How long ago that was . . . not when you think about something as old as the tower, I guess. Roots that go deep . . . Colum was frightening this morning . . . that awful story about the ships . . . Those were my uncles, Pa’s own brothers drowning. Damn that English lord. I’m glad they hung him.
There had never been a party the likes of Old Katie Scarlett’s birthday celebration. O’Haras from all over County Meath and beyond came in donkey carts and wagons, on horseback, on foot. Half the population of Trim was there, and every soul that lived in Adamstown. They brought gifts and stories and food made especially for the feast, although Scarlett had thought that there was already food enough for an army. Mahoney’s wagon from Trim rolled up with kegs of ale, and so did Jim Daly’s from Mullingar. Seamus, Daniel’s eldest son, rode the plow horse into Trim and returned with a box of clay pipes strapped on his back like a huge angular hump, tobacco in two sacks hung like saddlebags. For every man—and many women, too—must be given a new pipe on such a momentous occasion.
Scarlett’s grandmother received the stream of guests and gifts like a queen, sitting in her high-backed chair, wearing her new lace collar on her good black silk, dozing when it pleased her and drinking whiskey in her tea.
When the evening Angelus bell rang, there were over three hundred people standing in and outside the tiny cottage, come to do honor to Katie Scarlett O’Hara on her one hundredth birthday.
She’d asked for “the old ways,” and there was an elderly man in the place of honor by the fire opposite hers. With loving gnarled fingers he turned back linen wrappings to reveal a harp; three hundred and more voices sighed with joy. This was MacCormac, the only true inheritor of the music of the bards now that the great O’Carolan was dead. He spoke, and his voice was like music already. “I tell you the words of the master Turlough O’Carolan: ‘I spend my time in Ireland happy and contented, drinking with every strong man who is a real lover of music.’ And I add these words of my own making: I drink with every strong man and every strong woman such as Katie Scarlett O’Hara.” He bowed to her. “That is to say, when drink is offered.” Two dozen hands filled glasses. He carefully chose the largest, which he raised to Old Katie Scarlett, then drained. “Now I will sing you the tale of the coming of Finn MacCool,” he said. His worn bent fingers touched the strings of the harp and magic filled the air.
And forever after there was music. Two pipers had come with their pibs willeann, there were fiddlers beyond counting, and penny-whistles by the dozens, and concertinas, and hands leaping with clacking bones, and the stirring, inciting beat of bodhrans following the strong lead of Colum O’Hara.
Women filled plates with food, Daniel O’Hara presided over the small barrels of poteen, dancing filled the center of the farmyard, and no one slept at all, save Old Katie Scarlett whenever she had a mind to.
“I didn’t know there could ever be such a party,” Scarlett said. She was breathing in short gasps, catching up before rejoining the pink-washed dancing in the sunrise.
“You mean you’ve never celebrated May Day?” exclaimed shocked cousins from she knew not where.
“You’ll have to stay for May Day, Young Katie Scarlett,” Timothy O’Hara said. A chorus of urging echoed him.
“I can’t. We’ve got to catch the ship.”
“There’ll be other ships, surely?”
Scarlett jumped up from the bench. She’d had enough rest, and the fiddlers were starting a new reel. While she danced herself breathless again, the question sang in her head with the rollicking tune. There must be other ships. Why not stay and have fun dancing the reel in her striped stockings a little longer? Charleston would still be there when she arrived—with the same tea parties in the same crumbling houses behind the same high, unfriendly walls.
Rhett would still be there, too. Let him wait. She’d waited for him long enough in Atlanta, but things were different now. The baby in her womb made Rhett hers any time she wanted to claim him.
Yes, she decided, she might just stay for May Day. She was having such a good time.
The next day she asked Colum if he knew about another sailing, after May Day.
There was indeed another sailing. A fine ship, that stopped first at Boston, where he had to go while he was in America. She and Bridie would do very well on their own for the balance of the journey to Savannah. “She sails the evening of the ninth. You’ll only have a half day to do your shopping in Galway.”
