She gritted her teeth and made up her mind that she was going to have a good time anyhow. Might as well, I’ll never get invited any place else.
In fact there were many things she enjoyed. In addition to croquet, there was boating on the lake, plus contests shooting at targets with bow and arrows and a game called tennis, both of them quite the latest rage, she was told.
After dinner Saturday everyone rummaged through big boxes of costumes that had been brought to the drawing room. There was buffoonery and uninhibited laughter and a lack of self-consciousness that Scarlett envied. Henry Harrington draped Scarlett in a long-trained silk cloak glittering with tinsel and put a crown of fake jewels on her head. “That makes you tonight’s Titania,” he said. Other men and women draped or clothed themselves from the boxes, shouting out who they were and racing through the big room in a free-for-all game of hiding behind chairs and chasing one another.
“I know it’s all very silly,” John Morland said apologetically through a huge papier-mâché lion’s head. “But it is Midsummer Night, we’re all allowed to go a bit mad.”
“I’m mighty put out with you, Bart,” Scarlett told him. “You’re no help to a lady at all. Why didn’t you tell me I needed dozens of dresses?”
“Oh, Lord, do you? I never notice what ladies have on. I don’t understand why they fuss so.”
By the time everyone tired of the game they were playing, the long, long Irish twilight was done.
“It’s dark,” Alice shouted. “Let’s go look at the fires.”
Scarlett felt a wave of guilt. She should be at Ballyhara. Midsummer Night was almost as important as Saint Brigid’s Day in farming tradition. Bonfires marked the turning point in the year, its shortest night, and gave mystical protection for the cattle and the crops.
When the house party went out onto the dark lawn they could see the glow of a distant fire, hear the sound of an Irish reel. Scarlett knew she should be at Ballyhara. The O’Hara should be at the bonfire ceremony. And there, too, when the sun rose and the cattle were run through the dying coals of the fire. Colum had told her she shouldn’t go to an Anglo house party. Whether she believed in them or not, the ancient traditions were important to the Irish. She’d gotten angry with him. Superstitions couldn’t run her life. But now she suspected she was wrong.
“Why aren’t you at the Ballyhara fire?” asked Bart.
“Why aren’t you at yours?” Scarlett snapped angrily.
“Because I’m not wanted there,” said John Morland. His voice in the darkness sounded very sad. “I did go once. I thought there might be one of those folk wisdom things behind running the cattle through the ashes. Good for the hooves or something. I wanted to try it on the horses.”
“Did it work?”
“I never found out. All the joy went out of the celebration when I arrived, so I left.”
“I should have left here,” Scarlett blurted.
“What an absurd thing to say. You’re the only real person here. An American, too. You’re the exotic bloom in the patch of weeds, Scarlett.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. It made sense, too. People always made much over guests from far away. She felt much better, until she heard The Honourable Louisa say, “Aren’t they entertaining? I do adore the Irish when they go all pagan and primitive like this. If only they weren’t so lazy and stupid, I wouldn’t mind living in Ireland.”
Scarlett vowed silently to apologize to Colum the minute she got back home. She should never have left her own place and her own people.
“And hasn’t any other living soul ever made a mistake, Scarlett darling? You had to learn the way of them for yourself else how would you know? Dry your eyes, now, and ride out to see the fields. The hired lads have started building the haycocks.”
Scarlett kissed her cousin’s cheek. He hadn’t said, “I told you so.”
In the weeks that followed, Scarlett was invited to two more house parties, by people she had met at Alice Harrington’s. She wrote stilted, proper refusals for both. When the haycocks were finished she had the hired lads start working on the ruined lawn behind the house. It could be back in good grass by next summer, and Cat would love to play croquet. That part had been fun.
The wheat was ripe yellow, almost ready to harvest, when a rider brought a note to her and invited himself into the kitchen for a cup of tea “or something more manly” while he waited for her to write a reply for him to take back.
Charlotte Montague would like to call on her if it was convenient.
