Scarlett (19 page)

Scarlett felt her eyes spilling uncontrollable tears.

“There, there,” Rhett’s mother said. “It’s all right, my dear. Whatever it is, it’s all right now. You’ve come home at last. I’ve been longing for you to come.” She put her arms around her daughter-in-law and held her close.

E
leanor Butler was a Southern lady. Her slow, soft voice and indolent, graceful movements disguised a formidable energy and efficiency. Ladies were trained from birth to be decorative, to be sympathetic and fascinated listeners, to be appealingly helpless and empty-headed and admiring. They were also trained to manage the intricate and demanding responsibilities of huge houses and large, often warring, staffs of servants—while always making it seem that the house, the garden, the kitchen, the servants ran themselves flawlessly while the lady of the house concentrated on matching colors of silk for her delicate embroidery.

When the deprivations of war reduced the staffs of thirty or forty to one or two, the demands on women increased exponentially, but the expectations remained the same. The battered houses must continue to welcome guests, shelter families, sparkle with clean windows and shining brass, and have a well-groomed, imperturbable, accomplished mistress at leisure in the drawing room. Somehow the ladies of the South did it.

Eleanor soothed Scarlett with gentle words and fragrant tea, flattered Pauline by asking her opinion of the desk recently installed in the drawing room, diverted Eulalie with a plea to taste the pound cake and judge if the extract of vanilla bean was strong enough. She also murmured to Manigo, her manservant, that her maid Celie would help him and Scarlett’s maid transfer Scarlett’s things from her aunts’ house to the big bedroom overlooking the garden where Mr. Rhett slept.

In under ten minutes, everything had been accomplished to move Scarlett without opposition, or injured feelings, or interruption to the even rhythm of the tranquil life under Eleanor Butler’s roof. Scarlett felt like a girl again, safe from all harm, sheltered by a mother’s all-powerful love.

She gazed at Eleanor through misted, admiring eyes. This was what she wanted to be, had always meant to be, a lady like her mother, like Eleanor Butler. Ellen O’Hara had instructed her to be a lady, had planned for it and wanted it. I can do it now, Scarlett told herself. I can make up for all the mistakes I made. I can make Mother proud of me.

When she was a child, Mammy had described heaven to her as a land of clouds like big feather mattresses where angels rested, amusing themselves by looking down at the goings-on below through cracks in the sky. Ever since her mother died, Scarlett had had an uncomfortable childish conviction that Ellen was watching her with unhappy concern.

I’ll make it all better now, she promised her mother. Eleanor’s affectionate welcome had, for the moment, erased all the fears and memories that filled her heart and mind when she saw the Yankee soldiers. It had even wiped out Scarlett’s unacknowledged anxiety about her decision to follow Rhett to Charleston. She felt safe and loved and invincible. She could do anything, everything. And she would. She would win Rhett’s love again. She would be the lady Ellen always meant for her to be. She would be admired and respected and adored by everyone. And she would never, ever, be lonely again.

When Pauline closed the last tiny, ivory-inlaid drawer of the rosewood desk and Eulalie hurriedly swallowed the last slice of cake, Eleanor Butler stood, pulling Scarlett up with her. “I have to pick up my boots from the cobbler this morning,” she said, “so I’ll take Scarlett along and introduce her to King Street. No woman can possibly feel at home until she knows where the shops are. Will youall join us?”

To Scarlett’s immense relief, her aunts declined. She wanted Mrs. Butler all to herself.

The walk to Charleston’s shops was pure pleasure in the warm bright winter sunlight. King Street was a revelation and a delight. Stores lined it for block after block; dry goods, hardware, boots, tobacco and cigars, hats, jewelry, china, seeds, medicines, wines, books, gloves, candies—it seemed that everything and anything could be bought on King Street. There were crowds of shoppers, too, and dozens of smart buggies and open carriages, with liveried drivers and fashionably dressed occupants. Charleston was nowhere near as dreary as she had remembered it and feared it to be. It was much bigger and busier than Atlanta. And no sign of the Panic at all.

