Pegeen nodded stiffly. “I’ll tell Seamus about your kindness,” she said. “He’s wanting to have a word with you. I told him to stay nearby. I’ll call him now.”
Well! Scarlett said to herself, I’ve felt more welcome in my life. She wasn’t sure at all that she wanted Seamus to “have a word” with her. She’d hardly exchanged ten words with Daniel’s oldest son in all the time she’d been in Ireland.
After she heard Seamus’ “word,” Scarlett was quite sure she wished she hadn’t. He expected her to pay the rent that was coming due on the farm and he believed it was only just that he and Pegeen have the bigger cottage because he was now in Daniel’s place as owner. “Mary Margaret’s proper willing to do the cooking and washing for my brothers as well as me. Kathleen can do for Sean over here, seeing she’s his sister.”
“I’ll be glad to pay the rent,” said Scarlett. But she’d have liked to be asked, not told. “But I don’t see why you’re talking to me about who lives where. You and Pegeen—I mean, Mary Margaret—should discuss that with your brothers and Kathleen.”
“You’re The O’Hara,” Pegeen nearly shouted, “you’ve got the say.”
* * *
“She’s got the truth of it, Scarlett,” said Kathleen when Scarlett complained to her. “You are The O’Hara.” Before Scarlett could say anything, Kathleen smiled and told her it made no difference anyhow. She was going to be leaving Daniel’s cottage soon; she was going to marry a boy from Dunsany. He’d asked her only the Saturday before, Market Day in Trim. “I haven’t told the others yet, I wanted to wait for you.”
Scarlett hugged Kathleen. “How exciting! You’ll let me give the wedding, won’t you? We’ll have a wonderful party.”
“So I got off the hook,” she told Mrs. Fitz that night. “But only by the skin of my teeth. I’m not so sure being The O’Hara is exactly what I thought it would be.”
“And what was that, exactly, Mrs. O?”
“I don’t know. More fun, I guess.”
In August the potatoes were harvested. It was the best crop they’d ever had, the farmers said. Then they began to reap the wheat. Scarlett loved to watch them. The shiny sickles flashed in the sun and the golden stalks fell like rippling silk. Sometimes she took the place of the man who followed the reaper. She’d borrow the staff with a curved end that the farmers called the loghter-hook and draw up the fallen wheat into small sheaves. She couldn’t master the quick twisting movement the man made to tie each sheaf with a stalk of wheat, but she became very handy with the loghter-hook.
It sure beats picking cotton, she told Colum. Yet there were still moments when sharp pangs of homesickness caught her off guard. He understood her feelings, he said, and Scarlett was sure he did. He truly was the brother she’d always wanted.
Colum seemed preoccupied, but he said it was nothing more than his impatience that the wheat took precedence over finishing the work on the inn that Brendon Kennedy was making in the building next to his bar. Scarlett remembered the desperate man in the church, the man Colum had said was “on the run.” She wondered if there were more of them, what Colum did for them. But she’d really rather not know, and she didn’t ask.
She preferred to think about happy things, like Kathleen’s wedding. Kevin O’Connor wasn’t the man Scarlett would have picked for her, but he was clearly head over heels in love, and he had a good farm with twenty cows at grass, so he was considered a very good catch. Kathleen had a substantial dowry, in cash saved up from selling butter and eggs, and in her owning all the kitchen implements of Daniel’s house. She sensibly accepted a gift of a hundred pounds from Scarlett. It wasn’t necessary to add it to her dowry, she said with a conspiratorial wink.
The great disappointment for Scarlett was that she couldn’t hold the wedding party at the Big House. Tradition demanded that the wedding take place in the house the couple would live in. The best Scarlett could do was contribute several geese and a half dozen barrels of porter to the wedding feast. Even that was going over the edge a bit, Colum warned her. The groom’s family were the hosts.
“Well, if I’m going to go over the edge, I might as well go way over,” Scarlett told him. She warned Kathleen, too, in case she wanted to object. “I’m coming out of mourning. I’m sick to death of wearing black.”
