Savannah’s Convent of the Sisters of Mercy was a big white building with a cross over its tall closed doors, surrounded by a tall iron fence with closed gates surmounted by iron crosses. Scarlett’s rapid pace slowed, then she stopped. It was very different from the handsome brick house in Charleston.
“Is you going in there, Miss Scarlett?” Pansy’s voice had a quaver in it. “I better wait outside. I’m a Baptist.”
“Don’t be such a goose!” Pansy’s fearfulness gave Scarlett courage. “It’s not a church, just a home for nice ladies like Miss Carreen.” The gate opened at her touch.
Yes, said the elderly nun who opened the door when Scarlett rang the bell, yes, Charleston’s Mother Superior was there. No, she couldn’t ask her to see Mrs. Butler right now. There was a meeting in progress. No, she didn’t know how long it would last, nor whether the Mother Superior would be able to see Mrs. Butler when it was over. Perhaps Mrs. Butler would like to see the schoolrooms; the convent was very proud of its school. Or it was possible that a tour of the new Cathedral building could be arranged. After that, perhaps the Mother Superior could be sent a message, if the meeting had ended.
Scarlett forced herself to smile. The last thing on earth I want to do is admire a bunch of children, she thought angrily. Or look at some church, either. She was about to say that she’d simply come back later, then the nun’s words gave her an idea. They were building a new Cathedral, were they? That cost money. Maybe her offer to buy back Carreen’s share of Tara would be looked on more favorably here than it had been in Charleston, just like Rhett said. After all, Tara was Georgia property, probably controlled by the Bishop of Georgia. Suppose she offered to buy a stained glass window in the new Cathedral as Carreen’s dowry? The cost would be much higher than Carreen’s share of Tara was worth, and she’d make it clear that the window was in exchange, not in addition. The Bishop would listen to reason, and then he’d tell the Mother Superior what to do.
Scarlett’s smile became warmer, wider. “I’d be honored to see the Cathedral, Sister, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”
Pansy’s mouth gaped open when she looked up at the soaring twin spires of the handsome Gothic-design Cathedral. The workmen on the scaffolding that surrounded the nearly completed towers looked small and nimble, like brightly garbed squirrels high in paired trees. But Scarlett had no eyes for the drama overhead. Her pulse was quickened by the organized hubbub on the ground, the sounds of hammering, sawing, and especially by the familiar resiny smell of fresh-cut lumber. Oh, how she missed the lumber mills and lumber-yards. Her palms itched with the yearning to run her hands over the clean wood, to be busy, to be doing something, making a difference, running things—instead of taking tea from dainty cups with washed-out, dainty old ladies.
Scarlett heard barely a word of the descriptive wonders outlined by the young priest who was her escort. She did not even notice the surreptitious admiring looks of the burly laborers who stood back from their work to allow the priest and his companion free passage. She was too preoccupied to listen or notice. What fine straight trees had given up these timbers? It was the best heart pine she’d ever seen. She wondered where the mill was, what kind of saws it had, what kind of power. Oh, if only she was a man! Then she could ask, could go see the mill instead of this church. Scarlett scuffled her feet through a mound of fresh wood shavings and inhaled the tonic of the sharp scent of them.
“I must get back to the school for dinner,” said the priest apologetically.
“Of course, Father, I’m ready to go.” She wasn’t but what else could she say? Scarlett followed him out of the Cathedral and onto the sidewalk.
“Begging your pardon, Father.” The speaker was a huge, red-faced man wearing a red shirt that was heavily whitened by mortar dust. The priest looked diminutive and pale beside him.
“If you could be saying a small blessing on the work, Father? The lintel to the Chapel of the Sacred Heart was set not an hour ago.”
Why, he sounds just like Pa at his most Irish. Scarlett bowed her head for the priest’s blessing, as did the groups of workmen. Her eyes smarted from the tang of the cut pine and the quick tears for her father that she blinked away.
I’ll go see Pa’s brothers, she decided. No matter that they must be about a hundred years old, Pa would want me to go and say hello at least.