Unfortunately, Rhett’s mother behaved as if none of the color and excitement and busyness existed. She walked past windows full of ostrich plumes and painted fans without looking at them, crossed the street without so much as a thank you to the women in the buggy that had stopped to avoid hitting her. Scarlett remembered what her aunts had told her: there wasn’t a carriage to be had in Charleston except those owned by Yankees, carpetbaggers and scallywags. She felt a rush of white-hot rage at the vultures that were fattening on the defeated South. When she followed Mrs. Butler into one of the boot shops it did her heart good to see the proprietor turn over his richly dressed customer to a young assistant so that he could hurry forward to Rhett’s mother. It was a pleasure to be with a member of the Old Guard in Charleston. She wished fervently that Mrs. Merriwether or Mrs. Elsing were there to see her.

“I left some boots to be resoled, Mr. Braxton,” Eleanor said, “and I also want my daughter-in-law to know where to come for the finest footwear and the most agreeable service. Scarlett, dear, Mr. Braxton will take the same good care of you that he has of me for all these years.”

“It will be my privilege, ma’am.” Mr. Braxton bowed elegantly.

“How do you do, Mr. Braxton, and I thank you,” Scarlett replied, with great refinement. “I believe I’ll get a pair of boots today myself.” She raised her skirt a few inches to display her fragile, thin leather shoes. “Something more suitable for city walking,” she said proudly. No one was going to take her for a carriage-riding scallywag.

Mr. Braxton took an immaculate white handkerchief from his pocket and brushed off the spotless upholstery on two chairs. “If you ladies please…”

When he disappeared behind a curtain in the rear of the shop, Eleanor leaned close to Scarlett and whispered in her ear. “Look closely at his hair when he kneels to fit your boots. He colors it with boot polish.”

It took all of Scarlett’s self-control not to laugh when she saw that Mrs. Butler was right, especially when Eleanor was looking at her with such a conspiratorial twinkle in her dark eyes. When they left the shop, she began to giggle. “You shouldn’t have told me that, Miss Eleanor. I nearly made a spectacle of myself in there.”

Mrs. Butler smiled serenely. “You’ll recognize him easily in the future,” she said. “Now let’s go to Onslow’s for a dish of ice cream. One of the waiters there makes the best moonshine in all of South Carolina, and I want to order a few quarts for soaking the fruitcakes. The ice cream is excellent, too.”

“Miss Eleanor!”

“My dear, brandy’s not available for love nor money. We all have to make do the best we can, do we not? And there’s something quite exciting about black-market dealings, don’t you think?”

What Scarlett thought was that she didn’t blame Rhett one bit for adoring his mother.

Eleanor Butler continued to initiate Scarlett into the inner life of Charleston by going to the fancy goods draper for a spool of white cotton (the woman behind the counter had killed her husband with a sharpened knitting needle through the heart, but the judge ruled that he had fallen on it when he was drunk, because everyone had seen the bruises on her arms and face for years) and to the pharmacist for some witch hazel (poor man, he was so nearsighted he once paid a small fortune for a peculiar tropical fish preserved in alcohol that he was convinced was a small mermaid—for real medicine, always go to the shop on Broad Street that I’ll show you).

Scarlett was sorely disappointed when Eleanor said it was time to go home. She couldn’t remember ever having had such fun, and she almost begged for visits to a few more shops. But, “I think perhaps we’ll take the horsecar back downtown,” Mrs. Butler said. “I’m feeling a little tired.” And Scarlett immediately began to worry. Was Eleanor’s pallor a sign of illness instead of the pale skin so prized by ladies? She held her mother-in-law’s elbow when they stepped up into the brightly painted green and yellow tram and hovered over her until Eleanor settled into the wicker-covered seat. Rhett would never forgive her if she let something awful happen to his mother. She’d never forgive herself, either.

She looked from the corner of her eye at Mrs. Butler as the horsecar moved slowly along its tracks, but she couldn’t see any outward sign of trouble. Eleanor was talking cheerfully about more shopping they would do together. “We’ll go to the Market tomorrow, you’ll meet everyone you should know there. It’s the traditional place to learn all the news, too. The paper never prints the really interesting things.”

The car jolted and turned to the left, then moved a block and stopped at an intersection. Scarlett gasped. Immediately outside the open window next to Eleanor she saw a soldier in blue, rifle on his shoulder, marching in the shadows of a tall colonnade. “Yankees,” she whispered.

