Charlotte identified some of the people at other tables in the sumptuous lounge. “You’ll meet them all eventually. After you’re presented, you’ll serve tea and coffee in your drawing room every afternoon. People will bring people to meet you.”
Who? Scarlett wanted to ask. Who will bring people, and who are the people they’ll bring? But she didn’t bother. Charlotte always knew what she was doing. The only thing Scarlett needed to be responsible for was not getting tangled up in her train when she backed away after her presentation. Charlotte and Mrs. Sims were going to coach her with a practice presentation gown every day until The Day.
The heavy white envelope bearing the Chamberlain’s seal was delivered to the hotel the day after Scarlett arrived. Charlotte’s expression gave no hint of how relieved she was. One never knew for sure about best-laid plans. She opened it with steady fingers. “First Drawing Room,” she said, “as expected. Day after tomorrow.”
Scarlett waited in a group of white-gowned girls and women on the landing outside the closed double doors to the Throne Room. It seemed to her she’d been doing nothing but waiting for a hundred years. Why on earth had she agreed to do this? Scarlett couldn’t answer her own question, it was too complex. In part she was The O’Hara, determined to conquer the English. In part she was an American girl dazzled by the grandeur of the British Empire’s royal panoply. At bottom, Scarlett had never in her life backed down from a challenge and never would.
Another name was called. Not hers. God’s nightgown! Were they going to make her be last? Charlotte hadn’t warned her about that. Charlotte hadn’t even told her until the last minute that she’d be alone all the way. “I’ll find you in the supper room after the Drawing Room is over.” That was a fine way to treat her, throwing her to the wolves like that. She stole another glance down her front. She was terrified that she might just fall right out of the scandalously low-cut gown. That would really make this—what had Charlotte said? “An experience to remember.”
“Madam The O’Hara of Ballyhara.”
Oh, Lord, that’s me. She repeated Charlotte Montague’s coaching litany to herself. Walk forward, stop outside the door. A footman will lift the train you have looped over your left arm and arrange it behind you. The Gentleman Usher will open the doors. Wait for him to announce you.
“Madam The O’Hara of Ballyhara.”
Scarlett looked at the Throne Room. Well, Pa, what do you think of your Katie Scarlett now? she thought. I’m going to stroll along that fifty miles or so of red carpet runner and kiss the Viceroy of Ireland, cousin of the Queen of England. She glanced at the majestically dressed Gentleman Usher, and her right eyelid quivered in what might almost have been a conspiratorial wink.
The O’Hara walked like an empress to face the Viceroy’s redbearded magnificence and present her cheek for the ceremonial kiss of welcome.
Turn to the Vicereine now and curtsey. Back straight. Not too low. Stand up. Now back, back, back, three steps, don’t worry, the weight of the train holds it away from your body. Now extend your left arm. Wait. Let the footman have plenty of time to arrange the train over your arm. Now turn. Walk out.
Scarlett’s knees obligingly waited until she was seated at one of the supper tables before they started trembling.
Charlotte made no attempt to hide her satisfaction. She entered Scarlett’s bedroom with the stiff squares of white cardboard fanned in her hand. “My dear Scarlett, you were a dazzling success. These invitations arrived before even I was up and dressed. State Ball, that’s quite special. Saint Patrick’s Ball, that was to be expected. Second Drawing Room, you’ll be able to watch other people running the gauntlet. And a small dance in the Throne Room. Three-fourths of the peers in Ireland have never been invited to one of the small dances.”
Scarlett giggled. The terror of being presented was behind her, and she was a success! “I guess I won’t mind now that I spent last year’s wheat crop on all those new clothes. Let’s go shopping today and spend this year’s crop.”
“You won’t have time. Eleven gentlemen, including the Gentleman Usher, have written to ask permission to call on you. Plus fourteen ladies, with their daughters. Tea time won’t be long enough. You’ll have to serve coffee and tea in the mornings, too. The maids are opening your drawing room right now. I ordered pink flowers, so wear your brown and rose plaid taffeta for the morning and the green velvet faced in pink for the afternoon. Evans will be here to do your hair as soon as you’re up.”
