“They can’t, of course. Nobody would even think of it. Everybody knows the cars don’t run after nine o’clock.”
Rhett laughed. “Mama, you sound like the duchess in Alice in Wonderland.”
Eleanor Butler began to laugh, too. “I suppose I do,” she sputtered cheerfully, then laughed even harder.
She was still laughing when the carriage moved forward and stopped and the door was pulled open. Scarlett looked out onto a scene that made her catch her breath. This was the way a ball should be! Tall black iron poles held a pair of enormous lanterns brightly lit with a half dozen gas jets. They illuminated the deep portico and towering white columns of a temple-like building set back from the street behind a tall iron fence. A gleaming white canvas walkway led from the scoured white marble carriage block to the portico’s steps. Over walkway and block a white canvas awning had been erected.
“Just think,” she said, marvelling, “you could go from your carriage to the Ball in the pouring rain and not a drop of water would touch you.”
“That’s the idea,” Rhett agreed, “but it’s never been tested. It never rains on the night of the Saint Cecilia. God wouldn’t dare.”
“Rhett!” Eleanor Butler was genuinely shocked.
Scarlett smiled at Rhett, pleased that he could make fun of something that he took as seriously as this ball. He’d told her all about it, how many years and years it had been going on—everything in Charleston seemed to have been around for at least a hundred years—how it was completely run by men. Only men could be members of the Society.
“Step down, Scarlett,” said Rhett, “you should feel right at home here. This building is the Hibernian Hall. Inside you’ll see a plaque with the harp of Ireland in best gold paint.”
“Don’t be rude,” scolded his mother.
Scarlett stepped out with her pugnacious chin—so like her Irish father’s—held high.
What were those Yankee soldiers doing? Scarlett’s throat contracted with momentary fear. Were they planning to cause trouble because they’d been beaten by the ladies before? Then she saw the crowds behind them, eager faces bobbing from side to side in an effort to see the figures emerging from the carriages. Why, the Yankees are holding people back to make a path for us! Just like servants, like the torch boys or the footmen. Serves them right. Why don’t they just give up and go away? Nobody pays them any mind anyhow.
She looked over the heads of the soldiers and smiled brilliantly at the staring crowds before she stepped down from the carriage block. If only she could have had a new gown instead of this tired old thing. She’d just have to make the best of it. She took three steps forward, then expertly cast the gown’s train from across her arm to fall behind her. It spread out on the white walkway, untouched by dust, to sweep regally behind her as she promenaded into The Ball of the Season.
She paused in the entrance hall, waiting for the others. Her eyes were drawn upward, following the graceful arc of the staircase to the second floor’s wide landing and the glittering candlelit crystal chandelier suspended over the soaring open space. It was like the biggest, brightest jewel in the world.
“Here are the Ellintons,” said Mrs. Butler. “Come this way, Hannah, we’ll leave our wraps in the ladies’ cloakroom.”
But Hannah Ellinton stopped short in the doorway and backed away involuntarily. Rosemary and Scarlett had to move aside quickly to avoid running into the ruby brocade figure in front of them.
What could be wrong? Scarlett craned her neck to see. The scene had become so familiar to her during the Season that she couldn’t imagine why Hannah was so shocked. Several girls and women were seated on a low bench near the wall. Their skirts were pulled up above their knees, their feet in basins of soapy water. While they gossiped and laughed with one another, their maids washed and dried and powdered their feet, then unrolled their mended stockings up their legs and put their dancing slippers on. It was the regular routine for all the women who walked through the city’s dusty streets to the Season’s balls. What did the Yankee woman expect? That people would dance in their boots? She nudged Mrs. Ellinton. “You’re blocking the door,” she said.
Hannah apologized and moved on inside. Eleanor Butler turned from the mirror where she was rearranging her hairpins. “Good,” she said, “I was afraid for a minute that I’d lost you.” She hadn’t seen Hannah’s reaction. “I want you to meet Sheba. She’ll take care of anything you need tonight.” Mrs. Ellinton was led unprotestingly to the corner of the room where the fattest woman she had ever seen was sitting in a wide, worn, faded brocade wing chair, her golden-brown skin only a tone darker than the gold brocade. Sheba pushed herself up from her throne to be presented to Mrs. Butler’s guest.
