Midsummer Night, June 24, completed the cure. The bonfire was the biggest ever, the music and dancing were what she’d been needing to relax her tense nerves and restore her spirits. When, as timeless tradition demanded, the toast to The O’Hara was shouted over the fields of Ballyhara, Scarlett felt that all was right with the world.
Still, she was a little sorry she’d refused all the house party invitations for the summer. She had to, she was afraid to leave Cat. But she was lonely, and she had too much time on her hands, too much time to think and worry. She was almost happy when she received the semi-hysterical telegram from Mrs. Sims, saying that the lace had not arrived from the convent in Galway, nor had she had any reply to her letters and telegrams.
Scarlett was smiling when she drove her buggy to the train depot in Trim. She was an old hand at battling with Mother Superiors, and she was glad to have a clear-cut reason for a fight.
89
There was just time enough in the morning to dash to Mrs. Sims’ workshop, calm her down, gather the specifics of yardage and pattern of lace ordered, and race to the station for the early train to Galway. Scarlett settled herself comfortably and opened the newspaper.
My grief, there it is. The Irish Times had printed the announcement of the wedding plans on the front page. Scarlett darted looks at the other passengers in the compartment to see if any of them were reading the paper. The tweed-suited sportsman was engrossed in a sporting magazine; the nicely dressed mother and son were playing cribbage. She read about herself again. The Times had added a great deal of its own commentary to the formal announcement. Scarlett smiled at the part about “The O’Hara of Ballyhara, a beautiful ornament to the innermost circles of Viceregal society” and “exquisite and dashing equestrienne.”
She had brought only a single small case with her for her stay in Dublin and Galway, so she needed only one porter to accompany her from the station to the nearby hotel.
The reception area was jammed with people. “What the devil?” said Scarlett.
“The races,” said the porter. “You didn’t do something so foolish as to come to Galway not knowing, did you? You’ll find no room to sleep in here.”
Impertinent, thought Scarlett, see if you get a tip. “Wait here,” she said. She weaved her way to the reception desk. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”
The harassed desk clerk looked her up and down, then said, “Yes, of course, madam, one moment,” and vanished behind an etched-glass screen. He returned with a balding man in a black frock coat and striped trousers.
“Is there some complaint, madam? I’m afraid that the hotel’s service does become less, ah, flawless, shall we say, when the races are in progress. Whatever inconvenience—”
Scarlett interrupted him. “I remember the service as flawless.” She smiled winningly. “That’s why I like to stay at the Railway. I’ll need a room tonight. I am Mrs. O’Hara of Ballyhara.”
The manager’s unctuousness evaporated like August dew. “A room tonight? It’s quite out of—” The desk clerk was pulling at his arm. The manager glared at him. The clerk murmured in his ear, jabbed his finger at a Times on the desk.
The hotel manager bowed to Scarlett. His smile was quivering with the will to please. “Such an honor for us, Mrs. O’Hara. I trust you’ll accept a very particular suite, the finest in Galway, as the guest of the management. Do you have baggage? A man will take it up.”
Scarlett gestured to the porter. There was really a lot to be said for marrying an earl. “Send this to my rooms. I’ll be back later.”
“At once, Mrs. O’Hara.”
In truth Scarlett didn’t expect to need the rooms at all. She hoped she’d be able to get the afternoon train back to Dublin, maybe even the early afternoon train, then she’d have time to connect for the evening journey back up to Trim. Thank heavens for the long days. I’ll have until ten tonight if I need it. Now let’s see if the nuns are as impressed by the Earl of Fenton as the hotel manager was. Too bad he’s Protestant. I guess I shouldn’t have made Daisy Sims swear to keep everything a secret.
Scarlett started toward the door to the square. Phew, what a smelly crowd. It must be raining on their tweeds at the track. Scarlett edged between two gesticulating, red-faced men. She bumped headlong into Sir John Morland and hardly recognized him. He looked as if he were extremely ill. There was no color in his normally ruddy face and no light in his usually warm, interested eyes. “Bart, my dear. Are you all right?”
