Scarlett (113 page)

Scarlett stared incredulously. “Whatever for?” she said.

“They’re saying you’re from America, Mrs. O’Hara, a fact I can tell the truth of myself after hearing you speak. They’re also saying you come from the grand state called Georgia. It’s a place we two hold a fondness for in our hearts, seeing we both fought in the army there back in ’sixty-three and more.”

Scarlett smiled. “You did?” Think of meeting someone from home on the road to Kilbride. “Where were you? What part of Georgia? Were you with General Hood?”

“No, ma’am, I was one of Sherman’s boys. Johnny there, he was with the Confederates, that’s where he got the name, for Johnny Reb and all that.”

Scarlett shook her head to clear it. She couldn’t be hearing right. But more questions and more answers confirmed it. The two men, both Irish, were now the best of friends. With happy shared memories of being on opposite sides in a savage war.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last. “You were trying to kill each other fifteen years ago, and you’re friends now. Don’t you even argue about the North and the South and who was right?”

“Johnny Reb” laughed. “What’s it to a soldier the right and the wrong of it all? He’s there for the fighting, that’s what he likes. Doesn’t matter who you’re fighting, long as he gives you a good fight.”

When Scarlett reached the Sutcliffes’ house she shocked their butler almost out of his professional composure by asking for a brandy with her coffee. She was more confused than she could handle.

Afterwards she bathed and put on a fresh frock and came downstairs, her composure restored. Until she saw Charles Ragland. He shouldn’t be at this party! She acted as if she hadn’t noticed him.

“Nan, how lovely you look. And I just love your house. My room’s so pretty I might stay forever.”

“Nothing would please me more, Scarlett. You know John Graham, don’t you?”

“Only by reputation. I’ve been angling for an introduction. How do you do, Mr. Graham?”

“Mrs. O’Hara.” John Graham was a tall slender man with the loose-limbed ease of the natural athlete. He was the Master of Hounds of the Galway Blazers, perhaps the most famous hunt in all Ireland. Every fox hunter in Great Britain hoped to be invited to join one of the Blazers’ hunts. Graham knew it, and Scarlett knew that he knew it. There was no point in being coy.

“Mr. Graham, are you open to bribery?” Why didn’t Charles quit staring at her like that? What was he doing here anyhow?

John Graham threw back his silvered head in laughter. His eyes were lively with it when he looked back down at Scarlett. “I have always heard that you Americans come straight to the point, Mrs. O’Hara. Now I see it’s true. Tell me, what precisely did you have in mind?”

“Would an arm and a leg do? I can stay on a sidesaddle with one leg—it’s the only good thing about a sidesaddle that I can think of—and I only need one hand for the reins.”

The Master smiled. “Such an extravagant offer. I’ve heard that about Americans, too, that they tend to extravagance.”

Scarlett was tiring of banter. And Charles’ presence made her edgy. “What you may not have heard, Mr. Graham, is that Americans take fences where the Irish go through gates and the English go back home. If you’ll let me ride with the Blazers, I’ll take at least a pad or I’ll eat a flock of crows in front of you all—without salt.”

“By God, madam, with style like yours, you’ll be welcome any time you say.”

Scarlett smiled. “I’ll take you up on that.” She spit in her hand. Graham smiled broadly and spit in his. The slap they gave each other’s palm resounded throughout the long gallery.

Then Scarlett strode over to Charles Ragland. “I told you in my letter, Charles, that this was the one house party in the whole country you should stay away from. It’s mean of you to come.”

“I’m not here to embarrass you, Scarlett. I wanted to tell you myself, not in a letter. You needn’t worry about my pressing you or importuning you. I understand that no means no. The regiment’s going to Donegal next week; it was my last chance to say what I wanted to say. And, I confess, to see you again. I promise not to lurk or gaze with soulful eyes.” He smiled with rueful humor. “I practiced that speech, too. How did it sound?”

“Pretty fair. What’s in Donegal?”

“Whiteboy trouble. It seems to be more concentrated there than any other county.”