She danced every reel at the wedding party, wearing bright blue and red petticoats under a dark green skirt, and stockings striped in yellow and green.
Then she cried all the way home to Ballyhara. “I’m going to miss her so much, Colum. I’ll miss the cottage, too, and all the visitors. I’ll never go there again, not with nasty Pegeen handing out her nasty old tea.”
“Twelve miles isn’t the end of the earth, Scarlett darling. Get yourself a good riding horse instead of driving your buggy, and you’ll be in Dunsany in no time at all.”
Scarlett could see the sense to that, although twelve miles was still a long way. What she refused to consider at all was Colum’s quiet suggestion that she start thinking about marrying again.
She woke up in the night sometimes, and the darkness in her room was like the dark mystery of Rhett’s eyes meeting hers when her ship was leaving Charleston. What had he been feeling?
Alone in the silence of the night, alone in the vastness of the ornate bed, alone in the black blankness of the unlit room, Scarlett wondered, and dreamed of impossible things, and sometimes wept from the ache of wanting him.
“Cat,” said Cat clearly when she saw her reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, thank God,” Scarlett cried aloud. She’d been afraid her baby was never going to talk. Cat had rarely gurgled and cooed like other babies, and she looked at people who talked baby talk to her with an expression of profound astonishment. She walked at ten months, which was early, Scarlett knew, but a month later she was still practically mute except for her laughter. “Say ‘ma-ma,’ ” Scarlett begged. To no avail.
“Say ‘ma-ma,’ ” she tried again after Cat spoke, but the little girl wriggled out of her grasp and plunged recklessly across the floor. Her walking was more enthusiastic than skillful.
“Conceited little monster,” Scarlett called after her. “All babies say ‘ma-ma’ for their first word, not their own name.”
Cat staggered to a halt. She looked back at Scarlett with a smile that Scarlett said later was “positively diabolical.” “Mama,” she said casually. Then she lurched off again.
“She probably could have said it all along if she’d wanted to,” Scarlett bragged to Father Flynn. “She tossed it to me like a bone to a dog.”
The old priest smiled tolerantly. He had listened to many proud mothers in his long years. “It’s a grand day,” he offered pleasantly.
“A grand day in every way, Father!” exclaimed Tommy Doyle, the youngest of Ballyhara’s farmers. “It’s sure that we’ve made the harvest of harvests.” He refilled his glass, and Father Flynn’s. A man was entitled to relax and enjoy himself at the Harvest Home celebration.
Scarlett allowed him to give her a glass of porter, too. The toasts would be starting soon and it would be bad luck if she didn’t share them with at least a sip. After the good luck that had blessed Ballyhara all year, she wasn’t about to risk inviting any bad.
She looked at the long, laden tables set up the length of Ballyhara’s wide street. Each was decorated with a ribbon-tied sheaf of wheat. Each was surrounded by smiling people enjoying themselves. This was the best part of being The O’Hara. They had all worked, each in his or her own way, and now they were all together, the whole population of the town, to celebrate the results of that work.
There was food and drink, sweets and a small carousel for the children, a wooden platform for dancing later in front of the unfinished inn. The air was golden with afternoon light, the wheat was golden on the table, a golden feeling of happiness bathed everyone in shared repletion. It was exactly what Harvest Home was meant to be.
The sound of horses coming made mothers look for their younger children. Scarl
ett’s heart stopped for a moment when she couldn’t find Cat. Then she saw her sitting on Colum’s knee at the end of the table. He was talking to the man beside him. Cat was nodding as if she understood every word. Scarlett grinned. What a funny little girl her daughter was.
A group of militia rode into the end of the street. Three men, three officers, their polished brass buttons more golden than the wheat. They slowed their horses to a walk, and the noise around the tables died away. Some of the men rose to their feet.
“At least the soldiers have the decency not to gallop past, stirring up dust,” said Scarlett to Father Flynn. But when the men reined in before the deserted church she fell silent, too.
“Which way to the Big House?” said one of the officers. “I’m here to talk to the owner.”
Scarlett stood up. “I am the owner,” she said. She was amazed that her suddenly dry mouth could make any sound at all.