He seemed to have trouble bringing her face into focus. “Oh, sorry Scarlett. Not quite myself. One too many and all that kind of thing.”
At this hour of the day? It wasn’t like John Morland to drink too much at any time, and certainly not before luncheon. She took firm hold of his arm. “Come along, Bart. You’re going to have coffee with me and then something to eat.” Scarlett walked him to the dining room. Morland’s steps were unsteady. I guess I’ll be needing my room after all, she thought, but Bart’s a lot more important than rushing off after some lace. What on earth could have happened to him?
After a great deal of coffee she found out. John Morland broke down and cried when he told her.
“They burned my stables, Scarlett, they burned my stables. I’d taken Dijon to race at Balbriggan, not a big race at all, I thought she might like a run on the sands, and when we came home the stables were just black ruins. My God, the smell! My God! I hear the horses screaming in my dreams, in my head even when I don’t sleep.”
Scarlett felt herself gagging. She put down her cup. It couldn’t be. No one would do such a horrible thing. It had to be an accident.
“It was my tenants. Because of the rents, you see. How could they hate me so much? I tried to be a good landlord, I always tried. Why couldn’t they burn the house? At Edmund Barrows’ place they burned the house. They could have burned me in it, I wouldn’t care. Not if they’d spared the horses. Name of God, Scarlett! What had my poor burned horses ever done to them?”
There was nothing she could say. All Bart’s heart was in his stables . . . Wait, he’d been away with Dijon. His special pride and joy.
“You’ve got Dijon, Bart. You can start over, breed her. She’s such a wonderful horse, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. You can have the stables at Ballyhara. Don’t you remember? You told me they were like a cathedral. We’ll put in an organ. You can raise your new foals on Bach. You can’t let things beat you, Bart, you’ve got to keep going on. I know, I’ve been down to the bottom myself. You can’t give up, you just can’t.”
John Morland’s eyes were like cold embers. “I’m going to England tonight on the eight o’clock boat. I never want to see an Irish face or hear an Irish voice again. I put Dijon in a safe place while I sold up. She’s entered in the claiming race this afternoon, and when it’s over, so is Ireland for me.” His tragic eyes were at least steady. And dry. Scarlett almost wished he would begin to cry again. At least he’d felt something then. Now he looked as if he would never be able to feel anything ever again. He looked dead.
Then, as she watched, a transformation took place. Sir John Morland, Baronet, came back to life by effort of will. His shoulders firmed, and his mouth curved in a smile. His eyes even had a hint of laughter in them. “Poor Scarlett, I fear I rather put you through the wringer. It was beastly of me. Do forgive me. I’ll soldier on. One does. Finish your coffee, there’s a good girl, and come along to the track with me. I’ll put a fiver on Dijon for you, and you can buy the champagne with your winnings when she shows her heels to the rest of the field.”
Scarlett had never in her life respected anyone as much as she did Bart Morland at that moment. She found a smile to meet his.
“I’ll match your fiver with one of my own, Bart, and we’ll have champagne, too. Done?” She spit in her palm, held it out. Morland spat, slapped, smiled.
“Good girl,” he said.
On the way to the race course Scarlett tried to dredge up from her memory what she’d heard about “claiming races
.” All the horses running were for sale, their prices set by their owners. At the end of the race anyone could “claim” any one of the horses, and the owner was obliged to sell for the price he’d set. Unlike every other horse sale in Ireland, there was no bargaining. Unclaimed horses had to be reclaimed by their owners.
Scarlett didn’t believe for a minute that horses couldn’t be bought before the race began, no matter what the rules were. When they reached the race course, she asked Bart for the number of his box. She wanted, she said, to tidy up.