Who on earth was Charlotte Montague? Scarlett had to rack her brain for nearly ten minutes before she recalled the pleasant, unobtrusive older woman at the Harringtons’. Mrs. Montague, she remembered, had not raced around like a wild Indian on Midsummer Night. She’d sort of disappeared after dinner. Not that it made her any less English.
But what could she want? Scarlett’s curiosity was piqued. The note said “a matter of considerable interest to us both.”
She went to the kitchen herself to give Mrs. Montague’s messenger the note inviting her to tea that afternoon. She knew she was trespassing on Mrs. Fitz’s territory. The kitchen was supposed to be viewed only from the bridge-like gallery above. But it was her kitchen, wasn’t it? And Cat had started spending hours there every day, why couldn’t she?
Scarlett nearly put on her pink frock for Mrs. Montague’s call. It was cooler than her Galway skirts and the afternoon was very warm, for Ireland. Then she put it back in the wardrobe. She wouldn’t pretend to be what she was not.
She ordered barm brack for tea instead of the scones she usually had.
Charlotte Montague was wearing a gray linen jacket and skirt with a lace jabot that Scarlett’s fingers itched to touch. She’d never seen lace so thick and elaborate.
The older woman took off her gray kid gloves and gray feathered hat before she sat in the plush-covered chair next to the tea table.
“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. O’Hara. I doubt that you want to waste time talking about the weather; you’d prefer to know why I’m here, is that correct?” Mrs. Montague had an interesting wryness in her voice and her smile.
“I’ve been dying of curiosity,” said Scarlett. She liked this beginning.
“I have learned that you’re a successful businesswoman, both here and in America… Don’t be alarmed. What I know, I keep to myself; it’s one of my most valuable assets. Another, as you can imagine, is that I have means of learning things that others do not. I’m a businesswoman, too. I would like to tell you about my business, if I may.”
Scarlett could only nod dumbly. What did this woman know about her? And how?
To put it at its most basic level, she arranged things, said Mrs. Montague. She was born the youngest daughter of a younger son of a good family, and she had married a younger son of another. Even before he died in a hunting accident she had grown tired of being always on the edge of things, always trying to keep up appearances and lead the life expected of well-bred ladies and gentlemen, always in need of money. After she was widowed she found herself in the position of poor relation, a position that was intolerable.
What she had was intelligence, education, taste, and entrée to all the best houses in Ireland. She built on them, adding discretion and information to the attributes she began with.
“I am—in a manner of speaking—a professional houseguest and friend. I give generously of advice—in clothing, in entertaining, in decorating houses, in arranging marriages or assignations. And I am paid generous commissions by dressmakers and tailors, bootmakers and jewelers, furniture dealers and rug merchants. I am skillful and tactful, and it is doubtful that anyone suspects that I am being paid. Even if they do suspect, either they don’t want to know or they are so satisfied with the outcome that they don’t care, particularly since it costs them nothing.”
Scarlett was shocked and fascinated. Why was the woman confessing all of this, to her of all people?
“I’m telling you this because I a
m sure you’re no fool, Mrs. O’Hara. You would wonder—and rightly—if I offered to help you, as the saying goes, out of the goodness of my heart. There is no goodness in my heart, except insofar as it adds to my personal wellbeing. I have a business proposal for you. You deserve better than a shabby little party given by a shabby little woman like Alice Harrington. You have beauty and brains and money. You can be an original. If you put yourself in my hands, under my tutelage, I will make you the most admired, the most sought-after woman in Ireland. It will take two to three years. Then the whole world will be open to you, to do with as you will. You will be famous. And I will have enough money to retire in luxury.”
Mrs. Montague smiled. “I’ve been waiting nearly twenty years for someone like you to come along.”
75
Scarlett hurried across the kitchen bridge to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s rooms as soon as Charlotte Montague left. She didn’t care that she was supposed to send for the housekeeper to come to her; she had to talk to someone.
Mrs. Fitz came out of her room before Scarlett could knock on the door. “You should have sent for me, Mrs. O’Hara,” she said in a low voice.
“I know, I know, but it takes so long, and what I have to tell you just won’t wait!” Scarlett was extremely agitated.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s cold look calmed her down rapidly. “It will have to wait,” she said. “The kitchen maids will hear every word you say and repeat it with embellishments. Walk slowly with me, and follow my lead.”