And to Mrs. Butler’s daughter-in-law. Scarlett hurried over, eager to see the woman she’d heard so much about. Sheba was famous. Everyone knew that she was the best seamstress in all Charleston, trained when she was the Rutledges’ slave by the modiste Mrs. Rutledge imported from Paris to make her daughter’s trousseau. She still sewed for Mrs. Rutledge and her daughter and a few select ladies of her choosing. Sheba could remake rags and flour sacks into creations as elegant as anything in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Baptized Queen of Sheba by her lay-preacher father, she was indeed a queen in her own world. She ruled the ladies’ cloakroom at the Saint Cecilia every year, supervising her two neatly uniformed maids, and any maids accompanying the ladies, in rapid, effective action to meet any and all feminine emergencies. Torn hems, spots and stains, lost buttons, drooping curls, faintness, overeating, bruised insteps, broken hearts—Sheba and her minions dealt with them all. Every ball had a room set aside for ladies’ needs and maids to staff it, but only the Saint Cecilia had Queen of Sheba. She politely refused to work her magic at any ball other than the finest.
She could afford to be particular. Rhett had told Scarlett what most people knew but no one said aloud. Sheba owned the most lavish and profitable whorehouse on notorious “Mulatto Alley,” the stretch of Chalmers Street, only two blocks from the Saint Cecilia, where officers and soldiers of the occupying military forces spent the better part of their pay packets on cheap whiskey, crooked gambling wheels, and women of every age, every shade of skin, and every price.
Scarlett looked at Hannah Ellinton’s bewildered expression. I’ll bet she’s one of those abolitionists who’s never seen a black person close up in her life, she thought. I wonder what she’d do if somebody told her about Sheba’s other business. Rhett said Sheba’s got more than a million dollars in gold in a vault in a bank in England. I doubt the Ellintons can match that.
30
When Scarlett reached the entrance to the ballroom, it was her turn to stop short, unaware that there were others following her. She was overwhelmed by a beauty that was magical, too lovely to be real.
The huge ballroom was lit brilliantly, yet softly, by candlelight. From four cascades of crystal that seemed to float high above. From paired gilt-and-crystal sconces on the long side walls. From tall gilt-framed mirrors that reflected the flames again and again in opposing images. From night-black tall windows that acted as mirrors. From tall multi-armed silver candelabra on long tables at each side of the door, holding monumental silver punch bowls that held curving light reflections golden in their rounded sides.
Scarlett laughed with delight and stepped across the sill.
“Are you having a good time?” Rhett asked her much later.
“My, yes! It really is the best ball of the Season.” She meant it, the evening had been everything a ball should be, filled with music and laughter and happiness on all sides. She’d been less than pleased when she was given her dance card, even though it was presented with a bouquet of gardenias framed in silver-lace paper. The Governors of the Society, it seemed, filled in the names on all the ladies’ cards in advance. But then she saw that the regimentation was masterfully orchestrated. She was partnered by men she knew, men she had never met before, old men, young men, long-time Charlestonians, visiting gue
sts, Charlestonians who lived in many other places but always came home for the Saint Cecilia. So that every dance held the tantalizing potential of surprise and the assurance of change. And no embarrassment. Middleton Courtney’s name wasn’t on her card. She had nothing to think about except the pleasure of being in the exquisite room dancing to the beautiful music.
It was the same for everyone. Scarlett giggled when she saw her aunts dancing every dance; even Eulalie’s usually sorrowful face was alight with pleasure. There were no wallflowers here. And no awkwardnesses. The terribly young debutantes in their fresh white gowns were paired with men skillful at both dancing and conversation. She saw Rhett with at least three of them, but never with Anne Hampton. Scarlett wondered briefly how much the wise old Governors knew. She didn’t care. It made her happy. And it made her laugh to see the Ellintons.