As soon as he was gone she found a steward and got directions to the officials’ office where the claiming would take place. She hoped Bart had put a whopping big price on Dijon. She intended to buy her and send her to him later when he was settled in England.
“What do you mean Dijon’s already been claimed? That’s not supposed to happen until after the race.”
The top-hatted official was careful not to smile. “You’re not the only one with foresight, madam. It must be an American trait. The gentleman who put in the claim was American, too.”
“I’ll double it.”
“It cannot be done, Mrs. O’Hara.”
“Suppose I bought Dijon from the Baronet before the race began?”
“Impossible.”
Scarlett felt desperate. She had to have that horse for Bart.
“I might suggest one thing . . .”
“Oh, please. What can I do? It’s really awfully important.”
“You might ask the new owner if he would be willing to sell.”
“Yes. I’ll do that.” She’d pay the man a king’s ransom if need be. American, the official said. Good. Money talks in America. “Will you point him out to me?”
The top-hatted man consulted a sheet of paper. “You might find him at Jury’s Hotel. He’s listed that as his address. His name is Butler.”
Scarlett had half-turned to leave. She stumbled to get her balance. Her voice was strangely thin when she spoke. “That wouldn’t by any chance be Mr. Rhett Butler?”
It seemed to take an eternity for the man’s eyes to return to the page in his hand, for him to read, for him to speak. “Yes, that is the name.”
Rhett! Here! Bart must have written him about the stables, about selling up, about Dijon. He must be doing what I was going to do. He came all the way from America to help a friend.
Or to get a winner for the next Charleston races. It doesn’t matter. Even poor, dear, tragic Bart doesn’t matter, may God forgive me. I’m going to see Rhett. Scarlett realized that she was running, running, pushing people aside without apology. To the devil with everyone, everything. Rhett was here, only a few hundred yards away.
“Box eight,” she gasped at a steward. He gestured. Scarlett forced herself to breathe slowly until she thought she must appear normal. No one could see her heart pounding, could they? She climbed the two steps into the bunting-trimmed box. Out on the great turfed oval twelve brightly shirted riders were whipping their horses towards the finish. All around Scarlett people were shouting, urging on the horses. She didn’t hear a thing. Rhett was watching the race through field glasses. Even ten feet away she could smell the whiskey on him. He was rocking on his feet. Drunk? Not Rhett. He could always hold his liquor. Had Bart’s disaster upset him that much?
Look at me, her heart begged. Put the glasses down and look at me. Say my name. Let me see your eyes when you say my name. Let me see something for me in your eyes. You loved me once.
Cheering and groans hailed the end of the race. Rhett lowered the glasses with a shaky hand. “Damn, Bart, that’s my fourth loser in a row,” he laughed.
“Hello, Rhett,” she said.
His head snapped, and she saw his dark eyes. They held nothing for her, nothing but anger. “Why hello, Countess.” His eyes raked her from her kidskin boots to her egret-plumed hat. “You are certainly looking—expensive.” He turned abruptly towards John Morland. “You should have warned me, Bart, so I could stay in the bar. Let me by.” And he sent Morland staggering as he pushed out of the box on the side away from Scarlett.
Her eyes followed him hopelessly as he plunged into the crowds. Then they filled with tears.
John Morland patted her shoulder clumsily. “I say, Scarlett, I apologize for Rhett. He’s had too much to drink. That’s two of us you’ve had to deal with today. Not much fun for you.”
“Not much fun.” Is that what Bart called it? “Not much fun” to be trampled on? I wasn’t asking for much. Just to say hello, say my name. What gives Rhett the right to be angry and insulting? Can’t I marry again after he threw me out like trash? Damn him. Damn him straight to Hell! Why is it fine and dandy for him to divorce me so he can marry a proper Charleston girl and have proper Charleston babies to grow up into more proper Charlestonians, but it’s oh-so-disgraceful for me to marry again and give his child all the things that he should be the one to give her.
“I hope he falls over his own drunken feet and breaks his neck,” she said to Bart Morland.