The officer looked at her tumbled hair and bright peasant clothes. His lips curled in a sneer. “Very amusing, girl, but we’re not here to play games.”
Scarlett felt an emotion that had become almost a stranger to her, a wild, elated anger. She stepped up onto the bench she’d been sitting on and put her hands on her hips. She looked insolent and she knew it.
“No one invited you here—soldier—to play games or anything else. Now what do you want? I am Mrs. O’Hara.”
A second officer walked his horse forward a few steps. He dismounted and came on foot to stand in front of and below Scarlett’s position on the bench. “We’re to deliver this, Mrs. O’Hara.” He removed his hat and one of his white gauntlets and handed a scrolled paper up to Scarlett. “The garrison is going to second a detachment to Ballyhara for its protection.”
Scarlett could feel tension, like a storm, in the warm end-of-summer atmosphere. She unrolled the paper and read it slowly, twice. She could feel the knots in her shoulders relax when the full meaning of the document was clear to her. She lifted her head and smiled so everyone could see her. Then she turned the full force of her smile on the officer looking up at her. “That’s mighty sweet of the colonel,” she said, “but I’m really not interested, and he can’t send any soldiers to my town without my agreement. Will you tell him for me? I don’t have any unrest here in Ballyhara at all. We get along real fine.” She held the vellum sheet down to the officer. “Youall look a mite parched, would you like a glass of ale?” The admiring expression on her face had enchanted men just like this officer from the day she turned fifteen. He blushed and stammered exactly like dozens of young men she’d beguiled in Clayton County, Georgia.
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Hara, but—uh—regulations—that is, personally I’d like nothing better—but the colonel wouldn’t—um—he’d think—”
“I understand,” said Scarlett kindly. “Maybe some other time?”
The first toast of Harvest Home was to The O’Hara. It would have been the first toast anyway, but now the salute was a loud roar.
72
Winter made Scarlett restless. Except for riding there was nothing active to do, and she needed to be busy. The new fields were cleared and manured by the middle of November, and then what did she have to think about? There weren’t even many complaints or disputes brought to her office on First Sundays. True, Cat could walk across the room herself to light the Christmas candle and there were the New Year’s Day ceremonies of barm brack against the wall and being the dark-haired visitor in town, but even so the short days seemed too long to her. She was warmly welcomed in Kennedy’s bar now that she was known to be supporting the Fenians, but she quickly tired of the songs about the blessed martyrs to Irish freedom and the loud-voiced threats to run the English out. She went down to the bar only when she was starved for company. She was overjoyed when Saint Brigid’s Day arrived on February 1 and the growing year had begun again. She turned the first sod with such enthusiasm that soil flew out in a wide circle around her. “This year will be even better than last,” she predicted rashly.
But the new fields put an impossible burden on the farmers. There was never enough time to do everything that needed doing. Scarlett nagged at Colum to move some more laborers into the town. There were still plenty of vacant cottages. He wouldn’t agree to let strangers in. Scarlett backed down. She understood the need for secrecy about the Fenians. Finally Colum found a compromise. She could hire men just for the summer. He’d take her to the hiring fair at Drogheda. The horse fair would be on, too, and she could buy the horses she thought she needed.
“ ‘Thought,’ my foot, Colum O’Hara. I must have been blind and half-witted too when I paid good money for the plow horses we’ve got. They don’t go any faster than a box turtle on a rocky road. I’m not going to be cheated again that way.”
Colum smiled to himself. Scarlett was an astonishing woman, amazingly competent at many things. But she was never going to best an Irish horse trader, he was sure of that.
“Scarlett darling, you look like a village lass, not landed gentry. No one will believe you can pay for a merry-go-round ride, let alone a horse.”
Her frown was meant to intimidate. She didn’t understand that she really did look like a girl dressed up for a fair. Her green shirt made her eyes even greener and her blue skirt was the color of the spring sky. “Will you please do me the kindness, Father Colum O’Hara, to get this buggy moving? I know what I’m doing. If I look rich, the dealer will think he can stick me with any old broken-down thing he has. I’ll do much better in village clothes. Now come on. I’ve been waiting for weeks and weeks. I don’t see any reason why the hiring fair can’t be on Saint Brigid’s Day when the work starts.”