Scarlett was the Season’s hit. Gentlemen flocked to meet the rich widow who was also—mirabile dictu—fantastically beautiful. Mothers swarmed her private reception room with daughters in tow to meet the gentlemen. After the first day, Charlotte never ordered flowers again. Admirers sent so many that there wasn’t room for all of them. Many of the bouquets contained leather cases from Dublin’s finest jeweler, but Scarlett reluctantly returned all the brooches, bracelets, rings, earrings. “Even an American from Clayton County, Georgia, knows that you’re expected to pay back favors,” she told Charlotte. “I won’t be obligated to anybody, not that way.”
Her goings and comings were reported faithfully and sometimes even accurately in the gossip column of the daily Irish Times. Shop owners in morning coats came themselves to show her choice items they hoped she might like, and she defiantly bought herself many of the jewelry pieces she had refused to accept. The Viceroy danced with her twice at the State Ball.
All the guests at her coffees and teas admired her portrait. Scarlett looked at it every morning and every afternoon before the first visitors arrived. She was learning herself. Charlotte Montague observed the metamorphosis with interest. The practiced flirt vanished, replaced by a serene, somewhat amused woman who had only to turn her smoky green eyes on man, woman, or child to draw them, mesmerized, to her side.
I used to work like a mule to be charming, Scarlett thought, now I don’t do anything at all. She couldn’t understand it at all, but she accepted the gift of it with simple gratitude.
“Did you say two hundred people, Charlotte? That’s what you call a small dance?”
“Relatively. There are always five or six hundred at the State and Saint Patrick’s balls and more than a thousand at the Drawing Rooms. You certainly already know at least half the people who’ll be there, probably many more than half.”
“I still think it’s tacky that you weren’t invited.”
“It’s the way things are. I’m not offended.” Charlotte was anticipating the evening with pleasure. She planned to go over her account book. Scarlett’s success and Scarlett’s extravagance greatly exceeded even Charlotte’s most optimistic expectations. She felt like a nabob, and she liked to gloat over her wealth. Admission to the coffee hour alone was bringing in “gifts” of almost a hundred pounds a week. And there were still two weeks left in the Season. She would see Scarlett off to her privileged evening with a light heart.
Scarlett paused in the doorway of the Throne Room to enjoy the spectacle. “You know, Jeffrey, I never get used to this place,” she said to the Gentleman Usher. “I’m like Cinderella at the ball.”
“I’d never associate you with Cinderella, Scarlett,” he said adoringly. Scarlett’s wink had put his shirt in her pocket when she entered the First Drawing Room.
“You’d be surprised,” Scarlett said. She nodded absentmindedly in response to bows and smiles from familiar faces nearby. How lovely it was. It couldn’t be real, she couldn’t really be here. Everything had happened so fast; she needed time to absorb it.
The great room shimmered gold. Gilded columns supported the ceiling, gilded flat column pilasters filled the walls between the tall windows draped in gold-fringed crimson velvet. Gilt armchairs upholstered in crimson surrounded the supper tables along the walls, each table centered with a gold candelabrum. Gilt covered the intricately carved gaslit chandeliers and the massive canopy above the gold and red thrones. Gold lace trimmed men’s court dress of brocaded silk skirted coats and white satin knee b
reeches. Gold buckles decorated their satin dancing pumps. Gold buttons, gold epaulets, gold frogging, gold braid gleamed on the dress uniforms of regimental officers and the court uniforms of Viceregal officials.
Many of the men wore bright sashes slashed across their chests, pinned with jewelled orders; the Viceroy’s knee breeches touched the Garter around his leg. The men were almost more splendid than the women.
Almost, but not quite, for the women were jewelled at neck, breast, ears, and wrists; many wore tiaras as well. Their gowns were made of rich materials—satin, velvet, brocade, silk—embroidered often in glowing silks or gold and silver threads.
A body could get blinded just looking, I’d better go on in and make my manners. Scarlett made her way across the room to curtsey to the Viceregal host and hostess. The music started as she finished.
