Scarlett (97 page)

Scarlett was more than willing to be “taken up.” She wanted to hear every detail of every hour they’d spent in Charleston. It wasn’t difficult for her to invent a tragic story of her marriage and bereavement that satisfied all their cravings for melodrama. Roger fell in love with her within the first hour.

Scarlett had been taught by her mother that genteel discretion about family matters was one of the hallmarks of a lady. Felicity and Marjorie Cowperthwaite shocked her with their casual unveiling of family skeletons. Their mother, they said, was a pretty and clever woman who had trapped their father into marriage. She managed to be run down by his horse when he was out riding. “Poor Papa is so dim,” Marjorie laughed, “that he thought he’d probably ruined her because her frock was torn and he saw her bare breasts. We’re certain that she tore it herself before she ever left the vicarage. She married him like a shot before he could puzzle out what she was up to.”

To add to Scarlett’s confusion, Felicity and Marjorie were ladies. Not simply “ladies” as opposed to “women.” They were Lady Felicity and Lady Marjorie and their “dim papa” was an earl.

Frances Sturbridge, their disapproving chaperone, was also a “Lady,” they explained, but she was Lady Sturbridge, not Lady Frances, because she wasn’t born a “Lady” and she’d married a man who was “only a baronet.”

“Whereas I could marry one of the footmen and Marjorie could run off with the boot boy, and we’d still be Lady Felicity and Lady Marjorie in the foul sinks of Bristol where our husbands robbed poor boxes to support us.”

Scarlett could only laugh. “It’s too complicated for me,” she admitted.

“Oh, but my dear, it can be ever so much more complicated than our boring little family. When you get into widows and horrid little viscounts and third son’s wives and so on, it’s like a labyrinth. Mama has to hire advice every time she gives a dinner or she’d be guaranteed to insult someone fearfully important. You simply must not seat the daughter of an earl’s younger son, like Roger, below somebody like poor Frances. It’s all too foolish for words.”

The Cowperthwaite Ladies were more than a little giddy and rattlebrained, and Roger seemed to have inherited some of Papa’s dimness, but they were a cheerful and warmhearted trio who genuinely liked Scarlett. They made the trip fun for her, and she was sorry when they left the ship at Liverpool.

Now she had almost two full days before she got to Galway, and she wouldn’t be able to delay any longer thinking about the meeting with Rhett in Charleston, that was really no meeting at all.

Had he felt the same shock of recognition she had when their eyes met? It was, for her, as if the rest of the world disappeared and they were alone in some place and time separate from everything and everyone that existed. It wasn’t possible that she could feel so bound to him by a look and that he would not feel the same way. Was it?

She worried and relived the moment until she began to think she’d dreamed it or even imagined it.

When the
Fleece
entered Galway Bay she was able to store the memory with her other prized memories of Rhett. Ballyhara was waiting, and harvest time was near.

But first she had to smile and whisk her trunks past the customs inspectors. Colum was expecting the weapons.

It was hard to remember that the English were all such bad people when the Cowperthwaites were so charming.

C
olum was waiting at the end of the gangplank when Scarlett left
The Golden Fleece
. She hadn’t expected him, she’d known only that someone would meet her and take care of her trunks. At the sight of his stocky figure in worn black clericals and smiling Irish face, Scarlett felt that she’d come home. Her luggage went past customs without any questions other than, “And how are things in America?” to which she answered, “Awful hot,” and, “How old is that grand beautiful baby, then?” to which Scarlett replied proudly “Three months shy of a year, and already trying to walk.”

It took nearly an hour to drive the short distance from the port to the train station. Scarlett had never seen such traffic snarls, not even at Five Points.

It was because of the Galway Races, said Colum. Before Scarlett could remember what had happened to her the previous year in Galway, he quickly added details. Steeplechase and flat racing, five days’ worth every July. It meant that the militia and constabulary were too busy in the city to be wasting time idling around the docks. It also meant that there was not a hotel room to be had at any price. They’d be taking the afternoon train to Ballinasloe and spending the night there. Scarlett wished there was a train all the way to Mullingar. She wanted to get home.

