Scarlett looked helplessly at the two bent gray heads and hunched shoulders, Pauline’s so thin and fragile looking.
My grief! She walked over to Pauline and touched her aunt’s knobby back. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I didn’t mean what I said.”
When peace had been restored, Eulalie suggested that Scarlett join her and Pauline for their walk around the square. “Sister and I always find that a constitutional is a great restorative,” she said brightly. Then her mouth quivered pathetically. “It keeps one’s mind off food, too.”
Scarlett agreed at once. She had to get out of the house. She was convinced she could smell bacon frying in the kitchen. She walked with her aunts around the square of green in front of the house, then the short distance to the next square, around it, then to the next square, and the next and the next. By the time they returned to the house she was dragging her feet almost as much as Eulalie was, and she was positive that she’d walked through or around every single one of the twenty-some squares that dotted Savannah and gave it its claim to unique charm. She was also positive that she was half-starved to death and bored to screaming-point. But at least it was time for dinner… She couldn’t remember ever tasting fish that was quite so delicious.
What a relief! Scarlett thought when Eulalie and Pauline went upstairs for their after-dinner naps. A little of their reminiscences of Savannah goes a long way. A lot of it could drive a person to murder. She wandered restlessly through the big house picking up bits of china and silver from tables and putting them back without really seeing them.
Why was the Mother Superior being so difficult? Why wouldn’t she talk to her at least? Why on earth would a woman like that have to spend a whole day in retreat, even a holy day like Ash Wednesday? Surely a Mother Superior was already as good as a person could be. Why did she need to spend a day in prayer and fasting?
Fasting! Scarlett ran back to the drawing room to look at the tall clock. It couldn’t be only four o’clock. Not even. It was seven minutes to four. And there’d be nothing at all to eat until dinnertime tomorrow. No, it wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.
Scarlett walked to the bell pull and jerked it four times. “Go put your coat on,” she told Pansy when the girl came running. “We’re going out.”
“Miss Scarlett, how come we going to the bakery? Cook, she say bakery stuff ain’t fit to eat. She does all the baking her own self.”
“I don’t care what Cook says. And if you tell one single soul we’ve been here, I’ll skin you alive.”
Scarlett ate two cookies and a dinner roll in the store. She carried two sacks of baked goods home and up to her room, hiding them under her cape.
A telegram had been placed neatly in the center of her bureau. Scarlett dropped the sacks of breads and cookies on the floor and ran to get it.
“Henry Hamilton,” it said as signature. Damn! She’d thought it was from Rhett, begging her to come home or telling her that he was on his way to fetch her. She crumpled the flimsy paper angrily in her fist.
Then she smoothed it out. Better see what Uncle Henry had to say. As she read the message, Scarlett began to smile.
YOUR TELEGRAM RECEIVED STOP ALSO LARGE BANK DRAFT FROM YOUR HUSBAND STOP WHAT FOOLISHNESS IS THIS QUESTION MARK RHETT ASKED ME TO NOTIFY HIM YOUR WHEREABOUTS STOP LETTER FOLLOWS STOP HENRY HAMILTON
So Rhett was looking for her. Just what she’d expected. Hah! She’d been so right to come to Savannah. She hoped Uncle Henry had had the sense to tell Rhett right away and by telegram, not letter. Why, he might be reading his right this minute, just like she was reading hers.
Scarlett hummed a waltz tune and danced around the room holding the telegram against her heart. He might even be on his way now. The train from Charleston arrived just about this time of day. She ran to the mirror to smooth her hair and pinch color into her cheeks. Should she change her dress? No, Rhett would notice, and it would make him think she wasn’t doing anything except wait for him. She rubbed toilet water on her throat and temples. There. She was ready. Her eyes, she saw, were glowing green like a prowling cat’s. She’d have to remember to drop her lashes over them. She took a stool to the window, seated herself where she’d be hidden by the curtain but still able to see out.
An hour later, Rhett hadn’t come. Scarlett’s small white teeth tore at a roll from the bakery bag. What a bother this Lent business was! Imagine having to hide in her room and eat rolls without even any butter to put on them. She was in a very bad mood when she went downstairs.