Scarlett felt like a chastised child. She did as she was told.
Halfway across the gallery above the kitchen Mrs. Fitzpatrick stopped. Scarlett stopped with her and contained her impatience while Mrs. Fitz talked about improvements that had been made in the kitchen. The wide balustrade was plenty big enough to sit on, Scarlett thought idly, but she stood as erect as Mrs. Fitz, looking down at the kitchen and the exceedingly busy-looking maids far below.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s progress was stately, but she did move. When they reached the house, Scarlett started talking as soon as the door to the bridge closed behind them.
“Of course it’s ridiculous,” she said after she reported what Mrs. Montague had said. “I told her so, too. ‘I’m Irish,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to be sought after by the English.’ ” Scarlett was talking very fast, and her color was high.
“Quite right you were, too, Mrs. O. The woman’s no better than a thief, by the words out of her own mouth.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s vehemence silenced Scarlett. She didn’t repeat Mrs. Montague’s response. “Your Irishness is one of the intriguing things about you. Striped stockings and boiled potatoes one day, partridge and silks the next. You can have both; it will only add to your legend. Write to me when you decide.”
Rosaleen Fitzpatrick’s account of Scarlett’s visitor infuriated Colum. “Why did Scarlett even let her in the door?” he raged.
Rosaleen tried to calm him. “She’s lonely, Colum. No friends save you and me. A child is all the world to its mother, but not much company. I’m thinking some fancy socializing might be good for her. And for us, if you put your mind on it. Kennedy’s Inn is nearly finished. We’ll have men coming and going soon. What better than to have other comings and goings to distract the eyes of the English?
“I took this Montague woman’s measure at a glance. She’s a cold, greedy sort. Mark my words, the first thing she will do is tell Scarlett that the Big House must be furnished and furbished. This Montague will play games with the cost of everything, but Scarlett can well afford it. And there will be strangers coming through Trim to Ballyhara every day of the year with their paints and velvets and French fashions. No one will pay heed to one or two more travelling this way.
“There’s wonder already about the pretty American widow. Why isn’t she looking for a husband? I say we’ll do better to send her out to the English at their parties. Otherwise, the English officers may start coming here to court her.”
Colum promised to “put his mind on it.” He went out that night and walked for miles, trying to decide what was best for Scarlett, what was best for the Brotherhood, how they could be reconciled.
He’d been so worried of late that he didn’t always think clearly. There had been reports of some men losing their commitment to the Fenian movement. Good harvests for two years in a row were making men comfortable, and comfort made it harder to risk everything. Also, Fenians who had infiltrated the constabulary were hearing rumors about an informer in the Brotherhood. Underground groups were perpetually in danger from informants. Twice in the past an uprising had been destroyed by treachery. But this one had been so carefully, so slowly planned. Every precaution taken. Nothing left to chance. It mustn’t go wrong now. They were so close. The highest councils had planned to give the signal for action in the coming winter, when three-fourths of the English militia would be away from their garrisons for fox hunting. Instead the word had come down: delay until the informer is identified and disposed of. The waiting was eating away at him.
When the sunrise came, he walked through the rose-tinted ground mist to the Big House, let himself in with a key, and went to Rosaleen’s room. “I believe you’re right,” he told her. “Does that earn me a cup of tea?”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick made a graceful apology to Scarlett later that day, admitting that she had been too hasty and too prejudiced. She urged Scarlett to start creating a social life for herself with Charlotte Montague’s help.
“I’ve decided it’s a silly idea,” Scarlett replied. “I’m too busy.”
When Rosaleen told Colum, he laughed. She slammed the door when she left his house.
Harvest, Harvest Home celebration, golden autumn days, golden leaves beginning to fall. Scarlett rejoiced in the rich crops, mourned the end of the growing year. September was the time for the half-yearly rents, and she knew her tenants would have profit left over. It was a grand thing, being The O’Hara.