Hannah was obviously feeling like the belle of the Ball. She must be dancing with the biggest flatterers in Charleston, Scarlett thought maliciously. No, she decided, Townsend looked like he was having an even better time than his wife. Somebody sure must be sweet talking him. They’d certainly never forget this night. For that matter, neither would she. The sixteenth dance was coming up soon. It was reserved, Josiah Anson told her when they were waltzing, for sweethearts and married couples. At the Saint Cecilia, husbands and wives were always newly in love, he said with mock solemnity. He was President of the Society, so he knew. It was one of the Saint Cecilia’s rules. She would be dancing it with Rhett.
So when he took her in his arms and asked her if she was enjoying herself, she said yes with all her heart.
At one o’clock the orchestra played the last phrase of the “Blue Danube Waltz,” and the Ball was over. “But I don’t want it to be over,” Scarlett said, “not ever.”
“Good,” replied Miles Brewton, one of the Governors, “that’s exactly how we hope everyone will feel. Now everyone goes downstairs for supper. The Society prides itself on its oyster stew almost as much as on its punch. I hope you’ve had a cup of our famous mixture?”
“Indeed I have. I thought the top of my head was going to lift right off.” The Saint Cecilia punch was composed largely of excellent champagne mixed with superlative brandy.
“We old fellows find it helpful for a night of dancing. It goes to our feet, not our heads.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee, Miles! Sally always said that you were the best dancer in Charleston, and I thought she was just bragging. But now I know she was only telling the simple truth.” Scarlett’s dimpling, smiling, extravagant raillery was so automatic that she didn’t even have to think what she was saying. What was taking Rhett so long? Why was he talking to Edward Cooper instead of escorting her to supper? Sally Brewton would never forgive her for tying Miles up this way.
Oh, thank goodness, Rhett was coming.
“I’d never let you claim your enchanting wife if you weren’t so much bigger than I, Rhett.” Miles bowed over Scarlett’s hand. “A great privilege, ma’am.”
“A great pleasure, sir,” she replied, with a curtsey.
“My God,” Rhett drawled, “I might as well go beg Sally to run away with me. She’s turned me down the last fifty times, but my luck might have changed.”
The three of them went, laughing, in search of Sally. She was sitting on a windowsill holding her slippers in her hand. “Who ever said that the proof of the perfect ball is that you dance through the soles of your slippers?” she asked plaintively. “I did and now I’ve got blisters on both feet.”
Miles picked her up. “I’ll carry you down, you troublesome woman, but then you cover your feet like a respectable person and hobble to supper.”
“Brute!” said Sally. Scarlett saw the look they exchanged and her heart cramped with envy.
“What fascinating thing were you talking about with Edward Cooper for so long? I’m starving.” She looked at Rhett, and the pain grew worse. I won’t think about it. I won’t ruin this perfect night.
“He was informing me that, due to my bad influence, Tommy’s grades in school are falling. As a punishment he’s selling the little boat the boy loves so much.”
“That’s cruel!” Scarlett exclaimed.
“The boy will get it back. I bought it. Now let’s get to supper before all the oysters are gone. For once in your life, Scarlett, you’re going to have more food than you can possibly eat. Even ladies gorge themselves. It’s traditional. The Season is over, and it’s almost Lent.”
It was shortly after two when the doors to the Hibernian Hall opened. The young black torch boys were yawning when they took their positions to light the revellers out. As their torches were lit, the dark waiting streetcar on Meeting Street came to life on its tracks. The driver turned up the blue-globed lamp on its roof and the tall-chimneyed lanterns by the doors. The horses stamped their feet and bobbed their heads. A white-aproned man swept the canvas walkway free of the scattering of leaves that had accumulated then slid back the long iron bolt and swung wide the gates. He disappeared into the shadows just as the sound of voices poured from the building. For three blocks along the street carriages waited to move in turn to collect their passengers. “Wake up, they’re coming,” Ezekiel growled to the sleeping boys in the footman livery. They jerked at his prodding finger, then grinned and scrambled down from their resting place at his feet.
