Scarlett (107 page)

Thin watery sunlight shone briefly as Scarlett drove a spade into the earth on Saint Brigid’s Day. It was a good omen for the year to come. To celebrate, she treated everyone in Ballyhara town to porter and meat pies at Kennedy’s. It was going to be the best year of all, she was sure of it. The next day she went to Dublin for the six weeks known as the Castle Season.

S
he and Charlotte had a suite of rooms at the Shelbourne Hotel this time, not the Gresham. The Shelbourne was THE place to stay in Dublin for the Season. Scarlett hadn’t gone inside the imposing brick building on her previous visit to Dublin. “We choose the occasion to be seen,” Charlotte told her. Now she gazed around the huge hall inside the entrance and understood why Charlotte wanted them to be here. Everything was imposingly grand—the space, the staff, the guests, the controlled hushed busyness. She lifted her chin, then followed the porter up the half-flight to the first floor, the most desirable of desirables. Though Scarlett did not know it, she looked exactly like Charlotte’s description to the doorman. “You will know her at once. She is extremely beautiful, and she carries her head like an empress.”

In addition to the suite, a private drawing room was reserved for Scarlett’s use. Charlotte showed it to her before they went down for tea. The finished portrait stood on a brass easel in a corner of the green brocaded room. Scarlett looked at it with wonder. Did she really look like that? That woman wasn’t afraid of anything, and she felt as nervous as a cat. She followed Charlotte downstairs in a daze.

Charlotte identified some of the people at other tables in the sumptuous lounge. “You’ll meet them all eventually. After you’re presented, you’ll serve tea and coffee in your drawing room every afternoon. People will bring people to meet you.”

Who? Scarlett wanted to ask. Who will bring people, and who are the people they’ll bring? But she didn’t bother. Charlotte always knew what she was doing. The only thing Scarlett needed to be responsible for was not getting tangled up in her train when she backed away after her presentation. Charlotte and Mrs. Sims were going to coach her with a practice presentation gown every day until The Day.

The heavy white envelope bearing the Chamberlain’s seal was delivered to the hotel the day after Scarlett arrived. Charlotte’s expression gave no hint of how relieved she was. One never knew for sure about best-laid plans. She opened it with steady fingers. “First Drawing Room,” she said, “as expected. Day after tomorrow.”

Scarlett waited in a group of white-gowned girls and women on the landing outside the closed double doors to the Throne Room. It seemed to her she’d been doing nothing but waiting for a hundred years. Why on earth had she agreed to do this? Scarlett couldn’t answer her own question, it was too complex. In part she was The O’Hara, determined to conquer the English. In part she was an American girl dazzled by the grandeur of the British Empire’s royal panoply. At bottom, Scarlett had never in her life backed down from a challenge and never would.

Another name was called. Not hers. God’s nightgown! Were they going to make her be last? Charlotte hadn’t warned her about that. Charlotte hadn’t even told her until the last minute that she’d be alone all the way. “I’ll find you in the supper room after the Drawing Room is over.” That was a fine way to treat her, throwing her to the wolves like that. She stole another glance down her front. She was terrified that she might just fall right out of the scandalously low-cut gown. That would really make this—what had Charlotte said? “An experience to remember.”

“Madam The O’Hara of Ballyhara.”

Oh, Lord, that’s me. She repeated Charlotte Montague’s coaching litany to herself. Walk forward, stop outside the door. A footman will lift the train you have looped over your left arm and arrange it behind you. The Gentleman Usher will open the doors. Wait for him to announce you.

“Madam The O’Hara of Ballyhara.”

Scarlett looked at the Throne Room. Well, Pa, what do you think of your Katie Scarlett now? she thought. I’m going to stroll along that fifty miles or so of red carpet runner and kiss the Viceroy of Ireland, cousin of the Queen of England. She glanced at the majestically dressed Gentleman Usher, and her right eyelid quivered in what might almost have been a conspiratorial wink.

The O’Hara walked like an empress to face the Viceroy’s red-bearded magnificence and present her cheek for the ceremonial kiss of welcome.