“May I?” A gold-braided red arm crooked to offer support for her hand. Scarlett smiled. It was Charles Ragland. She’d met him at a house party, and he had called on her every day since her arrival in Dublin. He made no secret of his admiration. Charles’ handsome face blushed every time she spoke to him. He was awfully sweet and attractive, even though he was an English soldier. They weren’t at all like Yankees, no matter what Colum said. For one thing, they were infinitely better dressed. She rested her hand lightly on Ragland’s arm, and he escorted her into the pattern of the quadrille.
“You are very beautiful tonight, Scarlett.”
“So are you, Charles. I was just thinking that the men are more dressed up than the ladies.”
“Thank heaven for uniforms. Knee breeches are the devil to wear. A man feels a perfect fool in satin shoes.”
“Serves them right. They’ve been peeking at ladies’ ankles for ages, let them see what it feels like when we ogle their legs.”
“Scarlett, you shock me.” The pattern shifted and he was gone.
I probably do, Scarlett thought. Charles was as innocent as a schoolboy sometimes. She looked up at her new partner.
“My God!” she said aloud. It was Rhett.
“How flattering,” he said with his twisty half smile. No one else smiled like that. Scarlett was filled with light, with lightness. She felt as if she were floating above the polished floor, buoyant with happiness.
And then, before she could speak again, the quadrille took him away. She smiled automatically at her new partner. The love burning in her eyes took his breath away. Her mind was racing: Why is Rhett here? Could it be because he wanted to see me? Because he had to see me, because he couldn’t keep away?
The quadrille moved at its stately tempo, making Scarlett frantic with impatience. When it ended, she was facing Charles Ragland. It took all her self-control to smile and thank him and murmur a hasty excuse before she turned to search for Rhett.
Her eyes met his almost immediately. He was standing only an arm’s length away.
Scarlett’s pride kept her from reaching out to him. He knew I’d be looking for him, she thought angrily. Who does he think he is, anyhow, to come strolling into my world and just stand there and expect me to fall into his arms? There are plenty of men in Dublin—in this room, even—who’ve been smothering me with attention, hanging around my drawing room, sending flowers every day, and notes, and even jewelry. What makes Mister High and Mighty Rhett Butler think that all he has to do is lift his little finger and I’ll come running?
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, and the cool tone of her voice pleased her.
Rhett held out his hand, and she put hers in it without thinking. “May I have this dance, Mrs . . . er . . . O’Hara?”
Scarlett caught her breath in alarm. “Rhett, you’re not going to tell on me? Everybody believes I’m a widow!”
He smiled and took her into his arms as the music began. “Your secret is safe with me, Scarlett.” She could feel the rasp of his voice on her skin, and his warm breath. It made her weak.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she asked. She had to know. His hand was warm at her waist, strong, supporting, directing her body as they turned. Unconsciously Scarlett revelled in his strength and rebelled against his control over her even as she remembered the joy of following his steps in the giddying swirling motion of the waltz.
Rhett chuckled. “I couldn’t resist my curiosity,” he said. “I was in London on business, and everyone was talking about an American who was taking Dublin Castle by storm. ‘Could that be Scarlett of the striped stockings?’ I asked myself. I had to find out. Bart Morland confirmed my suspicions. Then I couldn’t get him to stop talking about you. He even made me ride with him through your town. According to him, you rebuilt it with your own hands.”
His eyes raked over her from head to toe. “You’ve changed, Scarlett,” he said quietly. “The charming girl has become an elegant, grown-up woman. I salute you, I really do.”
The unvarnished honesty and warmth of his voice made Scarlett forget her resentments. “Thank you, Rhett,” she said.
“Are you happy in Ireland, Scarlett?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m glad.” His words were rich with deeper meaning.
For the first time in all the years she’d known him, Scarlett understood Rhett, at least in part. He did come to see me, she understood, he’s been thinking about me all this time, worrying about where I’d gone and how I was. He never stopped caring, no matter what he said. He loves me and always will, just as I’ll always love him.