Colum smiled at her. “Some of the lads go to school, Scarlett darling.” He flicked the reins and they were on their way.
“A fat lot of good that’ll do them, ruining their eyes on books when they could be out in the air earning a good wage besides.” She was cranky with impatience.
The miles rolled by, and the hedgerows were sweet with blackthorn blossoms. Once they were really on their way Scarlett began to enjoy herself. “I’ve never been to Drogheda, Colum. Will I like it?”
“I believe you will. It’s a very big fair, this, much bigger than any you’ve seen.” He knew that Scarlett didn’t mean the city when she asked about Drogheda. She liked the excitement of fairs. The intriguing possibilities in a crooked old city street were incomprehensible to her. Scarlett liked things to be obvious and easily understood. It was a trait that often made him uneasy. He knew she had no real understanding of what danger she courted with her involvement in the Fenian Brotherhood, and ignorance could lead to disaster.
But today he was on her business, not his. He intended to enjoy the fair as much as Scarlett.
“Look, Colum, it’s enormous!”
“Too big, I fear. Will you choose the lads first or the horses? They’re at different ends.”
“Oh, bother! The best ones will get snapped up in the beginning, they always do. I’ll tell you what—you pick out the boys and I’ll go straight for the horses. You come to me when you finish. You’re sure the boys will go to Ballyhara on their own?”
“They’re here for hiring and they’re used to walking. Some of them likely walked a hundred miles to be here.”
Scarlett smiled. “Better look at their feet, then, before you sign anything. I’ll be looking at teeth. Which way do I go?”
“Back in that corner, where the banners are. You’ll see some of the best horses in Ireland at Drogheda Fair. I’ve heard of a hundred guineas and more paid.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee! What a tale teller you are, Colum. I’ll get three pair for under that, you’ll see.”
There were big canvas tents that served as temporary stables for the horses. Ha! thought Scarlett, nobody’s going to sell me an animal in bad light. She pushed into the noisy crowd that was milling around inside the tent.
My grief, I’ve never seen so many horses in one place in my life! How smart of Colum to bring me here. I�
�ll have all the choice I need. She elbowed her way from one place to another, looked over one horse after another. “Not yet,” she said to the traders. She didn’t like the system in Ireland at all. You couldn’t just walk up to the owner and ask him what he wanted for his animal. No, that was too easy. The minute there was any interest one of the traders jumped in to name a price that was way out of line one end or another and then badger buyer and seller into an agreement in the end. She’d learned the hard way about some of their tricks. They’d grab your hand and slap down on it so sharp it hurt, and that meant you might have bought yourself a horse if you weren’t careful.
She liked the looks of a pair of roans that the dealer shouted were perfectly matched three-year-olds and only seventy pounds the pair. Scarlett put her hands behind her back. “Walk them out in the light where I can see them,” she said.
Owner and dealer and people nearby all protested furiously. “Takes all the sport out,” said a small man in riding breeches and a sweater.
Scarlett insisted, but very sweetly. Catch more flies with honey, she reminded herself. She looked at the horses’ gleaming coats, rubbed her hand over them and looked at the pomade on her palm. Then she caught expert hold of one horse’s head and examined his teeth. She burst out laughing. Three-year-old, my maiden aunt! “Take ’em in,” she said, with a wink at the dealer. “I’ve got a grandfather younger than them.” She was enjoying herself very much.
After an hour, though, she’d only found three horses that she liked both as animal and as a good buy. Every single time she had to coax and charm the owner into letting her examine the horse in the light. She looked enviously at the people buying hunters. There were jumps set up in the open, and they could get a good look at what they were buying, doing what they were buying it to do. They were such beautiful horses, too. For a plow horse, looks weren’t important. She turned away from the view of the jumping. She needed three more plow horses. While her eyes accustomed themselves to the shaded interior of the tent, Scarlett leaned against one of the thick tent supports. She was starting to get tired. And she was only half done.
Scarlett: The Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 74