Mrs. Butler’s gaze followed Scarlett’s eyes. “That’s right, Georgia’s been rid of them for some time, hasn’t it? We’ve been occupied so long that we hardly even notice them any more. Ten years next February. One gets accustomed to almost anything in ten years.”

“I’ll never get used to them,” Scarlett whispered. “Never.”

A sudden noise made her jump. Then she realized that it was the chime of a great clock somewhere above them. The horsecar moved into the intersection, turning to the right.

“One o’clock,” said Mrs. Butler. “No wonder I’m tired; it was a long morning.” Behind them the chimes ended their quartet of notes. A single bell rang once. “That’s every Charlestonian’s timekeeper,” Eleanor Butler said, “the bells in Saint Michael’s steeple. They record our births and our passings.”

Scarlett was looking at the tall houses and walled gardens they were passing. Without exception they bore the scars of war. Pock-holes of shelling marred every surface, and poverty was visible on all sides: peeling paint, boards nailed over shattered windows that could not be replaced, gaps and rust disfiguring elaborate, lace-like wrought iron balconies and gates. The trees lining the street had thin trunks; they were youthful replacements for the giants broken by shelling. Damn the Yankees.

And yet the sun gleamed on brightly polished brass door knobs, and there was the scent of flowers blooming behind the garden walls. They’ve got gumption, these Charleston folks, she thought. They don’t give in.

She helped Mrs. Butler down at the last stop, the end of Meeting Street. In front of them was a park, with neatly clipped grass and gleaming white paths that converged on and circled a freshly painted round bandstand with a shiny pagoda-like roof. Beyond it was the harbor. She could smell the water and the salt. A breeze rattled the sword-shaped fronds of palm trees in the park and swayed the long airy clumps of Spanish moss on the scarred limbs of live oaks. Small children were running, rolling hoops, tossing balls on the grass under the watchful eyes of turbanned black nursemaids sitting on benches.

“Scarlett, I hope you’ll forgive me; I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask.” Mrs. Butler’s cheeks had splotches of bright color.

“What is it, Miss Eleanor? Are you feeling bad? Do you want me to run get you something? Come sit down.”

“No, no, I’m perfectly well. I just can’t stand not knowing… Have you and Rhett ever thought of another child? I understand that you’d be afraid to repeat the heartbreak you felt when Bonnie died…”

“A baby…” Scarlett’s voice trailed off. Had Mrs. Butler read her mind? She was counting on getting pregnant as soon as possible. Rhett would never send her away then. He was crazy about children, and he’d love her forever if she gave him one. Her voice rang with sincerity when she spoke.

“Miss Eleanor, I want a baby more than anything else in the whole world.”

“Thank God,” said Mrs. Butler. “I do so long to be a grandmother again. When Rhett brought Bonnie to visit me, I could hardly keep from smothering her with hugging. You see, Margaret—that’s my other son’s wife, you’ll meet her today—poor Margaret is barren. And Rosemary… Rhett’s sister… I’m very much afraid that there’ll never be anyone for Rosemary to marry.”

Scarlett’s mind worked furiously, fitting together the pieces of Rhett’s family and what they meant to her. Rosemary could be a problem. Old maids were so nasty. But the brother—what was his name anyhow? Oh, yes, Ross, that was it. Ross was a man, and she’d never had any trouble charming men. Babyless Margaret wasn’t worth bothering about. It wasn’t likely she’d have any influence on Rhett. Fiddle-dee-dee, what did any of them matter? It was his mother that Rhett loved so much, and his mother wanted them together, with a baby, two babies, a dozen. Rhett had to take her back.

She kissed Mrs. Butler quickly on her cheek. “I’m just longing for a baby, Miss Eleanor. We’ll convince Rhett, the two of us.”

“You’ve made me very happy, Scarlett. Let’s go home now, it’s only around the corner there. Then I think I’ll have a little rest before dinner. My committee is meeting at the house this afternoon, and I need to have my wits about me. I hope you’ll join us, if only for tea. Margaret will be there. I don’t want to pressure you to work, but of course if you were interested, I’d be pleased. We raise money with cake sales and bazaars of handcrafts and such for the Confederate Home for Widows and Orphans.”