“Two constables stopped me to search my buggy.”

“All the patrols are out now. With rents coming due soon—but I don’t want to talk military. What did you say to John Graham? I haven’t seen him laugh like that in years.”

“Do you know him?”

“Very well. He’s my uncle.”

Scarlett laughed until her sides ached. “You English. Is that what ‘diffident’ means? If you’d only brag a little, Charles, you could have saved me a lot of trouble. I’ve been trying to get with the Blazers for a year, but I didn’t know anybody.”

“The one you’ll really like is my Aunt Letitia. She can ride Uncle John into the ground and never look back. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

There were promising rumbles of thunder, but no rain. By midday the air was stifling. Ernest Sutcliffe rang the dinner gong to get everyone’s attention. He and his wife had planned something different for the afternoon, he said nervously. “There is the usual croquet and archery, what? Or the library and billiards in the house, what? Or whatever one does customarily. What?”

“Do get on with it Ernest,” said his wife.

With many starts and stops and sputters Ernest got on with it. There were bathing costumes for anyone who wanted one and ropes strung across the river for the adventurous to hold on to while cooling off in the rushing water.

“Hardly ‘rushing,’ ” amended Nan Sutcliffe, “but a decent little current. Footmen will be there with iced champagne.”

Scarlett was one of the first to accept. It sounded like being in a cool tub all afternoon.

It was immensely more enjoyable than a cool tub, even though the water was warmer than she’d hoped it would be. Scarlett moved along the rope hand over hand towards the center and deeper water. Suddenly she found herself in the grip of the current. It was colder, so much colder that gooseflesh rose on her arms, and very swift. It pushed her up against the rope then knocked her feet out from under her. She was holding on for her life. Her legs gyrated out of control and the current twisted her body in half circles. She felt a dangerous temptation to let go of the rope and ride swirling in the current to wherever it would take her. Free of the earth under her feet, free of walls or roads or anything controlled and controlling. For long heart-racing moments she imagined herself letting go, just letting go.

She was shaking from the effort she had to make to keep her grip fast on the rope. Slowly, with intense concentration and determination, she moved on, hand over hand, until she was free of the current’s pull. She turned her head away from the others splashing and shouting in the water, and she cried, she didn’t know why.

There were slow eddies, like fingers from the current, in the warmer water outside it. Scarlett slowly became aware of their caresses, then she let herself float among them. Warm tendrils of movement stroked her legs, her thighs, her body, her breasts, twined around her waist and her knees beneath the wool tunic and bloomers. She felt longings she could not name, an emptiness that cried out to be filled within her. “Rhett,” she whispered against the rope, bruising her lips, inviting the roughness and the hurt.

“Isn’t this splendid fun?” cried Nan Sutcliffe. “Who wants champagne?”

Scarlett forced herself to look around. “Scarlett, you brave thing, you went right through the frightening part. You’ll have to come back. None of us has the nerve to bring your champagne to you.”

Yes, thought Scarlett, I have to go back.

After dinner she made her way to Charles Ragland’s side. Her cheeks were very pale, her eyes very bright.

“May I offer you a sandwich tonight?” she asked quietly.

Charles was an experienced, skillful lover. His hands were gentle, his lips firm and warm. Scarlett closed her eyes and let her skin receive his touch the way it had received the caresses of the river. Then he spoke her name, and she felt the ecstatic sensations slipping away. No, she thought, no, I don’t want to lose it, I mustn’t. She closed her eyes tighter, thought of Rhett, pretended that the hands were Rhett’s hands, the lips Rhett’s lips, that the warm, strong thrusting filling her aching emptiness was Rhett’s.

It was no good. It was not Rhett. The sorrow of it made her want to die. She turned her face away from Charles’ questing mouth and wept until he was at rest.

“My darling,” he said, “I love you so.”

“Please,” Scarlett sobbed, “oh, please go away.”