She didn’t need even that long; she’d already thought about it. No one in Charleston would ever wear Galway stockings or Galway petticoats. They were too bright and vulgar. She was only going to keep a few of those she’d bought for herself. They’d be wonderful souvenirs. She’d give the others to Kathleen and her new friends in the village.
“May ninth. That’s a lot later than we planned, Colum.”
“It’s but a week and a day after May Day, Katie Scarlett. No time at all, once you’re dead.”
It was true! She’d never have this chance again. Besides, it would be a nice thing to do for Colum. The trip from Savannah to Boston and back would be a real hardship for him. After he’d been so nice to her, it was the least she should do for him . . .
On April 26 the Brian Boru sailed from Galway with two staterooms unoccupied. She had arrived on the twenty-fourth, a Friday, with passengers and mail. The mail was sorted in Galway on Saturday; Sunday being Sunday, the small bag for Mullingar left on Monday. On Tuesday the coach from Mullingar to Drogheda left a smaller bag at Navan, and on Wednesday a post rider set out with a packet of letters for the postmistress at Trim. There was a big thick envelope for Colum O’Hara from Savannah, Georgia. He got a lot of mail, did Colum O’Hara, a grand devoted family the O’Haras, and the Old One’s birthday a night he wouldn’t soon forget. The post rider dropped it off at the bar in Adamstown. “No reason to wait a farther twenty-four hours I was thinking,” he said to Matt O’Toole, who operated the bar and the tiny shop and post station in the corner of it. “At Trim they’ll only put it in a slot marked ‘Adamstown’ until tomorrow, when another man will bring it.” He accepted with alacrity the glass of porter Matt O’Toole offered him on Colum’s behalf. Small and needing paint O’Toole’s bar might be, but it served a fine dark glass.
Matt O’Toole called his wife in from the yard where she was spreading the wash to dry. “Mind the place, Kate, I’m walking up the boreen to Uncle Daniel’s.” Mart’s father was the brother of Daniel O’Hara’s dead wife, Theresa, God rest her soul.
“Colum! That’s wonderful!” Included in Colum’s envelope from Jamie was a letter from Tom MacMahon, the contractor for the Cathedral. The Bishop—with a little persuading—had agreed to allow Scarlett to redeem her sister’s dowry. Tara. My Tara. I’ll do such marvelous things.
Great balls of fire! “Colum, did you see this? That skinflint Bishop is asking five thousand dollars for Carreen’s third of Tara! God’s nightgown! You could buy the whole of Clayton County for five thousand dollars. He’ll have to come down in his price.”
Bishops of the Church did not haggle, Colum told her. If she wanted the dowry, and she had the money, she should pay it. She’d also be financing the work of the Church, if that made the transaction more palatable to her.
“You know it doesn’t, Colum. I hate to be taken for a ride by anybody, even the Church. I’m sorry if that offends you. Still, I must have Tara, my heart’s set on it. Oh, what a fool I was to let you talk me into staying over. We could be halfway to Savannah by now!
Colum didn’t bother to correct her. He left her looking for a piece of paper and a pen. “I’ve got to write to Uncle Henry Hamilton right this minute! He can handle everything; it’ll all be done when I get there.”
On Thursday Scarlett went to Trim by herself. It was annoying that Kathleen and Bridie were busy at the farm, and infuriating that Colum had just disappeared without telling a soul where he was going or when he’d be back. Still, it couldn’t be helped once he was gone. And she had so much to do.
She wanted some of those lovely pottery bowls that Kathleen used in the kitchen, and lots of the baskets—every shape, and there were so many of them—and piles and piles of the thick linen cloths and napkins; there was no linen like that in the stores at home. She was going to make the kitchen at Tara warm and friendly, like the Irish ones. After all, wasn’t the name Tara just about as Irish as you could get?