“How are the fields, Colum? Is the wheat nearly ripe? Is the hay cut yet? Has there been plenty of sun? And what about the peat that was cut? Was there enough? Did it dry out like it was supposed to? Is it good? Does it burn hot?”

“Wait and see, Scarlett darling. You’ll be pleased with your Ballyhara, I’m certain of it.”

Scarlett was much more than pleased. She was overcome. The townspeople had erected arches covered with fresh greenery and gold ribbon over her route through Ballyhara town. They stood outside the arches waving handkerchiefs and hats, cheering her return. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she cried over and over, with tears brimming from her eyes.

At the Big House Mrs. Fitzpatrick and the three ill-assorted maids and the four dairymaids and the stablemen were lined up to greet her. Scarlett could barely keep herself from hugging Mrs. Fitz, but she obeyed the housekeeper’s rules and maintained her dignity. Cat was bound by no rules. She laughed and held out her arms to Mrs. Fitzpatrick and was immediately caught up in an emotion-ridden embrace.

Less than an hour later Scarlett was dressed in her Galway peasant clothes striding quickly over her fields, Cat in her arms. It felt so good to be moving, stretching her legs. There’d been too many hours, days, weeks of sitting. On trains, and ships, in offices and armchairs. Now she wanted to walk, ride, bend, reach, run, dance. She was The O’Hara, home again, and the sun was warm between gentle, cooling, swiftly passing Irish rains.

Fragrant mounds of golden hay stood in field cocks seven feet tall on the meadows. Scarlett made a cave in one and crawled inside it with Cat to play house. Cat shrieked with delight when she pulled part of the “roof” down on them. And then when the dust made her sneeze. She picked off dried blossoms and put them in her mouth. Her expression of disgust when she spat them out made Scarlett laugh. Scarlett’s laughter made Cat frown. Which made Scarlett laugh all the more. “Better get used to being laughed at, Miss Cat O’Hara,” she said, “because you’re a wonderfully silly little girl and you make your Momma very, very happy, and when people are happy they laugh a lot.”

Scarlett took Cat back to the house when she started yawning. “Pick the hay out of her hair while she naps,” she told Peggy Quinn. “I’ll be back in time to give her supper and a bath.” She interrupted the slow, chewing contemplation of one of the plow horses in the stable to ride him, bareback and astride, over Ballyhara in the lingering, slowly dimming twilight. The wheat fields were richly yellow, even in the blue-hued light. There would be a bounteous harvest. Scarlett rode home, content. Ballyhara would probably never deliver the kind of profit she’d earned from building and selling cheap houses, but there were satisfactions beyond earning money. The land of the O’Haras was fruitful again; she had brought it back, at least in part, and next year there’d be more acres tilled; the year after, still more.

“It’s so good to be back,” Scarlett said to Kathleen next morning. “I have about a million messages from everybody in Savannah.” She settled herself happily beside the hearth and put Cat down to explore the floor. Before long the heads began to appear above the half door, everyone eager to hear about America and Bridie and all the rest.

At the Angelus the women hurried back down the boreen to the village, and the O’Hara men came in from the fields for their dinner.

Everyone except Seamus, and, of course, Sean who’d always taken his meals in the small cottage with Old Katie Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlett didn’t notice at the time. She was too busy greeting Thomas and Patrick and Timothy and persuading Cat to give up the big spoon she was trying to eat.

It was only after the men had gone back to their work that Kathleen told her how much things had changed while she was away.

“It’s sorry I am to say it, Scarlett, but Seamus took it hard that you didn’t stay for his wedding.”

“I wish I could have, but I couldn’t. He must have known that. I had business in America.”

“I’ve a feeling it’s more Pegeen who bears the bad will. Did you not remark that she wasn’t in the visitors this morning?”

The truth was, Scarlett admitted, that she hadn’t noticed at all. She’d only met Pegeen once, she didn’t really know her. What was she like? Kathleen chose her words carefully. Pegeen was a dutiful woman, she said, who kept a clean house and set a good table and saw to every comfort for Seamus and Sean in the small cottage. It would be a kindness to the whole family if Scarlett would go to call on her and admire the home she was making. She was that tender of her dignity that she was waiting to be visited before she’d do any visiting herself.