She walked with the priest back to the convent, and another placid refusal by the elderly nun when she asked to see the Mother Superior.
Scarlett kept her temper, but her eyes were dangerously bright. “Tell her I’ll be back this afternoon,” she said.
As the tall iron gate swung closed behind her Scarlett heard the sound of church bells from a few blocks away. “Bother!” she said. She was going to be late for dinner.
34
Scarlett smelled fried chicken as soon as she opened the door of the big pink house. “Take these things,” she said to Pansy, and she got out of her cape and hat and gloves with record speed. She was very hungry.
Eulalie looked at her with huge mournful eyes when she entered the dining room. “Père wants to see you, Scarlett.”
“Can’t it wait until after dinner? I’m starving.”
“He said ‘the minute she comes in.’ ”
Scarlett picked up a steaming hot roll from the bread basket and took an angry bite as she swung on her heel. She finished it while she marched to her grandfather’s room.
The old man frowned at her over the tray that rested on his lap in the big bed. His plate, Scarlett saw, held only mashed potatoes and a mound of soggy-looking bits of carrot.
My grief! No wonder he looks so fierce. There’s not even any butter on the potatoes. Even if he doesn’t have a tooth in his head, they could feed him better than that.
“I do not tolerate a disregard for the schedule of my house,” said the old man.
“I’m sorry, Grandfather.”
“Discipline is what made the Emperor’s armies great; without discipline there is only chaos.”
His voice was deep, strong, fearsome. But Scarlett saw the sharp old bones jutting under his heavy linen nightshirt, and she felt no fear.
“I said I was sorry. May I go now? I’m hungry.”
“Don’t be impertinent, young lady.”
“There’s nothing impertinent about being hungry, Grandfather. Just because you don’t want to eat your dinner, it doesn’t mean nobody else should have any.”
Pierre Robillard pushed angrily at his tray. “Pap!” he growled. “Not fit for pigs.”
Scarlett edged toward the door.
“I have not dismissed you, Miss.”
She felt her stomach growl. The rolls would be cold by now, the chicken might even be gone, with Aunt Eulalie’s appetite being what it was.
“God’s nightgown, Grandfather, I’m not one of your soldiers! And I’m not scared of you like my aunts, either. What are you going to do to me, do you think? Shoot me for desertion? If you want to starve yourself to death, that’s up to you. I’m hungry, and I’m going to go have whatever dinner is left.” She was halfway out the door when a strange choking sound made her turn back. Dear God, have I given him apoplexy? Don’t let him die on me.
Pierre Robillard was laughing.
Scarlett put her hands on her hips and glared at him. He’d scared her half to death.
He waved her away with a long-fingered bony hand. “Eat,” he said, “eat.” Then he began laughing again.
“What happened?” asked Pauline.
“I didn’t hear shouting, did I, Scarlett?” said Eulalie.
They were sitting at table waiting for dessert. The dinner was gone. “Nothing happened,” Scarlett said through her teeth. She picked up the small silver bell on the table and shook it furiously. When the stout black maid appeared carrying two small dishes of pudding, Scarlett stalked over to her. She put her hands on the woman’s shoulders and turned her around. “Now you march, and I mean march, not amble along. You go down to the kitchen and b
ring me my dinner. Hot and plenty of it and in a hurry. I don’t care which one of you was planning to eat it, but you’ll have to make do with the back and the wings. I want a thigh and a breast and plenty of gravy on my potatoes and a bowl of butter, with the rolls nice and hot. Go on!”
She sat down with a flounce, ready to do battle with her aunts if they said so much as one word. Silence filled the room until her dinner was served.
Pauline contained herself until Scarlett’s food was half-eaten. Then, “What did Père say to you?” she asked politely.
Scarlett wiped her mouth with her napkin. “He just tried to bully me the way he does you and Aunt ’Lalie, so I gave him a piece of my mind. It made him laugh.”
The two sisters exchanged shocked looks. Scarlett smiled and ladled more gravy onto the potatoes left on her plate. What geese her aunts were. Didn’t they know that you had to stand up to bullies like their father or else they’d trample right over you?