“Don’t be too hard on Rhett, Scarlett. He had a real tragedy last spring. I’m ashamed to feel so sorry for myself about the stables when there are people like Rhett with troubles like his. I told you about the baby, didn’t I? Beastly awful thing happened. His wife died having it, then the baby only lived for four days.”
“What? What? Say that again.” She shook his arm so fiercely that Morland’s hat fell off. He looked at her with confused dismay, almost fear. There was something so savage about her, something stronger than anything in his experience. He repeated that Rhett’s wife and child were dead.
“Where did he go?” Scarlett cried. “Bart, you must know, you must have some idea, where would Rhett be likely to go?”
“I don’t know, Scarlett. The bar—his hotel—any bar—anywhere.”
“Is he going with you tonight to England?”
“No. He said he had some friends he wanted to look up. He’s a really astonishing fellow, has friends everywhere. Did you know he was on safari with the Viceroy once? Some maharajah fellow was host. I must say I’m surprised he got so drunk. I don’t remember him even keeping up with me. He took me to my hotel last night, put me to bed and all that. Was in fine fettle, a strong arm to lean on. I was counting on him, actually, to get me through the day. But when I came downstairs this morning, the porter fellow told me Rhett had ordered coffee and a newspaper while he waited for me, then suddenly bolted without even paying. I went in the bar to wait for him—Scarlett, what is it? I can’t fathom you today. What are you crying for? Was it something I did? Did I say something wrong?”
Scarlett’s eyes were flooded. “Oh, no, no, no, dearest, darlingest John Morland, Bart. You didn’t say anything wrong at all. He loves me. He loves me. That’s the rightest, most perfect thing I could hear.”
Rhett came after me. That’s why he came to Ireland. Not for Bart’s horse, he could have bought her and all the rest of it by mail. He came for me as soon as he was free again. He must have been wanting me as much as I’ve been wanting him. I’ve got to go home. I don’t know where to find him, but he can find me. The wedding announcement shocked him, and I’m glad. But it won’t stop him. Nothing stops Rhett from going after what he wants. Rhett Butler’s not impressed by titles and ermine and tiaras. He wants me and he’ll come to get me. I know it. I knew he loved me, and I was right all the time. I know he’ll come to Ballyhara. I’ve got to be there when he comes.
“Goodbye, Bart, I’ve got to go now,” said Scarlett.
“Don’t you want to see Dijon win? What about our fivers?” John Morland shook his head. She was gone. Americans! Fascinating types, but he’d never understand them.
She’d missed the through train to Dublin by ten minutes. The next one wouldn’t leave until four. Scarlett bit her lip in frustration. “When is the next train east to anywhere?” The man behind the brass grille was maddeningly slow.
“You could go to Ennis, now, if you had a mind to. That’s east to Athenry, then south. Two new
carriages that train has, very nicely done they are too, say the ladies . . . or there’s the Kildare train, you’ll not be able to take that one, the whistle’s already sounded . . . Tuam, now, it’s a short trip and more north than east, but the engine’s the finest of all on the Great Western line . . . madam?”
Scarlett was shedding tears all over the uniform of the man at the barrier to the track. “. . . I only got the telegram two minutes ago, my husband’s been run over by a milk dray, I’ve got to get that train to Kildare!” It would take her more than halfway to Trim and Ballyhara. She’d walk the rest of the way if she had to.
Every stop was torture. Why couldn’t they hurry? Hurry, hurry, hurry, said her mind with the clack-clack of the wheels. Her case was in the best suite in Galway’s Railway Motel, in the convent sore-eyed nuns were putting the final tiny stitches into exquisite lace. None of it mattered. She must be home, waiting, when Rhett arrived. If only John Morland hadn’t taken so long to tell her about everything, she could have been on the Dublin train. Rhett might even be on it, he could have been going anywhere when he left Bart’s box.
Scarlett Page 91