People came pouring through the open doors, talking, laughing, pausing on the porch, reluctant to see the end of the evening. As they did every year, they said that this had been the best Saint Cecilia ever, the best orchestra, the best food, the best punch, the best time they had ever had.
The streetcar driver spoke to his horses. “I’ll get you to your stable, boys, don’t you fret.” He pulled the handle near his head and the brightly polished bell beside the blue light clanged its summons.
“Good night, good night,” cried obedient riders to the people on the porch and first one couple, then three, then a laughing avalanche of young people ran along the white canvas path. Their elders smiled and made comments about the tirelessness of youth. They moved at a slower, more dignified pace. In some cases their dignity failed to hide a certain unsteadiness of the legs.
Scarlett plucked Rhett’s sleeve. “Oh, do let’s ride the car, Rhett. The air feels so good and the carriage will be stuffy.”
“There’s a long walk after we get off.”
“I don’t care. I’d love to walk some.”
He took a deep breath of the fresh night air. “I would, too,” he said. “I’ll tell Mama. Go on to the car and save us a place.”
* * *
They hadn’t far to ride. The streetcar turned east on Broad Street, only a block away, then moved grandly through the silent city to the end of Broad in front of the Post Office building. It was a merry, noisy continuation of the party. Almost everyone on the crowded car joined in the song started by three laughing men when the car teetered around the corner. “Oh, the Rock Island Line, it is a mighty fine line! The Rock Island Line, it is the road to ride…”
Musically the performance left much to be desired but the singers neither knew nor cared. Scarlett and Rhett sang as loudly as the rest. When they stepped down from the car she continued to join in every time the chorus was repeated. “Get your ticket at the station for the Rock Island Line.” Rhett and three other volunteers helped the driver unharness the horses, lead them to the opposite end of the car, and rehitch them for the journey back along Broad then up Meeting to the terminal. They returned waves and cries of “good night” as the car moved away, taking the singers with it.
“Do you suppose they know any other song?” Scarlett asked.
Rhett laughed. “They don’t even know that one, and to tell the truth neither do I. It didn’t seem to make much difference.”
Scarlett giggled. Then she put her hand over her mouth. Her giggle had sounded very loud now that “The Rock Island Line” was faint in the distance. She watched the lighted car become smaller, then stop, then start, then disappear as it tu
rned the corner. It was very quiet, and very dark outside the pool of light thrown by the street lamp in front of the Post Office. A breath of wind played with the fringe on her shawl. The air was balmy and soft. “It’s real warm,” she whispered to Rhett.
He murmured a wordless affirmative and took out his pocket watch, held it in the lamplight. “Listen,” he said quietly.
Scarlett listened. Everything was still. She held her breath to listen harder.
“Now!” said Rhett. Saint Michael’s bells chimed once, twice. The notes hung in the warm night for a long time. “Half past,” Rhett said with approval. He replaced the watch in its pocket.
Both of them had taken quite a bit of punch. They were in the condition known as “high flown,” where everything was somewhat magnified in effect. The darkness was blacker, the air warmer, the silence deeper, the memory of the pleasant evening even more enjoyable than the ball itself. Each felt a quietly glowing inner well-being. Scarlett yawned happily and tucked a hand into Rhett’s elbow. Without a word they began to walk into the darkness toward home. Their footsteps were loud on the brick sidewalk, bounced back from the buildings. Scarlett looked uneasily from side to side, and over her shoulder at the looming Post Office. She couldn’t recognize anything. It’s so quiet, she thought, like we were the only people on the face of the earth.
Rhett’s tall form was a part of the darkness, his white shirt front covered by his black evening cape. Scarlett tightened her hold on his arm, above the crook of the elbow. It was firm and strong, the powerful arm of a powerful man. She moved a little closer to his side. She could feel the warmth of his body, sense the bulk and strength of it.
“Wasn’t that a wonderful party?” she said too loudly. Her voice echoed, sounding strange to her ears. “I thought I’d laugh out loud at old look-down-your-nose Hannah. My grief, when she got a taste of how Southerners treat folks, her head was so turned I expected her to start walking backwards to see where she was going.”
Scarlett: The Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 34