“My grief,” Scarlett said, “how silly. I’ll have to wake Cat up from her nap.”

“Leave her, I’ll keep watch while I do the mending. It’s better I don’t go with you.”

So Kathleen didn’t much like her cousin’s new wife, thought Scarlett, that was interesting. And Pegeen was keeping house separately instead of going in with Kathleen in the larger cottage, at least for dinner. Tender of her dignity indeed! What a waste of energy to fix two meals instead of one. She had an idea she wasn’t likely to take to Pegeen, but she made up her mind to be nice. It couldn’t be easy coming into a family that had so many shared years, and she knew all too well what it felt like to be the outsider.

Pegeen made it hard for Scarlett to stay sympathetic. Seamus’ wife had a prickly disposition. And she looks like she’s been drinking vinegar, Scarlett thought. Pegeen poured out tea that had been stewed so long it was almost undrinkable. Wants me to know I kept her waiting, I reckon. “I wish I’d been here for the wedding,” said Scarlett bravely. Might as well take the bull by the horns. “I’ve brought best wishes from all the O’Haras in America to add to mine. I hope you and Seamus will be very happy.” She was pleased with herself. Gracefully said, she thought.

Pegeen nodded stiffly. “I’ll tell Seamus about your kindness,” she said. “He’s wanting to have a word with you. I told him to stay nearby. I’ll call him now.”

Well! Scarlett said to herself, I’ve felt more welcome in my life. She wasn’t sure at all that she wanted Seamus to “have a word” with her. She’d hardly exchanged ten words with Daniel’s oldest son in all the time she’d been in Ireland.

After she heard Seamus’ “word,” Scarlett was quite sure she wished she hadn’t. He expected her to pay the rent that was coming due on the farm and he believed it was only just that he and Pegeen have the bigger cottage because he was now in Daniel’s place as owner. “Mary Margaret’s proper willing to do the cooking and washing for my brothers as well as me. Kathleen can do for Sean over here, seeing she’s his sister.”

“I’ll be glad to pay the rent,” said Scarlett. But she’d have liked to be asked, not told. “But I don’t see why you’re talking to me about who lives where. You and Pegeen—I mean, Mary Margaret—should discuss that with your brothers and Kathleen.”

“You’re The O’Hara,” Pegeen nearly shouted, “you’ve got the say.”

*   *   *

“She’s got the truth of it, Scarlett,” said Kathleen when Scarlett complained to her. “You are The O’Hara.” Before Scarlett could say anything, Kathleen smiled and told her it made no difference anyhow. She was going to be leaving Daniel’s cottage soon; she was going to marry a boy from Dunsany. He’d asked her only the Saturday before, Market Day in Trim. “I haven’t told the others yet, I wanted to wait for you.”

Scarlett hugged Kathleen. “How exciting! You’ll let me give the wedding, won’t you? We’ll have a wonderful party.”

“So I got off the hook,” she told Mrs. Fitz that night. “But only by the skin of my teeth. I’m not so sure being The O’Hara is exactly what I thought it would be.”

“And what was that, exactly, Mrs. O?”

“I don’t know. More fun, I guess.”

In August the potatoes were harvested. It was the best crop they’d ever had, the farmers said. Then they began to reap the wheat. Scarlett loved to watch them. The shiny sickles flashed in the sun and the golden stalks fell like rippling silk. Sometimes she took the place of the man who followed the reaper. She’d borrow the staff with a curved end that the farmers called the loghter-hook and draw up the fallen wheat into small sheaves. She couldn’t master the quick twisting movement the man made to tie each sheaf with a stalk of wheat, but she became very handy with the loghter-hook.

It sure beats picking cotton, she told Colum. Yet there were still moments when sharp pangs of homesickness caught her off guard. He understood her feelings, he said, and Scarlett was sure he did. He truly was the brother she’d always wanted.

Colum seemed preoccupied, but he said it was nothing more than his impatience that the wheat took precedence over finishing the work on the inn that Brendon Kennedy was making in the building next to his bar. Scarlett remembered the desperate man in the church, the man Colum had said was “on the run.” She wondered if there were more of them, what Colum did for them. But she’d really rather not know, and she didn’t ask.