As for Will and Suellen, she’d do something very generous for them, for Will anyhow, he deserved it. There was lots of good land just going begging in the County. Wade and Ella would come live with her and Rhett in Charleston. Rhett really was fond of them. She’d find a good school, one with a short vacation time. Rhett would probably frown the way he always did about the way she treated the children, but when the baby was born and he saw how much she loved it, he’d stop criticizing her all the time. And in the summer, they’d be at Tara, a Tara reborn and beautiful and home.
Scarlett knew she was building castles in the air. Maybe Rhett would never leave Charleston, and she’d have to be satisfied with occasional visits to Tara. But why not daydream all she wanted on a beautiful spring day like this, driving a smart pony cart and wearing stockings striped in red and blue? Why not?
She giggled, touched the whip to the pony’s neck. Listen to me—I sound downright Irish.
May Day was everything that had been promised. There was food and dancing on every street in Trim, plus four tremendous Maypoles on the green within the walls of the ruined castle. Scarlett’s ribbon was red, and she had a wreath of flowers for her hair, and an English officer asked her to walk down to the river, and she told him off in no uncertain terms.
They went home after the sun came up; Scarlett walked the four miles with the rest of the family because she didn’t want the night to end, even though it was now day. And because she was already starting to miss her cousins, all the people she’d met. She was longing to get home, to settle the details about Tara, to begin the work on it, but she was still glad that she’d stayed for May Day. There was only a week left now. It seemed a very short time.
On Wednesday, Frank Kelly, the post rider from Trim, stopped at Matt O’Toole’s for a pipe and a pint. “There’s a bulging letter for Colum O’Hara,” he said. “What do you fancy it could be about?” They speculated pleasantly, and wildly. In America, anything might he true. And they might just as well speculate. Father O’Hara was a friendly man, as everyone agreed, and a grand talker. But when all was said and over, he never told much.
Matt O’Toole didn’t take Colum’s letter to him. There was no need. He knew that Clare O’Gorman was going to visit her old grandmother that afternoon. She’d take the letter, if Colum didn’t stop in before. Matt hefted the envelope in his hand. It must be exceptionally fine news to warrant spending that much money to send such a weight. Or else a truly major disaster.
“There’s post for you, Scarlett. Colum put it on the table. And a cup of tea when you want it. Did you have a pleasant visit with Molly?” Kathleen’s voice was rich with anticipation.
Scarlett didn’t disappoint her. With a giggle in her voice, she described the visit. “Molly had the doctor’s wife with her, and her teacup rattled fit to break when I walked in. She didn’t know whether she could get away with saying I was the new hired girl or not, I reckon. So then the doctor’s wife said in a little fluty voice, ‘Oh, the rich American cousin. What an honor.’ And she didn’t bat an eye at my clothes. Molly jumped up like a scalded cat and rushed over to give me one of her double kisses on the cheek when she heard that. I promise you, Kathleen, she got tears in her eyes when I said I’d only come to fetch a travelling costume out of my trunk. She was just dying for me to stay, no matter what I looked like. I gave her the kiss-kiss when I got ready to leave. And the doctor’s wife, too, for good measure. Might as well go the whole hog.”
Kathleen was bent over with laughter, her sewing dropped in a heap on the floor. Scarlett dropped her travelling suit beside it. She was sure it was going to need easing through the waist. If the baby wasn’t making her thicker through the middle, then wearing easy clothes and eating so much was to blame. Whichever it was, she had no intention of taking the long trip laced so tight she couldn’t breathe.
She picked up the envelope and held it in the doorway so the light could fall on it. It was covered with writing and rubber-stamped dates. Honestly! Her grandfather was the nastiest man in the world. Or else that horrible Jerome was responsible, more likely him. The envelope had gone to her care of her grandfather and he hadn’t sent it to Maureen’s for weeks. She tore it open impatiently. It was from some government bureau in Atlanta, mailed originally to the Peach-tree Street house. She hoped she hadn’t missed paying some tax or something. Between the money to the Bishop for Tara and the cost of the houses she was building, her reserves were getting too low to row money away on late payment penalties. And she was going to need a lot for the work on Tara. Not to mention buying a place for Will. Her fingers touched the pouch beneath her shirt. No, Rhett’s money was Rhett’s money.
