Scarlett (84 page)

“You don’t need shoes in bed,” another said, “or under a bush.” The Englishman laughed. The constables looked down at the ground.

“You!” Scarlett called loudly. “You on the horse. What are you and those common creatures doing at this farm?”

“Are you addressing me, girl?” The officer looked down his long nose.

She lifted her chin and stared at him with cold green eyes.

“I am not a girl, sir, and you are not a gentleman, even if you pretend to be an officer.”

His mouth dropped open. Now his nose is hardly noticeable at all. I guess that’s because fish don’t have noses, and he looks like a landed fish. The hot joy of combat filled her with energy.

“But you’re not Irish,” said the officer. “Are you that American?”

“What I am is none of your concern. What you’re doing here is my concern. Explain yourself.”

The officer remembered who he was. His mouth closed and his back stiffened. Scarlett noticed that the soldiers were stiff all over, and staring, first at her, then at their officer. The constables were looking from the corners of their eyes.

“I am executing an order of Her Majesty’s Government to evict the people resident on this farm for nonpayment of rent.” He waved a scrolled paper.

Scarlett’s heart was in her throat. She lifted her chin higher. Beyond the soldiers she could see Daniel and his sons running from the fields with pitchforks and cudgels, ready to fight.

“There’s obviously been a mistake,” Scarlett said. “What amount is supposed to be unpaid?” Hurry, she thought, for God’s sake hurry, you long-nosed fool. If any O’Hara man—or men—hit a soldier, they’d be sent to prison, or worse.

Everything seemed to slow down. The officer took forever to open the scroll. Daniel and Seamus and Thomas and Patrick and Timothy moved as if they were under water. Scarlett unbuttoned her shirt. Her fingers felt like sausages, the buttons like uncontrollable lumps of suet.

“Thirty-one pounds eight shillings and nine pence,” said the officer. It was taking him an hour to say every word, Scarlett was sure. Then she heard the shouting from the field, saw the big O’Hara men running, waving fists and weapons. She clawed frantically at the string around her neck, at the pouch of money when it appeared, at its tightly closed neck.

Her fingers felt the coins, the folded bank notes, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks. She was carrying the wages of all the workers at Ballyhara. More than fifty pounds. Now she was as cool and unhurried as melting ice cream.

She lifted the cord from her neck, over her head, and she jingled the pouch in her hand. “There’s extra for your trouble, you ill-bred cad,” she said. Her arm was strong and her aim true. The pouch struck the officer in the mouth. Shillings and pence scattered down the front of his tunic and onto the ground. “Clean up the mess you’ve made,” said Scarlett, “and take away that trash you brought with you!”

She turned her back on the soldiers. “For the love of God, Kathleen,” she whispered, “get over in the field and stop the men before there’s real trouble.”

Later Scarlett confronted Old Daniel. She was livid. Suppose she hadn’t brought the tobacco? Suppose it hadn’t come in today? She glared at her uncle, then burst out, “Why didn’t you tell me you needed money? I’d have been glad to give it to you.”

“The O’Haras don’t take charity,” said Daniel.

“ ‘Charity’? It’s not charity when it’s your own family, Uncle Daniel.”

Daniel looked at her with old, old eyes. “What isn’t earned by your own hands is charity,” he said. “We’ve heard your history, Young Scarlett O’Hara. When my brother Gerald lost his wits, why did you not call upon his brothers in Savannah? They’re all your own family.”

Scarlett’s lips trembled. He was right. She hadn’t asked or accepted help from anyone. She had had to carry the burden alone. Her pride wouldn’t permit any yielding, any weakness.

“And in the Famine?” She had to know. “Pa would have sent you all he had. Uncle James and Uncle Andrew too.”

“We were wrong. We thought it would end. When we learned what it was, we’d left it too late.”

She looked at her uncle’s thin straight shoulders, the proud tilt of his head. And she understood. She would have done the same. She understood, too, why she’d been wrong to offer Ballyhara as a substitute for land he’d farmed all his life. It made all his work meaningless, and the work of his sons, his brothers, his father, his father’s father.