It never occurred to Scarlett that she was able to resist being bullied because she was a bully herself, or that her grandfather’s laughter was caused by his recognition of her resemblance to him.
When dessert was served, the bowls of tapioca had somehow become larger. Eulalie smiled gratefully at her niece. “Sister and I were just saying how much we enjoyed having you with us in our old home, Scarlett. Don’t you find Savannah a lovely little city? Did you see the fountain in Chippewa Square? And the theater? It’s nearly as old as Charleston’s. I remember how Sister and I used to look out of the windows of our schoolroom at the thespians coming and going. Don’t you remember, Sister?”
Pauline remembered. She also remembered that Scarlett had not told them she was going out that morning, nor where she had been. When Scarlett reported that she’d been to the Cathedral, Pauline put her finger to her lips. Père, she said, was unfortunately extremely opposed to Roman Catholicism. It had something to do with French history, she wasn’t sure what, but he got very angry about the Church. That was the reason she and Eulalie always left Charleston after Mass to come to Savannah and left Savannah on Saturday to return to Charleston. This year there was a particular difficulty; because Easter was so early, they would be in Savannah for Ash Wednesday. Naturally they had to attend Mass, and they could leave the house early and unobserved. But how could they keep their father from seeing the smudges of ash on their foreheads when they returned to the house?
“Wash your face,” said Scarlett impatiently, thereby revealing her ignorance and the recent date of her return to religion. She dropped her napkin on the table. “I’ve got to be off,” she said briskly. “I… I’m going to visit my O’Hara uncles and aunts.” She didn’t want anyone to know that she was trying to buy the convent’s share of Tara. Especially not her aunts, they gossiped too much. Why, they might even write to Suellen. She smiled sweetly. “What time do we leave in the morning for Mass?” She’d be sure to mention it to the Mother Superior. No need to let on that she’d forgotten all about Ash Wednesday.
What a bother it was that she’d left her rosary in Charleston. Oh, well, she could buy a new one at her O’Hara uncles’ store. If she remembered correctly, they had everything in there from bonnets to plows.
“Miss Scarlett, when are we going home to Atlanta? I don’t feel comfortable with the folks in your Grandpa’s kitchen. They is all so old. And my shoes is just about wore out from all this walking. When are we going home where you got all the fine carriages?”
“Stop that everlasting complaining, Pansy. We’ll go when I say go and where I say go.” Scarlett’s response had no real heat in it; she was trying to remember where her uncles’ store was, and having no luck. I must be catching old folks’ forgetfulness. Pansy’s right about that part. Everybody I know in Savannah is old. Grandfather, Aunt Eulalie, Aunt Pauline, all their friends. And Pa’s brothers are the oldest of all. I’ll just say hello and let them give me a nasty dry old man’s kiss on the cheek and buy my rosary and leave. There’s no real call to see their wives. If they cared about seeing me, they would have done something about keeping up all these years. Why, for all they know I could be dead and buried and not so much as a condolence note to my husband and children. A mighty tacky way to treat a blood relative, I call it. Maybe I’ll just forget about going to see any of them at all. They don’t deserve any visits from me after the way they neglected me, she thought, ignoring the letters from Savannah that she’d never answered, until finally they stopped coming.
She was ready to consign her father’s brothers and their wives permanently to oblivion in the recesses of her mind now. She was fixed on two things, getting control of Tara and getting the upper hand with Rhett. Never mind that the two were contradictory goals, she’d find a way to have both. And they demanded all the thinking she had time for. I’m not going to go trailing around looking for that musty old store, Scarlett decided. I’ve got to track down the Mother Superior and the Bishop. Oh, I do wish I hadn’t left those beads in Charleston. She looked quickly along the storefronts on the other side of Broughton Street, Savannah’s place to shop. Surely there must be a jeweler somewhere close by.
The bold gilt letters that spelled out O’HARA stretched across the wall above five gleaming windows almost directly opposite. My, they’ve come up in the world since I was here last, Scarlett thought. That doesn’t look musty at all. “Come on,” she said to Pansy, and she plunged into the tangled traffic of wagons, buggies, and pushcarts that filled the busy street.