The document was dated March 26, 1875. The day she’d sailed from Savannah on the Brian Boru. Scarlett’s eyes skimmed over the first few lines, then stopped. It made no sense. She went back to the beginning and read more slowly. All the color drained from her face. “Kathleen, where’s Colum, do you know?” Why, I sound perfectly ordinary. That’s funny.
“He’s with the Old One, I think. Clare came to get him. Can’t it wait a bit? I’m nearly finished with fixing this dress of mine for Bridie to wear on the voyage, and I know she wants to try it on for you to comment.”
“I can’t wait.” She had to see Colum. Something had gone terribly wrong. They had to leave today, this minute. She had to get home.
Colum was in the yard in front of the cottage. “There’s never been a spring so sunny,” he said. “The cat and I are basking a bit.”
Scarlett’s unnatural calm vanished when she saw him, and she was screaming when she reached his side. “Take me home, Colum. Damn you and all the O’Haras and Ireland. I should never have left home.”
Her hand was clutched painfully, nails biting into flesh. Crumbled in it was a statement from the sovereign state of Georgia that had entered into its permanent records the absolute decree of divorce granted to one Rhett Kinnicutt Butler on the grounds of desertion by his wife, one Scarlett O’Hara Butler, by the Military District of South Carolina administered by the Federal Government of the United States of America.
“There is no divorce in South Carolina,” said Scarlett. “Two lawyers told me so.” She said it again and again, always the same words, until her throat was raw and she could no longer force sound through it. Then her chapped lips formed the words silently while her mind said them. Again and again.
Colum led her to a quiet corner of the vegetable garden. He sat beside her and talked, but he couldn’t make her listen, so he took her clenched hands in his for comfort and stayed quiet beside her. Through the light shower that came with twilight. Through the brilliant sunset. Into the darkness. Bridie came looking for them when supper was ready, and Colum sent her away.
“Scarlett’s off her head, Bridie. Tell them in the house not to worry, she only needs a bit of time to get over the shock. The news came from America: her husband’s grievously sick. She’s afraid he’ll die without her by his side.”
Bridie ran back to report. Scarlett was praying, she said. The family prayed too; their supper was cold when they finally began to eat. “Take a lantern out, Timothy,” said Daniel.
The light reflected from Scarlett’s glazed eyes. “Kathleen sent a shawl, too,” Timothy whispered. Colum nodded, placed it over Scarlett’s shoulders, waved Timothy away.
Another hour went by. Stars glowed in the nearly moonless sky; they were brighter than the light from the lantern. There was a brief small cry from a nearby wheat field, then a nearly soundless flutter of wings. An owl had made a kill.
“What am I to do?” Scarlett’s rasping voice was loud in the da
rkness. Colum sighed quietly and thanked God. The worst of the shock was over.
“We’ll go home as we planned, Scarlett darling. There’s nothing happened that can’t be remedied.” His voice was calm, certain, soothing.
“Divorced!” There was an alarming rise of hysteria in the cracked sound. Colum chafed her hands briskly.
“What’s done can be undone, Scarlett.”
“I should have stayed. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Whist, now. Should-haves solve nothing. It’s the next thing to happen that needs thinking about.”
“He’ll never take me back. Not if his heart’s so hard that he’d divorce me. I kept waiting for him to come after me, Colum, I was so sure he would. How could I have been such a fool? You don’t know the all of it. I’m pregnant, Colum. How can I have a baby when I don’t have a husband?”
“There, there,” said Colum quietly. “Doesn’t that take care of it? You’ve only got to tell him.”
Scarlett’s hands flew to her belly. Of course! How could she have been such a fool? Jagged laughter tore at her throat. There was no piece of paper ever written that would make Rhett Butler give up his baby. He could have the divorce cancelled, erased from all the records. Rhett could do anything. He’d just proved it again. There was no divorce in South Carolina. Unless Rhett Butler made up his mind to get one.
“I want to go right now, Colum. There must be a ship sailing earlier. I’ll go crazy waiting.”
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