist," Rhett said. "I mustn't frighten them."

In his letters, Paris sights Rhett had apparently passed without noticing were described in engaging detail. All their days were sunny. Rhett was amused by Paris's famously truculent cabmen and waiters, who pretended they couldn't understand Creole French.

Taz's letters to Belle were cheerful, too.

Rosemary wrote, care of Rob Campbell, that she was staying at Tara "until I decide what to do with my life."

Belle wrote Taz, "Your Grandpa Watling's come by twice. Might be one day I can get him to take a cup of coffee."

Buying Christmas presents was an agony. Though the temperature was below freezing, Rhett sweated through a Harris tweed coat. After he bought the children's gifts, he bolted from the cab into a milliner's shop on the Place de la Concorde. He wasn't inside five minutes.

With a groan, Rhett collapsed in the seat. "There. That's done. Taz, I don't think I can do more. Would you see everything is shipped?"

That night, Rhett vanished from the hotel. He was gone a full week, and a gendarme and his captain brought him back. "No, monsieur," the captain told Taz, "Monsieur Butler has committed no outrages. But the gentleman takes his life in his hands...." He paused. "In Montfaucon, where we found your friend, gendarmes travel in fours."

"Rhett?"

He coughed. He couldn't stop coughing, but he waved away Taz's help.

"Perhaps Monsieur is ill?" The captain of gendarmes wondered.

"He is," Taz said, and gave the man twenty francs.

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If Paris was cold, Glasgow was colder. Taz and Rhett spent their first night at the Great Western Hotel opposite Gallowgate railway station. There weren't many people in the enormous dining room: a handful of commercial travelers reading as they ate alone, an elderly couple with their grandchild enjoying a celebratory evening out. The old couple consulted carefully before ordering a bottle of the cheapest champagne.

Rhett picked at his food and drank nothing. In the morning, he was gone.

Taz visited Glasgow's hospitals and the central jail, where he was directed to the Gartnavel Lunatic Asylum.

After Scarlett's telegram came, Taz placed an ad in the

Glasgow Herald:

ANYONE KNOWING THE WHEREABOUTS OF MR. RHETT BUTLER -- A MIDDLE-AGED AMERICAN GENTLEMAN, TALL, WELL-DRESSED, APPARENTLY MENTALLY DISTURBED -- CAL CLAIM A SUBSTANTIAL REWARD FROM MR. TAZEWELL WATLING AT THE GREAT WESTERN HOTEL.

Four days later, a nervous cabman drove Taz to an alehouse in the slums of Glasgow's East End. "It's a wee bit risk, man," he'd advised. "It'd be a wise man who took precautions."

Coal smoke was so thick it was dusk at 4:30. Tenements loomed over a narrow street lit on one corner by a gaslight's dirty circle of light. Taz said, "I'll pay after I see Mr. Butler."

The cabman snarled, "I'll have my dosh now. I'll not set foot in yon place."

"If you want your money, you'll wait."

The cabbie stood in his box to peer up and down the street. A cat squalled in an alleyway.

"I'll double your money if you wait."

The cabman subsided, "I canna say I will and I canna say I willnay. For God's sake, man, be quick."

The moment he passed through the unmarked front door, Taz's eyes watered. The low room was blue with smoke and reeked of unwashed bodies.

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Old stinks had varnished the tin ceiling brown. Thick stools lined the bar; there were benches at the tables. The furniture was too heavy to use as weapons.

In the back of the dim room, wearing a mink-lined cape, gold nugget shirt studs, and thick gold watch chain, Rhett Butler was at a table with five of the worst ruffians Taz had ever seen.

"Hello, Taz. Come here and I'll introduce you. Remember my grandfather, Louis Valentine? Broughton Plantation was purchased by worthies just like these."

"God, don't he go on?" one worthy chuckled.

Rhett's clothes were rumpled and he hadn't shaved, but he was cold sober and the glass before him was untouched.

"I've a cab, Rhett."

"The night is young, Tazewell Watling, and I'm discussing love with Scottish philosophers. Mr. Smith, at my left, claims regular thrashings warm the marital bed. Mr. Jones -- this sturdy, sandy-haired fellow -- holds similar opinions."

"Can't have 'em puttin' on airs," Jones affirmed.

"Certainly not," Rhett agreed.

"Rhett, I've been looking everywhere for you." Taz handed the telegram to Rhett.

Kill or cure:

Those were the words Tazewell Watling thought while his friend read Scarlett's brief message.

Staring at the missive, sweat beaded Rhett's forehead.

Then with his old litheness, he rose to his feet. "Well, gentlemen, regrettably, all good things must come to an end."

Smith objected: "Here, now; where're you going?"

Jones got up and tugged his cap over his eyes, "We was goin' to have us a rare old time."

"Somehow" -- Rhett chuckled -- "I suspected that was your intent."

Jones dropped his hand and came up with a thick wooden truncheon. Something sharp gleamed in Smith's hand. The bartender dropped his rag, hurried out the back, and let the door clunk shut behind him.

"You'll stay wi' us, sir. Just for a wee while."

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Tazewell drew his revolver from his jacket pocket and pointed it casually at the ceiling. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentleman, but our cabman won't wait."

"Good Lord," Rhett mocked him, "we might have to walk back to our hotel? Good night, friends. Perhaps we'll meet again."

Jones's truncheon dangled in his hand. He grinned. "Aye, sir. Come back anytime, sir. We'll be lookin' for yer."

Outside, their cabman was signaling urgently, but Rhett patted his pockets and frowned. "I left my gloves."

"For God sakes, Rhett, are you mad?"

Rhett puzzled for a moment before smiling his once-familiar smile. "Loving is a chancy thing, Taz. You risk your immortal soul."

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Chapter

Chapter Fifty-five

Drought

Clayton County was dry. Bindweed was strangling the tender cotton plants. With Big Sam gone and Ashley back at Twelve Oaks, Will Benteen started cultivating before light, trusting his horse to stay in the furrows. Instead of resting at noon, Will hitched a fresh horse and kept working, eating cheese and bread as he walked behind the plow.