The O’Hara store smelled of fresh paint, not long-settled dust. A green tarlatan banner draped across the front of the counter in the rear gave the reason in gold letters: GRAND OPENING. Scarlett looked around enviously. The store was more than twice the size of her store in Atlanta, and she could see that the stock was fresher and more varied. Neatly labelled boxes and bolts of bright fabrics filled shelves to the ceiling; barrels of meals and flours were lined up along the floor, not far from the big potbellied stove in the center; and huge glass jars of candy stood temptingly on the tall counter. Her uncles were moving up in the world for sure. The store she’d visited in 1861 wasn’t in the central, fashionable part of Broughton Street, and it was dark, cluttered, even more so than hers in Atlanta. It would be interesting to find out what this handsome expansion had cost her uncles. She might just consider a few of their ideas for her own business.
She walked quickly to the counter. “I’d like to see Mr. O’Hara, if you please,” she said to the tall, aproned man who was measuring out some lamp oil into a customer’s glass jug.
“In a moment, if you’ll be so kind as to wait, ma’am,” the man said without looking up. His voice had just a hint of brogue in it.
That makes sense, thought Scarlett. Hire Irish for a shop run by Irishmen. She looked at the labels on the shelved boxes in front of her while the man wrapped the oil in brown paper and made change. Hmmm, she should be keeping gloves that way, too, by size not by color. You could see the colors quick enough when you opened the box, but it was a real bother to search for the right size in a box of gloves that were all of them black. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
The man behind the counter had to speak again before Scarlett heard him. “I’m Mr. O’Hara,” he repeated. “How might I be of service to you?”
Oh, no, this wasn’t the uncles’ store after all! They must still be where they’d always been. Scarlett explained hurriedly that she’d made a mistake. She was looking for an elderly Mr. O’Hara, Mr. Andrew or Mr. James. “Can you direct me to their store?”
“But this is their store. I’m their nephew.”
“Oh… oh, my goodness. Then you must be my cousin. I’m Katie Scarlett, Gerald’s daughter. From Atlanta.” Scarlett held out both her hands. A cousin! A big, strong, not-an-old-man cousin of her own. She felt as if she’d just been given a surprise present.
“Jamie, that’s me,” said her cousin with a laugh, taking her hands in his. “Jamie O’Hara at your service, Scarlett O’Hara. And what a gift you are to a
weary businessman, to be sure. Pretty as a sunrise, and dropping from out of the blue like a falling star. Tell me now, how do you come to be here for the grand opening of the new store? Come—let me get you a chair.”
Scarlett forgot all about the rosary she’d meant to buy. She forgot about the Mother Superior, too. And about Pansy, who settled herself on a low stool in a corner and went to sleep at once with her head resting on a neat pile of horse blankets.
Jamie O’Hara mumbled something under his breath when he returned from the back room with a chair for Scarlett. There were four customers waiting to be served. In the next half hour more and more came in, so that there was no chance for him to say a word to Scarlett. He looked at her from time to time with apology in his eyes, but she smiled and shook her head. There was no need to apologize. She was pleased just to be there, in a warm, well-run store that was doing a good business, with a new-found cousin whose competence and skillful treatment of his customers was a delight to observe.
At last there was a brief moment when the only customers were a mother and her three daughters who were looking through four boxes of laces. “I’ll talk like a rushing river, then, while I can,” said Jamie. “Uncle James will be longing to see you, Katie Scarlett. He’s an old gentleman, but still active enough. He’s here every day until dinnertime. You may not know it, but his wife died, God rest her soul, and Uncle Andrew’s wife as well. It took the heart out of Uncle Andrew, and he followed her within a month. May they all be resting in the arms of the angels. Uncle James lives in the house with me and my wife and children. It’s not far from here. Will you come to tea this afternoon and see them all? My boy Daniel will be back soon from making deliveries, and I’ll walk you to the house. We’re celebrating my daughter Patricia’s birthday today. All the family will be there.”
Scarlett: The Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 39