Turn to the Vicereine now and curtsey. Back straight. Not too low. Stand up. Now back, back, back, three steps, don’t worry, the weight of the train holds it away from your body. Now extend your left arm. Wait. Let the footman have plenty of time to arrange the train over your arm. Now turn. Walk out.

Scarlett’s knees obligingly waited until she was seated at one of the supper tables before they started trembling.

Charlotte made no attempt to hide her satisfaction. She entered Scarlett’s bedroom with the stiff squares of white cardboard fanned in her hand. “My dear Scarlett, you were a dazzling success. These invitations arrived before even I was up and dressed. State Ball, that’s quite special. Saint Patrick’s Ball, that was to be expected. Second Drawing Room, you’ll be able to watch other people running the gauntlet. And a small dance in the Throne Room. Three-fourths of the peers in Ireland have never been invited to one of the small dances.”

Scarlett giggled. The terror of being presented was behind her, and she was a success! “I guess I won’t mind now that I spent last year’s wheat crop on all those new clothes. Let’s go shopping today and spend this year’s crop.”

“You won’t have time. Eleven gentlemen, including the Gentleman Usher, have written to ask permission to call on you. Plus fourteen ladies, with their daughters. Tea time won’t be long enough. You’ll have to serve coffee and tea in the mornings, too. The maids are opening your drawing room right now. I ordered pink flowers, so wear your brown and rose plaid taffeta for the morning and the green velvet faced in pink for the afternoon. Evans will be here to do your hair as soon as you’re up.”

Scarlett was the Season’s hit. Gentlemen flocked to meet the rich widow who was also—
mirabile dictu
—fantastically beautiful. Mothers swarmed her private reception room with daughters in tow to meet the gentlemen. After the first day, Charlotte never ordered flowers again. Admirers sent so many that there wasn’t room for all of them. Many of the bouquets contained leather cases from Dublin’s finest jeweler, but Scarlett reluctantly returned all the brooches, bracelets, rings, earrings. “Even an American from Clayton County, Georgia, knows that you’re expected to pay back favors,” she told Charlotte. “I won’t be obligated to anybody, not that way.”

Her goings and comings were reported faithfully and sometimes even accurately in the gossip column of the daily
Irish Times
. Shop owners in morning coats came themselves to show her choice items they hoped she might like, and she defiantly bought herself many of the jewelry pieces she had refused to accept. The Viceroy danced with her twice at the State Ball.

All the guests at her coffees and teas admired her portrait. Scarlett looked at it every morning and every afternoon before the first visitors arrived. She was learning herself. Charlotte Montague observed the metamorphosis with interest. The practiced flirt vanished, replaced by a serene, somewhat amused woman who had only to turn her smoky green eyes on man, woman, or child to draw them, mesmerized, to her side.

I used to work like a mule to be charming, Scarlett thought, now I don’t do anything at all. She couldn’t understand it at all, but she accepted the gift of it with simple gratitude.

“Did you say two hundred people, Charlotte? That’s what you call a small dance?”

“Relatively. There are always five or six hundred at the State and Saint Patrick’s balls and more than a thousand at the Drawing Rooms. You certainly already know at least half the people who’ll be there, probably many more than half.”

“I still think it’s tacky that you weren’t invited.”

“It’s the way things are. I’m not offended.” Charlotte was anticipating the evening with pleasure. She planned to go over her account book. Scarlett’s success and Scarlett’s extravagance had greatly exceeded even Charlotte’s most optimistic expectations. She felt like a nabob, and she liked to gloat over her wealth. Admission to the coffee hour alone was bringing in “gifts” of almost a hundred pounds a week. And there were still two weeks left in the Season. She would see Scarlett off to her privileged evening with a light heart.

Scarlett paused in the doorway of the Throne Room to enjoy the spectacle. “You know, Jeffrey, I never get used to this place,” she said to the Gentleman Usher. “I’m like Cinderella at the ball.”

“I’d never associate you with Cinderella, Scarlett,” he said adoringly. Scarlett’s wink had put his heart in her pocket when she entered the First Drawing Room.