And there was Jerome with her grandfather’s supper tray! It was almost enough to make her turn Huguenot or Presbyterian like the old man.
Scarlett stopped him in the hall. “This food looks terrible,” she said. “Take it back and put big lumps of butter on the mashed potatoes. Put a thick slice of ham on the plate, too; I know you’ve got a ham down there, I saw it hanging in the larder. And add a pitcher of cream to pour on that pudding. A little bowl of strawberry jam, too.”
“Mr. Robillard, he can’t chew no ham. And his doctor say he’s not supposed to eat sweets, nor cream and butter neither.”
“The doctor doesn’t want him to starve to death, either. Now do what I say.”
Scarlett looked angrily at Jerome’s stiff back until he disappeared down the stairs. “Nobody should have to go hungry,” she said. “Not ever.” Her mood changed abruptly and she giggled. “Not even an old loo-la.”
37
Fortified by her rolls, Scarlett was cheerfully singing under her breath when she went downstairs Thursday. She found her aunts in a nervous frenzy of preparation for her grandfather’s birthday dinner. While Eulalie wrestled with branches of dark green magnolia leaves for arrangements on the sideboard and mantel, Pauline was going through stacks of heavy linen tablecloths and napkins, trying to find the ones she remembered as her father’s favorite.
“What difference does it make?” Scarlett asked impatiently. Talk about a tempest in a teapot! Grandfather wouldn’t even see the dinning room table from his room. “Just pick the one that shows the darning least.”
Eulalie dropped an armload of rattling leaves. “I didn’t hear you come in, Scarlett. Good morning.”
Pauline nodded coldly. She had forgiven Scarlett for her insults, as a good Christian woman should, but in all likelihood she’d never forget them. “There are no darns in Mère’s linens, Scarlett,” she said. “They’re all in perfect condition.”
Scarlett looked at the stacks that covered the long table and remembered the worn, mended cloths that her aunts had in Charleston. If it was up to her, she’d pack up all this stuff and take it back to Charleston when they left on Saturday. Grandfather wouldn’t miss it, and the aunts could use it. I’ll never in my life be as afraid of anybody as they are of that old tyrant. But if I said what I think, Aunt Eulalie would start to sniffle, and Aunt Pauline would lecture me for an hour about duty to my elders. “I have to go buy a present for him,” she said aloud. “Is there any shopping you want me to do for you?”
And don’t dare, she said silently, offer to come with me. I’ve got to go to the convent to see the Mother Superior. She can’t still be in retreat. If I have to, I’ll stand by the gate and grab her when she comes out. I’m almighty tired of being turned away.
They were much too busy, her aunts said, to go shopping, and they were astonished that Scarlett had not yet selected and wrapped a gift for her grandfather. Scarlett left before they could describe the extent of their busyness and depth of their astonishment. “Old loo-las,” she said under her breath. She wasn’t at all sure what the Irish phrase meant, but the sound of it was enough to make her smile.
The trees in the square looked somehow thicker, the grass greener than the day before. The sun was warmer, too. Scarlett felt the quickened optimism that always accompanied the first hint of spring. Today would be a good day, she was sure of it—in spite of her grandfather’s birthday party. “Walk up, Pansy,” she said automatically, “don’t drag along like a turtle,” a
nd she set off at a brisk pace along the packed sand-and-shell sidewalk.
The sound of hammering and men’s voices shouting at the Cathedral building carried clearly through the still, sunlit air. Scarlett wished for a moment that the priest would take her on another tour of the site. But that wasn’t what she was here for. She turned into the gate of the convent.
The same elderly nun answered the doorbell. Scarlett readied herself for combat.
But, “The Mother Superior is expecting you,” said the nun. “If you’ll follow me…”
Scarlett was almost dazed when she left the convent ten minutes later. It had been so easy! The Mother Superior agreed at once to talk to the Bishop. She’d send word, she said, very soon. No, she couldn’t say just when that would be, but certainly within a short time. She herself would be returning to Charleston the following week.
Scarlett was euphoric. Her smile and her eyes were so bright that the grocer in the small shop on Abercorn Street nearly forgot to charge her for the bow-bedecked box of chocolate candies she selected for her grandfather’s birthday present.