She gave a big party for Cat’s second birthday. All the Ballyhara children ten and under played in the big empty rooms on the ground floor, tasted ice cream for probably the first time, ate barm brack with tiny favors baked in it as well as currants and raisins. Every one of them went home with a shiny coin. Scarlett made sure they went home early because of all the superstitions about Halloween. Then she took Cat upstairs for her nap.
“Did you like your birthday, darling?”
Cat smiled drowsily. “Yes. Sleepy, Momma.”
“I know you are, angel. It’s way past your nap time. Come on… into bed… you can nap in Momma’s big bed because this is a big birthday.”
Cat sat up as soon as Scarlett laid her down. “Where’s Cat’s present?”
“I’ll get it, darling.” Scarlett brought the big china dollbaby from its box where Cat had left it.
Cat shook her head. “The other one.” She turned on her stomach and slid down under the eiderdown to the floor, landing with a thump. Then she crawled under the bed. She backed out with a yellow tabby cat in her arms.
“For pity’s sake, Cat, where did that come from? Give it to me before it scratches you.”
“Will you give it back?”
“Of course, if you want it. But it’s a barn cat, baby, it might not want to stay in the house.”
“It likes me.”
Scarlett gave in. The cat hadn’t scratched Cat, and she looked so happy with it. What harm could it possibly do to let her keep it? She put the two of them in her bed. I’ll probably end up sleeping with a hundred fleas, but a birthday is a birthday.
Cat nestled into the pillows. Her drooping eyes opened suddenly. “When Annie brings my milk,” she said, “my friend can drink mine.” Her green eyes closed and she went limp with sleep.
Annie tapped on the door, came in with a cup of warm milk. She told them when she got back to the kitchen that Mrs. O’Hara had laughed and laughed, she couldn’t think why. She’d said something about cats and milk. If anybody wanted to know what she thought, said Mary Moran, she thought it wo
uld be a lot more seemly for that baby to have a decent Christian name, may the saints protect her. All three maids and the cook crossed themselves three times.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick saw and heard from the bridge. She crossed herself, too, and said a silent prayer. Cat would soon be too big to keep protected all the time. People were afraid of fairy changelings, and what people feared, they tried to destroy.
Down in Ballyhara town, mothers were scrubbing their children with water in which angelica root had steeped all day. It was a known protection against witches and spirits.
The horn did it. Scarlett was exercising Half Moon when both of them heard the horn and then the hounds. Somewhere close by in the countryside people were hunting. For all she knew, Rhett might even be with them. She put Half Moon over three ditches and four hedges on Ballyhara, but it wasn’t the same. She wrote to Charlotte Montague the next day.
Two weeks later three wagons rolled heavily up the drive. The furniture for Mrs. Montague’s rooms had arrived. The lady followed in a smart carriage, along with her maid.
She directed the disposition of the furniture in a bedroom and sitting room near Scarlett’s, then left her maid to see to her unpacking. “Now we begin,” she said to Scarlett.
“I might just as well not be here at all,” Scarlett complained. “The only thing I’m allowed to do is sign bank drafts for scandalous amounts of money.” She was talking to Ocras, Cat’s tabby. The name meant “hungry” in Irish and had been given by the cook in an exasperated moment. Ocras ignored Scarlett, but she had no one else to talk to. Charlotte Montague and Mrs. Fitzpatrick seldom asked her opinion about anything. Both of them knew what a Big House should be, and she didn’t.
Nor was she very interested. For most of her life the house she lived in had simply been there, already as it was, and she’d never thought about it. Tara was Tara, Aunt Pittypat’s was Aunt Pitty’s, even though half of it belonged to her. Scarlett had involved herself only with the house Rhett built for her. She’d bought the newest and most expensive furnishings and decorations, and she’d been pleased with them because they proved how rich she was. The house itself never gave her pleasure; she hardly saw it. Just as she didn’t really see the Big House at Ballyhara. Eighteenth-century Palladian, Charlotte said, and what, pray tell, was so important about that? What mattered to Scarlett was the land, for its richness and its crops, and the town, for its rents and services and because no one, not even Rhett, owned his own town.
Scarlett: The Sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 77
