She went down to breakfast with bruise-like dark shadows under her eyes, imprint of the desolate weeping that had replaced sleep for her. She looked cool in her mint-green linen frock. She felt encased in ice.
She was obliged to smile, talk, listen, laugh. Guests had a duty to make a house party a success. She looked at the people seated along the sides of the long table. Smiling, talking, listening, laughing. How many of them, she wondered, have wounds inside them, too? How many feel dead, and grateful for it? How brave people are.
She nodded at the footman who was holding a plate for her at the long sideboard. At her signal he opened the big silver serving dishes one after another for her approval. Scarlett accepted some rashers of bacon and a spoonful of salt and scrambled eggs. “Yes, a grilled tomato,” she said, “no, nothing cold.” Ham, preserved goose, jellied quail eggs, spiced beef, salted fish, aspics, ices, fruits, cheeses, breads, relishes, jams, sauces, wines, ale, cider, coffee—all no. “I’ll have tea,” she said.
She was sure she could swallow some tea. Then she’d be able to go back to her room. Luckily this was a big party, and mostly for shooting. Most of the men would already be out with their guns. There would be luncheon in the house and somewhere on the grounds, wherever the shoot was. There would be tea served indoors and out. Everyone could choose amusements. No one was required to be any special place at any special time until dinner was served. The guest card in her room said to gather in the drawing room after the first dinner gong at seven forty-five. Processing into dinner at eight.
She indicated a chair beside a woman she hadn’t met before. The footman deposited her plate and the small tray with individual tea service. Then he pulled out the chair, seated her, shook out the folds of her napkin, and draped it across her lap. Scarlett nodded to the woman. “Good morning,” she said, “my name is Scarlett O’Hara.”
The woman had a lovely smile. “Good morning. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My cousin Lucy Fane told me that she’d met you at Bart Morland’s. When Parnell was there. Tell me, don’t you find it delectably seditious to admit that one supports Home Rule? My name’s May Taplow, by the way.”
“A cousin of mine said he was sure I wouldn’t be for Home Rule at all if Parnell was short and fat and had warts,” Scarlett said. She poured her tea while May Taplow laughed. “Lady May Taplow” to be exact, Scarlett knew. May’s father was a duke, her husband the son of a viscount. Funny how one picked up these things as time and parties went by. Funnier still how a country girl from Georgia got used to thinking about “one” doing this and that. Next thing you know, I’ll be saying “toe-mali-toe” so that the footmen will know what it is I want. Guess it’s no different really from telling a darky you want goobers so he’ll know you’d like a handful of peanuts.
“I’m afraid your cousin would be dead on the nose if he accused me of the same thing,” May confided. “I lost all interest in the succession when Bertie started to put on weight.”
It was Scarlett’s turn to confess. “I don’t know who Bertie is.”
“Stupid of me,” said May, “of course you don’t. You don’t do the London Season, do you? Lucy said you run your own estate all alone. I do think that’s wonderful. Makes the men who can’t cope without a bailiff look as pouffish as they are, half of them. Bertie’s the Prince of Wales. A dear, really, so enjoys being naughty, but it’s beginning to show. You would adore his wife, Alexandra. Deaf as a post, you can’t possibly tell her a secret unless you write it down, but beautiful past measuring and as sweet as she is pretty.”
Scarlett laughed. “If you had any idea, May, what I feel like, you’d die laughing. Back home when I was growing up, the most high-toned gossip going was about the man who owned the new railroad. Everybody wondered when he’d started wearing shoes. I can hardly believe I’m chatting about the King of England to be.”
“Lucy told me I’d be mad about you, and she was dead on the nose. Promise me you’ll stay with us if you ever decide to do London. What did you decide about the railway man? What kind of shoes did he have? Did he limp when he walked? I’m sure I would adore America.”
Scarlett discovered with surprise that she’d eaten all her breakfast. And that she was still hungry. She lifted her hand and the footman behind her chair stepped forward. “Excuse me, May, I’m going to ask for seconds,” she said. “Some kedgeree, please, and some coffee, lots of cream.”