Her high spirits carried her through the final preparations for the birthday dinner that engulfed her when she got back to the Robillard house. They began to dim slightly when she learned that her grandfather would actually come to table for the six courses of his particularly favorite foods. Her spirits plummeted when the aunts informed her that she wasn’t allowed to eat many of the delicacies that would be served.
“Flesh is forbidden during Lent,” said Pauline sternly. “Be certain that no gravy touches the rice or vegetables you eat.”
“But be careful, Scarlett. Don’t let Père notice,” added Eulalie in a whisper. “He doesn’t approve of fasting.” Her eyes were rheumy with sorrow.
Brooding about missing out on the food, thought Scarlett unkindly. Then—I don’t blame her. The aromas from the kitchen were making her mouth water.
“There’ll be soup for us. And fish,” Eulalie said with sudden cheerfulness. “Cake, too, a beautiful, beautiful cake. A true feast, Scarlett.”
“Remember, Sister,” warned Pauline, “gluttony is a sin.”
Scarlett left them; she could feel herself losing control of her temper. It’s only a dinner, she reminded herself, just calm down. Even with Grandfather at table with us, it can’t be all that bad. After all, what could one old man do?
He could, Scarlett learned at once, refuse to allow anything other than French to be spoken. Her “Happy Birthday, Grandfather,” was ignored as if she hadn’t said it. Her aunts’ greetings were acknowledged by a cold nod, and he sat down in the huge throne-like chair at the head of the table.
Pierre Auguste Robillard was no longer a night-shirted, frail elderly man. Impeccably clothed in an old-fashioned frock coat and starched linen, his thin body looked larger, and his erect military bearing was impressive even when he was seated. His white hair was like an old lion’s ruff, his eyes were hawk-like under his thick white brows, and his big bony nose looked like a predator’s beak. The certainty that it was a good day began to ooze out of Scarlett. She unfolded the huge starched linen napkin over her lap and knees and braced herself for she knew not what.
Jerome entered, bearing a big silver tureen on a silver tray the size of a small tabletop. Scarlett’s eyes widened. She’d never seen silver like that in her life. It was encrusted with ornamentation. An entire forest of trees circled the base of the tureen, their branches and leaves curving upward to surround the rim. Within the forest there were birds and animals—bears, deer, wild boar, hares, pheasant, even owls and squirrels on the limbs of the trees. The lid of the tureen was shaped like a tree stump covered with thick vines, each vine bearing clusters of miniature, perfect ripe grapes. Jerome placed the tureen in front of his master and lifted the lid with a white-gloved hand. Steam poured out, clouding the silver and spreading the delicious aroma of shrimp bisque throughout the room.
Pauline and Eulalie leaned forward, smiling anxiously.
Jerome took a soup plate from the sideboard and held it next to the tureen. Pierre Robillard lifted a silver ladle and silently filled the bowl. Then he watched with half-hooded eyes while Jerome carried the bowl and deposited it in front of Pauline.
The ceremony was repeated for Eulalie, then for Scarlett. Her fingers itched to grab her spoon. But she kept her hands in her lap while her grandfather served himself and tasted the soup. He shrugged eloquent dissatisfaction and dropped his spoon into his bowl.
Eulalie let out a strangled sob.
You old monster! Scarlett thought. She began to eat her soup. It was a velvety richness of flavor. She tried to catch Eulalie’s eyes so that she could show her aunt that she was enjoying the soup, but Eulalie was downcast. Pauline’s spoon was in the bowl, like her father’s. Scarlett lost all sympathy for her aunts. If they were going to be terrorized this easily, they deserved to go hungry. She wasn’t going to let the old man keep her from her dinner!
Pauline asked her father something, but because she was speaking French, Scarlett had no idea what her aunt had said. Her grandfather’s reply was so brief, and Pauline’s face so white, that he must have said something very insulting. Scarlett began to get angry. He’s going to ruin everything, and on purpose, too. Oh, I wish I could speak French. I wouldn’t just sit and take his nastiness.
She kept silent while Jerome removed the soup plates and the silver place plates and set down dinner plates and fish knives and forks. It seemed to take forever.