“Robert raised the rent, didn’t he? Because I made that smart remark about his gloves. He was going to pay me back through you.”

“Robert’s a greedy man. There’s no saying that it’s anything to do with you.”

“Will you allow me to help? It would be an honor.”

Scarlett saw approval in Old Daniel’s eyes. Then a glint of humor. “There’s Patrick’s boy Michael. He works in the stables at the Big House. He has grand ideas about breeding horses. He could apprentice in the Curragh did he have the fee.”

“I thank you,” said Scarlett formally.

“Will anybody be wanting supper or should I throw it to the pigs?” Kathleen said with pretended anger.

“I’m so hungry I could cry,” said Scarlett. “I’m a truly terrible cook, you should know.” I’m happy, she thought. I hurt from head to toe, but I’m happy. If this baby isn’t proud to be an O’Hara, I’ll wring its neck.

Y
ou need a cook,“ said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “I do not myself cook well.”

“Me neither,” said Scarlett. Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked at her. “I don’t cook well either,” Scarlett said hastily. She didn’t think she was going to like this woman, no matter what Colum said. Right off the bat when I asked her what her name was, she answered “Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” She knew I meant her first name. I’ve never called a servant “Mrs.” or “Mr.” or “Miss.” But then I’ve never had a white servant. Kathleen as lady’s maid doesn’t count, or Bridie. They’re my cousins. I’m glad Mrs. Fitzpatrick is no kin of mine.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a tall woman, at least half a head taller than Scarlett. She was not thin, but there was no fat on her; she looked solid as a tree. It was impossible to tell how old she was. Her skin was flawless, like the skin of most Irish women, product of the constant soft moisture in the air. It had the look of heavy cream. The color in her cheeks was dramatic, a streak of deep rose rather than an all-over blush. Her nose was thick, a peasant’s nose, but with prominent bone, and her lips were a thin wide slash. Most startling and distinctive of all were her dark, surprisingly delicate eyebrows. They formed a perfect thin feathered arch above her blue eyes, strange contrast to her snow-white hair. She was wearing a severe gray gown with plain white linen collar and cuffs. Her strong capable hands were folded in her lap. Scarlett felt like sitting on her own roughened hands. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s were smooth, her short nails buffed, her cuticles perfect white half-moons.

There was an English seasoning in her Irish voice. Still soft, but it had lost some music to clipped consonants.

I know what she is, Scarlett realized, she’s businesslike. The thought made her feel better. She could deal with a businesswoman whether she liked her or not.

“I am confident that you will find my services useful, Mrs. O’Hara,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and there was no possible doubt that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was confident about everything she did or said. Scarlett felt irritated. Was this woman challenging her? Did she intend to run things?

Mrs. Fitzpatrick was still speaking: “I would like to express my pleasure at meeting you and in working for you. I shall be honored to be housekeeper for The O’Hara.”

What did she mean?

The dark brows arched. “Do you not know? Everyone is talking of nothing else.” Mrs. Fitzgerald’s thin wide mouth parted in a gleaming smile. “No woman in our lifetime has ever done it, perhaps no woman in many hundreds of years. They’re calling you The O’Hara, head of the family O’Hara, in all its branches and ramifications. In the days of the High Kings, each family had its leader, representative, champion. Some distant ancestor of yours was The O’Hara who stood for all the valor and pride of all other O’Haras. Today that designation has been reborn for you.”

“I don’t understand. What do I have to do?”

“You’ve already done it. You’re respected and admired, trusted and honored. The title’s awarded, not inherited. You have only to be what you are. You are The O’Hara.”

“I think I’ll have a cup of tea,” said Scarlett weakly. She didn’t Know what Mrs. Fitzpatrick was talking about. Was she joking? Mocking? No, she could tell this was not a woman who made jokes. What did it mean, “The” O’Hara? Scarlett tried it silently on her tongue. The O’Hara. It was like a drumbeat. Deep, hidden, buried, primitive, something within her kindled. The O’Hara. A light grew in her pale tired eyes, making them glow green, fire emerald. The O’Hara.