The realization filled her with happiness, and she tasted it, like champagne; sipped it, to make it last. Rhett was here, with her, and they were, in this moment, closer than they had ever been.
An aide-de-camp approached them when the waltz ended. “His Excellency requests the honor of the next dance, Mrs. O’Hara.”
Rhett raised his eyebrows in the quizzical mockery Scarlett remembered so well. Her lips curved in a smile for him alone. “Tell His Excellency that I will be delighted,” she said. She looked at Rhett before she took the aide’s arm. “In Clayton County,” she murmured to Rhett, “we’d say that I was in high cotton.” She heard his laughter follow her as she walked away.
I’m allowed, she told herself, and she looked back over her shoulder to see him laughing. It’s really too much, she thought, it’s not fair at all. He even looks good in those silly satin britches and shoes. Her green eyes sparkled with laughter when she curtseyed to the Viceroy before they began to dance.
Scarlett felt no real surprise that Rhett was no longer there when she looked for him again. For as long as she had known him, Rhett had appeared and disappeared without explanation. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him here tonight, she thought. I was feeling like Cinderella, why shouldn’t the only Prince Charming I want be here? She could feel his arms around her as if he had left a mark; otherwise it would be easy to believe that she had made it all up—the gilded room, the music, his presence, even hers.
When she returned to her rooms at the Shelbourne, Scarlett turned up the gas and stood before a long looking glass in the bright light to look at herself and see what Rhett had seen. She looked beautiful and sure of herself, like her portrait, like the portrait of her grandmother.
Her heart began to ache. Why couldn’t she be like the other portrait of Grandma Robillard? The one in which she was soft and flushed with love given and received.
For in Rhett’s caring words, she knew, there had also been sadness and farewell.
In the middle of the night Scarlett O’Hara woke in her luxurious scented room on the best floor of the best hotel in Dublin and wept with racking convulsive sobs. “If only . . .” repeated again and again in her head like a battering ram.
79
The night’s anguish left no visible marks on Scarlett. Her face was smoothly serene the next morning, and her smiles were as lovely as ever when she poured out coffee and tea for the men and women who crowded her drawing room. Sometime during the dark hours of the night she had found the courage to let Rhett go.
If I love
him, she understood, I must not try to hold on to him. I have to learn to give him his freedom, just the way I try to give Cat hers because I love her.
I wish I could have told Rhett about her, he’d be so proud of her.
I wish the Castle Season was over. I miss Cat dreadfully. I wonder what she’s up to.
Cat was running with the strength of desperation through the woods at Ballyhara. The ground mists of morning still clung in places, and she couldn’t see where she was going. She stumbled and fell, but she got up right away. She had to keep running, even though she was short of breath from running so much already. She sensed another stone coming and ducked behind the protection of a tree trunk. The boys chasing her shouted and jeered. They had almost caught up with her, even though they’d never ventured into the woods near the Big House before. It was safe now. They knew The O’Hara was in Dublin with the English. Their parents talked about nothing else.
“There she is!” one shouted, and the others lifted their hands to throw.
But the figure stepping from behind a tree was not Cat. It was the cailleach, with a gnarled finger pointing. The boys howled with fear and ran.
“Come with me,” said Grainne. “I will give you some tea.”
Cat put her hand in the old woman’s. Grainne came out from hiding and walked very slowly, and Cat had no trouble keeping pace with her. “Will there be cakes?” Cat asked.
“There will,” said the cailleach.
Although Scarlett grew homesick for Ballyhara, she lasted the Castle Season out. She’d given Charlotte Montague her word. It’s exactly like the Season in Charleston, she thought. Why is it, I wonder, that fashionable people work so hard at having fun for so long at a time? She soared from success to even greater success, and Mrs. Fitz shrewdly took advantage of the rapturous paragraphs in the Irish Times that described them. Every evening she took the newspaper down to Kennedy’s bar to show the people of Ballyhara how famous The O’Hara was. Day by day, grumbling about Scarlett’s fondness for the English gave way to pride that The O’Hara was more admired than any of the Anglo women.
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