Life goes on. A mighty good life, too. I made up my mind I was going to be happy and I guess I am. I’ve just got to notice it.
She smiled at her new friend. “The railroad man was as Cracker as they come—”
May looked confused.
“Oh. Well, Cracker is what we call a white man who likely never wore shoes. That’s not the same as poor white . . .” She enthralled the Duke’s daughter.
It rained that evening during dinner. All the house party ran outside and capered for joy. The impossible summer would soon be over.
Scarlett drove home at midday. It was cool, the dusty hedgerows had been washed clean, and soon the hunting season would begin. The Galway Blazers! I’ll definitely want my own horses. I’ll have to see about sending them ahead by rail. The best thing, I suppose, would be to load them at Trim, then to Dublin, then back across to Galway. Otherwise it’s the long road to Mullingar, then rest them, then train to Galway. I wonder if I should send feed, too? I’ll have to find out about stabling. I’ll write to John Graham tomorrow . . .
She was home before she knew it.
“Such good news, Scarlett!” She’d never seen Harriet looking so excited. Why, she’s much prettier than I thought. With the right clothes—
“While you were gone a letter came from one of my cousins in England. I told you, did I not, that I’d written of my good fortune and your kindness? This cousin, his name is Reginald Parsons but the family always called him Reggie, has arranged for Billy to be admitted to the school his son attends, Reggie’s son, that is. His name is—”
“Wait a minute, Harriet. What are you talking about? Billy’s going to the school in Ballyhara, I thought.”
“Naturally he’d have had to if there was no alternative. That’s what I wrote to Reggie.”
Scarlett’s jaw set. “What’s wrong with the school here, I’d like to know.”
“Nothing is wrong with it, Scarlett. It’s a good Irish village school. I want something better for Billy, surely you understand that.”
“Surely I do no such thing.” She was prepared to defend Ballyhara’s school, Irish schools, Ireland itself, at the top of her lungs if need be. Then she took a good look at Harriet Kelly’s soft, defenseless face. It was no longer soft, there was no weakness. Harriet’s gray eyes were normally hazy with dreams; now they looked like steel. She was ready to fight anyone, anything for her son. Scarlett had seen the same kind of thing before, the lamb turned lion, when Melanie Wilkes took a stand about something she believed in.
“What about Cat? She’ll be so lonely without Billy.”
“I’m sorry, Scarlett, but I have to think of what’s best for Billy.”
Scarlett sighed. “I’d like to suggest a different alternative, Harriet. You and I both know that in England Billy will always be branded the Irish son of an Irish stable groom. In America he can become anything you want him to be . . .”
Early in September Scarlett held a stoically silent Cat in her arms to wave goodbye to Billy and his mother as their ship left Kingstown harbor for America. Billy was crying; Harriet’s face had the radiance of resolve and hope. Her eyes were cloudy with dreams. Scarlett hoped at least part of the dreams would come true. She had written to Ashley and Uncle Henry Hamilton, telling them about Harriet and asking them to watch out for her and help her find a place to stay and work as a teacher. She was sure they’d do that much at least. The rest was up to Harriet and circumstances.
“Let’s go to the zoo, Kitty Cat. There are giraffes and lions and bears and a big, big elephant.”
“Cat likes li
ons best.”
“You might change your mind when you see the baby bears.”
They stayed in Dublin for a week, going to the zoo every day, eating cream buns in Bewley’s coffee shop afterwards, then the puppet theater followed by high tea at the Shelbourne with silver tiers of sandwiches and scones, silver bowls of whipped cream, silver trays of éclairs. Scarlett learned that her daughter was indefatigable and had a digestive system of cast iron.
Back at Ballyhara she helped Cat turn the tower into Cat’s private place, to be visited only by invitation. Cat swept the dried cobwebs and droppings of centuries out of the high doorway, then Scarlett pulled up bucket after bucket of water from the river and the two of them scrubbed the walls and floor of the room. Cat laughed and splashed and blew soap bubbles while she scrubbed. It reminded Scarlett of the baths when Cat was a baby. She didn’t mind at that it took them over a week to get the place clean. Nor did she mind that the stone steps to upper levels were missing. Cat would have liked to wash the tower all the way to the top.