But the planked shad, when it came, was worth the wait. Scarlett looked at her grandfather. He wouldn’t dare pretend that he didn’t like this. He ate two small bites. The sound of knives and forks was terribly loud when they touched the plates. Pauline first, then Eulalie, gave up with most of their fish still on their plates. Scarlett looked defiantly at her grandfather over each forkful that she carried to her mouth. But even she was beginning to lose her appetite. The old man’s displeasure was souring.
The next dish revived her appetite. The potted doves looked as tender as dumplings, and their gravy was a rich brown river over puréed potatoes and turnips molded into light-as-air nests for the meat of the tiny birds. Pierre Robillard dipped the tines of his fork into the gravy, then touched them to his tongue. That was all.
Scarlett thought she would explode. Only the desperate entreaty in her aunts’ eyes kept her silent. How could anyone be as hateful as her grandfather? It was just plain impossible that he didn’t like the food. It wasn’t too hard for him to eat, even if he did have bad teeth. Or none at all, for that matter. She knew he liked tasty food, too. After she’d buttered and gravied the pap he was usually served, his plate had gone back to the kitchen as clean as if a dog had licked it. No, there must be some other reason he wasn’t eating. And she could see it in his eyes. They gleamed when he looked at her aunts’ pitiful disappointment. He’d rather make them suffer than enjoy eating his dinner. His birthday dinner, too.
What a difference between this birthday feast and the one for her cousin Patricia!
Scarlett looked at her grandfather’s skeletal ramrod body and his self-satisfied impassive face, and she despised him for the way he was tormenting her aunts. But even more she despised them for tolerating his tortures. They don’t have a shred of gumption. How can they just sit there like that and take it? Sitting silently at her grandfather’s table, in the gracious pink room in the handsome pink house, she seethed with loathing for everything and everyone. Even herself. I’m as bad as they are. Why on earth can’t I just speak up and tell him how nasty he’s acting? I don’t have to talk French to do it, he understands English as well as I do. I’m a grown woman, not a child who mustn’t speak until spoken to. What’s wrong with me? This is downright silly.
But she continued to sit quietly, her back not touching the chair, her left hand in her lap at all times. Just as if she were a child on her best company behavior. Her mother’s presence was unseen, not even imagined, but Ellen Robillard O’Hara was there, in the h
ouse where she’d grown up, at the table where she had so often sat as Scarlett was sitting, with her left hand resting on the starched linen napkin across her lap. And, for love of her, for need of her approval, Scarlett was incapable of defying the tyranny of Pierre Robillard.
She sat for what seemed an eternity, watching Jerome’s stately slow service. Plates were replaced again and again by new plates, knives and forks by fresh knives and forks; it seemed to Scarlett that the feast would never end. Pierre Robillard consistently tasted and rejected each carefully selected and prepared dish that was offered him. By the time Jerome brought in the birthday cake, the tension and misery of Scarlett’s aunts was palpable, and Scarlett herself was barely able to sit still in her chair, so urgent was her longing to escape.
The cake was coated in glossy swirled meringue that had been sprinkled liberally with silver dragées. A silver filigreed bud vase on top held curling fronds of Angel Hair ferns and miniature silk flags of France, the Emperor Napoleon’s army, and the regiment in which Pierre Robillard had served. The old man grunted, perhaps with pleasure, when it was placed before him. He turned his hooded eyes on Scarlett. “Cut it,” he said in English.
He hopes I’ll knock over the flags, she thought, but I’m not going to give him that pleasure. As she accepted the cake knife from Jerome with her right hand, with her left she quickly lifted the shining bud vase from the cake and put it on the table. She looked directly into her grandfather’s eyes and smiled her sweetest smile.
His lips twitched.
“And did he eat it?” Scarlett asked dramatically. “He did not! The old horror managed to get no more than two crumbs on the tip of his fork—after he scraped off that beautiful meringue as if it was mold or something else horrible—and put them in his mouth like he was doing the biggest favor in the world. Then he said he was too tired to open his presents, and he went back to his room. I wanted to wring his scrawny neck!”
Scarlett: The Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 42