I’ll have to think about that tomorrow… and every day for the rest of my life. Oh, I feel so different, so strong. “… only be what you are…” she said. What does that mean? The O’Hara.

“Your tea, Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” Somehow the intimidating self-confidence of the older woman had become admirable, not irritating. Scarlett took the cup and looked into the other woman’s eyes. “Please have some tea with me,” she said. “We need to talk about a cook and other things. We have only six weeks, and a lot to do.”

Scarlett had never been in the Big House. Mrs. Fitzpatrick hid her astonishment and her own curiosity about it. She’d been housekeeper to a prominent family, directress of a very big house, but it had not approached the Big House at Ballyhara in magnificence. She helped Scarlett turn the huge tarnished brass key in the great rusted lock and threw her weight against the door. “Mildew,” she said when the smell hit them. “We’ll need an army of women with pails and scrubbing brushes. Let’s have a look at the kitchen first. No cook worth having is going to come to a house without a first-class kitchen. This part of the house can be done later. Just ignore the paper falling off the walls and the animal droppings on the floor. The cook won’t even see these rooms.”

Curved colonnades connected two large wing buildings to the main block of the house. They followed the one to the east first and found themselves in a large corner room. Doors opened onto interior corridors that led to more rooms and a staircase to yet more rooms. “You’ll put your steward to work here,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick when they returned to the large corner room. “The other rooms will do for servants and storerooms. Stewards do not live in the Big House; you’ll have to give him a dwelling in the town, a large one, in keeping with his position as manager of the estate. This is obviously the Estate Office.”

Scarlett didn’t reply at once. She was seeing another office in her mind, and the wing of another Big House. “Bachelor guests” had used the wing at Dunmore Landing, Rhett had said. Well, she didn’t plan to have a dozen rooms’ worth of bachelor guests, or any other kind of guests. But she could certainly use an office, just like Rhett’s. She’d get the carpenter to make her a big desk, twice as big as Rhett’s, and she’d hang the estate maps on the walls, and she’d look out the window just the way he did. But she would see the clean-cut stones of Ballyhara, not a pile of burnt bricks, and she’d have fields of wheat, not a passel of flower bushes.

“I’ll be the steward at Ballyhara, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I don’t intend to have a stranger manage my place.”

“I mean no disrespect, Mrs. O’Hara, but you don’t know what you’re saying. It’s a full-time occupation. Not only maintaining the stores and supplies, but also listening to complaints and settling disputes between workers and farmers and the people of the town.”

“I’ll do it. We’ll put benches along that hallway for people to sit on, and I’ll see anyone with a problem on the first Sunday of every month after Mass.” Scarlett’s firm jaw told the housekeeper that there was no point in arguing.

“And Mrs. Fitzpatrick—there will be no spittoons, is that clear?”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick nodded, even though she had never heard the word before. In Ireland, tobacco was smoked in a pipe, not chewed.

“Good,” said Scarlett. “Now let’s find this kitchen you’re so worried about. It must be in the other wing.”

“Do you feel up to walking all that way?” asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

“It has to be done,” said Scarlett. Walking was torture for her feet and her back, but there was no question about doing it. She was appalled by the condition of the house. How would it ever be done in six weeks? It has to be, that’s all. The baby must be born in the Big House.

“Magnificent,” was Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s pronouncement about the kitchen. The room was cavernous and two stories high, with broken skylights in the roof. Scarlett was sure she’d never been in a ballroom half as large. A tremendous stone chimney nearly covered the wall at the far end of the room. Doors on each side of it led to a stone-sinked scullery on the north side, an empty room on the south. “The cook can sleep here, that’s good and that”—Mrs. Fitzpatrick pointed upward—“is the most intelligent arrangement I’ve ever seen.” A balustraded gallery ran the length of the kitchen wall at the second-story level. “The rooms above the cook’s and the scullery will be mine. The kitchen maids and the cook will never know when I might be watching them. That should keep them alert. The gallery must connect to the second floor of the house itself. You can come over, too, to see what’s going on in the kitchen below. They’ll keep working all the time.”