They finished just in time for what would have been Harvest Home in a normal year. Colum had advised her not to try and make a celebration when there was nothing to celebrate. He helped her distribute the sacks of flour and meal, salt and sugar, potatoes and cabbages that came to the town on wide wagons from all the suppliers Scarlett had found.
“They didn’t even say ‘thank you,’ ” she said bitterly when the ordeal was over. “Or if they did, they sure didn’t act like they meant it. You’d think it might just dawn on a few people that I’m hurting from the drought, too. My wheat and grass were ruined the same as theirs, and I’m losing all my rents, and I bought all that stuff.”
She couldn’t verbalize the deepest hurt of all. The land, the O’Hara land, had turned against her, and the people, her people, of Ballyhara.
She poured all of her energies into Cat’s tower. The same woman who hadn’t so much as peered through a window to see what was happening to her house now spent hours going through all the rooms, scrutinizing each piece of furniture, each rug, every blanket, quilt, pillow, selecting the best. Cat was the final arbiter. She looked over her mother’s choices and picked a bright flowered bathmat, three patchwork quilts, and a Sevres vase, the vase for her paintbrushes. The mat and quilts went into a deep wide indentation in the massively thick wall of the tower. For her nap, said Cat. Then she patiently went back and forth, house to tower, with her favorite picture books, her paint box, her leaf collection, and a box containing stale crumbs saved from cakes that she had especially liked. She was planning to lure birds and animals to her room. Then she’d paint their pictures on her wall.
Scarlett listened to Cat’s plans and watched her laborious preparations with pride in Cat’s determination to create a world that would satisfy her even without Billy in it. She could learn from her four-year-old daughter, she thought sadly. On Halloween she gave Cat the birthday party that the little girl designed for herself. There were four small cakes, each with four candles. They ate one of the cakes themselves, sitting on the clean floor of Cat’s tower sanctuary. They gave the second one to Grainne, eating it with her. Then they went home, leaving the other two cakes for the birds and animals.
The next day not a crumb was left, Cat reported with excitement. She didn’t invite her mother to come see. The tower was all hers now.
Like everyone else in Ireland, Scarlett read the newspapers that autumn with alarm that grew into outrage. For her, the alarm was caused by the number of evictions reported. The farmers’ efforts to fight back were perfectly understandable as far as she was concerned. Attacking a bailiff or a pair of constables with fists or pitchfork was only a normal human reaction, and she was sorry that it stopped none of the evictions. It wasn’t the fault of the farmer that crops had failed and there was no money from sale of the grain. She knew all about that herself.
At nearby hunts the talk was always about the same thing, and the landowners were much less tolerant than Scarlett. They were worried by the instances of resistance by farmers. “Dammit, what do they expect? If they don’t pay their rents, they don’t keep their houses. They know that, it’s always been like that. Bloody insurgence, that’s what’s going on . . .”
But Scarlett’s reactions became the same as her neighboring estate owners’ when the Whiteboys entered in. There had been scattered incidents during the summer. The Whiteboys were more organized now, and more brutal. Night after night barns and hayricks were torched. Cattle and sheep were killed, pigs slaughtered, donkeys and plow horses had legs broken or tendons cut. Shops windows were smashed, and manure or burning torches thrown inside. And more and more as autumn turned to winter there were attacks from concealment against military men, English soldiers and Irish constables, and gentry in carriages or on horseback. Scarlett took two grooms along on the roads to the meets.
And she worried constantly about Cat. Losing Billy seemed to have upset Cat much less than she had feared. Cat never moped, and she never whined. She was always occupied with some project or some game she invented for herself. But she was only four, it made Scarlett nervous now that Cat went off by herself so much. Scarlett was determined not to cage her child, but she began to wish that Cat were less agile, less independent, less fearless. Cat visited stables barns, stillroom and dairy, garden and gardensheds. She wandered through woods and fields like a wild creature at home there, and the house was a land of opportunity for play in rooms that were cleaned but not used, attics full of boxes and trunks, basements with wine racks, barrels of foodstuffs, rooms for servants, for silver, for milk, butter, cheese, ice, ironing, washing, sewing,; carpenter’s repairs, bootblacking, the myriad activities that maintained the Big House.