“What is it, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Me. Me. I was wrong. Please leave me alone.” Her voice was so small, so poignant with despair that Charles reached out to comfort her, then drew back in full knowledge that there was only one comfort he could give. He moved quietly as he gathered his clothes, and he shut the door behind him with only the slightest sound.

I
have gone to join my regiment. I will love you forever. Yours, Charles.

Scarlett folded the note carefully, tucked it beneath the pearls in her jewel case. If only…

But there was little room in her heart for anyone. Rhett was there. Laughing at her, outwitting her, challenging her, surpassing her, dominating her, sheltering her.

She went down to breakfast with bruise-like dark shadows under her eyes, imprint of the desolate weeping that had replaced sleep for her. She looked cool in her mint-green linen frock. She felt encased in ice.

She was obliged to smile, talk, listen, laugh. Guests had a duty to make a house party a success. She looked at the people seated along the sides of the long table. Smiling, talking, listening, laughing. How many of them, she wondered, have wounds inside them, too? How many feel dead, and grateful for it? How brave people are.

She nodded at the footman who was holding a plate for her at the long sideboard. At her signal he opened the big silver serving dishes one after another for her approval. Scarlett accepted some rashers of bacon and a spoonful of salt and scrambled eggs. “Yes, a grilled tomato,” she said, “no, nothing cold.” Ham, preserved goose, jellied quail eggs, spiced beef, salted fish, aspics, ices, fruits, cheeses, breads, relishes, jams, sauces, wines, ale, cider, coffee—all no. “I’ll have tea,” she said.

She was sure she could swallow some tea. Then she’d be able to go back to her room. Luckily this was a big party, and mostly for shooting. Most of the men would already be out with their guns. There would be luncheon in the house and somewhere on the grounds, wherever the shoot was. There would be tea served indoors and out. Everyone could choose amusements. No one was required to be any special place at any special time until dinner was served. The guest card in her room said to gather in the drawing room after the first dinner gong at seven forty-five. Processing into dinner at eight.

She indicated a chair beside a woman she hadn’t met before. The footman deposited her plate and the small tray with individual tea service. Then he pulled out the chair, seated her, shook out the folds of her napkin, and draped it across her lap. Scarlett nodded to the woman. “Good morning,” she said, “my name is Scarlett O’Hara.”

The woman had a lovely smile. “Good morning. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My cousin Lucy Fane told me that she’d met you at Bart Morland’s. When Parnell was there. Tell me, don’t you find it delectably seditious to admit that one supports Home Rule? My name’s May Taplow, by the way.”

“A cousin of mine said he was sure I wouldn’t be for Home Rule at all if Parnell was short and fat and had warts,” Scarlett said. She poured her tea while May Taplow laughed. “Lady May Taplow” to be exact, Scarlett knew. May’s father was a duke, her husband the son of a viscount. Funny how one picked up these things as time and parties went by. Funnier still how a country girl from Georgia got used to thinking about “one” doing this and that. Next thing you know, I’ll be saying “toe-mah-toe” so that the footmen will know what it is I want. Guess it’s no different really from telling a darky you want goobers so he’ll know you’d like a handful of peanuts.

“I’m afraid your cousin would be dead on the nose if he accused me of the same thing,” May confided. “I lost all interest in the succession when Bertie started to put on weight.”

It was Scarlett’s turn to confess. “I don’t know who Bertie is.”

“Stupid of me,” said May, “of course you don’t. You don’t do the London Season, do you? Lucy said you run your own estate all alone. I do think that’s wonderful. Makes the men who can’t cope without a bailiff look as pouffish as they are, half of them. Bertie’s the Prince of Wales. A dear, really, so enjoys being naughty, but it’s beginning to show. You would adore his wife, Alexandra. Deaf as a post, you can’t possibly tell her a secret unless you write it down, but beautiful past measuring and as sweet as she is pretty.”

Scarlett laughed. “If you had any idea, May, what I feel like, you’d die laughing. Back home when I was growing up, the most high-toned gossip going was about the man who owned the new railroad. Everybody wondered when he’d started wearing shoes. I can hardly believe I’m chatting about the King of England to be.”