“You’d be surprised,” Scarlett said. She nodded absentmindedly in response to bows and smiles from familiar faces nearby. How lovely it was. It couldn’t be real, she couldn’t really be here. Everything had happened so fast; she needed time to absorb it.

The great room shimmered gold. Gilded columns supported the ceiling, gilded flat column pilasters filled the walls between the tall windows draped in gold-fringed crimson velvet. Gilt armchairs upholstered in crimson surrounded the supper tables along the walls, each table centered with a gold candelabrum. Gilt covered the intricately carved gaslit chandeliers and the massive canopy above the gold and red thrones. Gold lace trimmed men’s court dress of brocaded silk skirted coats and white satin knee breeches. Gold buckles decorated their satin dancing pumps. Gold buttons, gold epaulets, gold frogging, gold braid gleamed on the dress uniforms of regimental officers and the court uniforms of Viceregal officials.

Many of the men wore bright sashes slashed across their chests, pinned with jewelled orders; the Viceroy’s knee breeches touched the Garter around his leg. The men were almost more splendid than the women.

Almost, but not quite, for the women were jewelled at neck, breast, ears, and wrists; many wore tiaras as well. Their gowns were made of rich materials—satin, velvet, brocade, silk—embroidered often in glowing silks or gold and silver threads.

A body could get blinded just looking, I’d better go on in and make my manners. Scarlett made her way across the room to curtsey to the Viceregal host and hostess. The music started as she finished.

“May I?” A gold-braided red arm crooked to offer support for her hand. Scarlett smiled. It was Charles Ragland. She’d met him at a house party, and he had called on her every day since her arrival in Dublin. He made no secret of his admiration. Charles’ handsome face blushed every time she spoke to him. He was awfully sweet and attractive, even though he was an English soldier. They weren’t at all like Yankees, no matter what Colum said. For one thing, they were infinitely better dressed. She rested her hand lightly on Ragland’s arm, and he escorted her into the pattern of the quadrille.

“You are very beautiful tonight, Scarlett.”

“So are you, Charles. I was just thinking that the men are more dressed up than the ladies.”

“Thank heaven for uniforms. Knee breeches are the devil to wear. A man feels a perfect fool in satin shoes.”

“Serves them right. They’ve been peeking at ladies’ ankles for ages, let them see what it feels like when we ogle their legs.”

“Scarlett, you shock me.” The pattern shifted and he was gone.

I probably do, Scarlett thought. Charles was as innocent as a schoolboy sometimes. She looked up at her new partner.

“My God!” she said aloud. It was Rhett.

“How flattering,” he said with his twisty half smile. No one else smiled like that. Scarlett was filled with light, with lightness. She felt as if she were floating above the polished floor, buoyant with happiness.

And then, before she could speak again, the quadrille took him away. She smiled automatically at her new partner. The love burning in her eyes took his breath away. Her mind was racing: Why is Rhett here? Could it be because he wanted to see me? Because he had to see me, because he couldn’t keep away?

The quadrille moved at its stately tempo, making Scarlett frantic with impatience. When it ended, she was facing Charles Ragland. It took all her self-control to smile and thank him and murmur a hasty excuse before she turned to search for Rhett.

Her eyes met his almost immediately. He was standing only an arm’s length away.

Scarlett’s pride kept her from reaching out to him. He knew I’d be looking for him, she thought angrily. Who does he think he is, anyhow, to come strolling into my world and just stand there and expect me to fall into his arms? There are plenty of men in Dublin—in this room, even—who’ve been smothering me with attention, hanging around my drawing room, sending flowers every day, and notes, and even jewelry. What makes Mister High and Mighty Rhett Butler think that all he has to do is lift his little finger and I’ll come running?

“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, and the cool tone of her voice pleased her.

Rhett held out his hand, and she put hers in it without thinking. “May I have this dance, Mrs.… er… O’Hara?”

Scarlett caught her breath in alarm. “Rhett, you’re not going to tell on me? Everybody believes I’m a widow!”

He smiled and took her into his arms as the music began. “Your secret is safe with me, Scarlett.” She could feel the rasp of his voice on her skin, and his warm breath. It made her weak.