There was never any point in looking for Cat. She might be anywhere. She always came home for her meals and bath time. Scarlett couldn’t figure out how the child knew what time it was, but Cat was never late.
Mother and daughter went riding together every day after breakfast. But Scarlett grew afraid to go out on the roads because of the Whiteboys, and she didn’t want to spoil the intimacy of their rides by taking grooms along, so their route became the path she had first used, past the tower and through the ford and into the boreen that led to Daniel’s cottage. Pegeen O’Hara might not like it, she thought, but she’ll have to put up with Cat and me if she wants me to keep on paying Seamus’ rent. She wished Daniel’s youngest son, Timothy, wasn’t taking such a long time about finding a bride. He would have the little cottage when he did, and the girl could only be an improvement on Pegeen. Scarlett missed the easy intimacy she had known with her family before Pegeen joined it.
Every time she left for a hunt Scarlett asked Cat if she minded being left. The little brown forehead wrinkled with perplexity above Cat’s clear green eyes. “Why do people mind?” she asked. It made Scarlett feel better. In December she explained to Cat that she’d be gone for a longer time because she was going a long way, on the train. Cat’s response was the same.
Scarlett set off for the long-awaited hunt with the Galway Blazers on a Tuesday. She wanted a day of rest for herself as well as her horses before Thursday’s hunt. She wasn’t tired; on the contrary, she was almost too excited to sit still. But she wasn’t about to take any chances. She had to be better than her best. If Thursday was a triumph, she’d stay for Friday and Saturday as well. Her best would be good enough then.
At the end of the first day’s hunting, John Graham presented Scarlett with the gore-gummed pad that she had won. She accepted it with a court curtsey. “Thank you, Your Excellency.” Everyone applauded.
The applause was even louder when two stewards came in bearing a huge platter that held a steaming pie. “I’ve been telling everyone about your sporting bet, Mrs. O’Hara,” said Graham, “and we’d devised a small joke for you. This is a pie of minced crow meat. I will now take the first bite. The rest of the Blazers will follow. I had expected you to be doing it unaccompanied.”
Scarlett smiled her sweetest
smile. “I’ll sprinkle some salt on it for you, sir.”
She first noticed the hawk-faced man on the black horse on Friday when he made an impossible jump ahead of her and she reined in abruptly to watch, nearly losing her seat. He rode with an arrogant fearlessness that made her own recklessness seem tame.
Afterwards, people surrounded him at the hunt breakfast, all of them talking, the man saying little. He was tall enough for her to see his aquiline face and dark eyes and hair almost blue it was so black.
“Who is that bored-looking tall man?” she asked a woman she knew.
“My dear!” The woman said with excitement. “Isn’t he too fascinating for words?” She sighed happily. “Everyone says he’s the most wicked man in Britain. His name is Fenton.”
“Fenton what?”
“Just Fenton. He’s the Earl of Fenton.”
“You mean he doesn’t have any name of his own at all?” She’d never understand all this English title rigmarole, Scarlett thought. It made no sense at all.
Her companion smiled. A superior smile, it seemed to Scarlett, and she became angry. But the woman quickly disarmed her. “Isn’t it silly?” she said. “His Christian name is Luke; I don’t know what the family name is. I just think of him as Lord Fenton. No one in my circle of friends is important enough to address him any other way, except ‘Milord’ or ‘Lord Fenton’ or ‘Fenton.’ ” She sighed again. “He’s terribly grand. And so outrageously attractive.”
Scarlett made no comment aloud. Privately she thought he looked like he needed taking down a peg or two.
Returning from the kill on Saturday, Fenton walked his horse alongside Scarlett’s. She was glad she was on Half Moon; it put her almost at eye level. “Good morning,” said Fenton, touching the brim of his top hat. “I understand we’re neighbors, Mistress O’Hara. I’d like to call and pay my respects, if I may.”
Scarlett Page 86
