It doesn’t matter that it hurts, Scarlett reminded herself, it always hurts, always has. I’d just forgotten how much. I’ll get used to it again after a while. I’m not hurting the baby. I always wore stays as long as I could when I was pregnant, and it was always a lot later than this. I’m not even ten weeks gone yet. I’ve got to get into my clothes, I’ve just got to. I’ll be on that train tomorrow if it kills me.

“Pull, Kathleen,” she gasped. “Pull harder.”


Colum walked to Trim and arranged to get the carriage a day earlier. Then he made the rounds, spreading the word about Scarlett’s terrible worry. When he was finished it was late and he was tired. But now there’d be no one wondering why the American O’Hara had gone off like a thief in the night without saying goodbye.

She did very well with her goodbyes to the family. The previous day’s shock had armored her in a shell of numbness. She broke down only once, when she said goodbye to her grandmother. Or, rather, when Old Katie Scarlett said goodbye to her. “God go with you,” the old woman said, “and the saints guide your footsteps. It’s happy I am you were here for my birthday, Gerald’s girl. The only pity is you’ll not be at my wake . . . What are you weeping for, girl? Do you not know there’s no party for the living half as grand as a wake? It’s a shame to miss it.”

Scarlett sat silent in the carriage to Mullingar and in the train to Galway. Bridie was too nervous to speak, but her excited happiness showed in her bright cheeks and large fascinated eyes. She’d never been more than ten miles from her home in all her fifteen years.

When they reached the hotel Bridie stared openmouthed at its grandeur. “I’ll see you ladies to your room,” said Colum, “and be back in time to escort you to the dining room. I’m just going to go down to the harbor and arrange about loading the trunks. I’d like to see which staterooms they’ve given us, too. Now’s the time to change if they’re not the best.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Scarlett. It was the first time she’d spoken.

“There’s no need, Scarlett darling.”

“There is for me. I want to see the ship or I won’t feel certain it’s really there.”

Colum humored her. And Bridie asked if she might come, too. The hotel was too overwhelming for her. She didn’t want to stay there alone.

The early evening breeze off the water was sweet with salt. Scarlett breathed deeply of it, remembering that Charleston always had salted air. She was unaware of the slow tears rolling down her cheeks. If only they could sail now, at once. Would the captain consider? She touched the pouch of gold between her breasts.

“I’m looking for the Evening Star,” Colum said to one of the longshoremen.

“She’s down there,” the man gestured with his thumb. “Been in just under an hour.”

Colum concealed his surprise. The ship had been due to land thirty hours earlier. No reason to let Scarlett know that the delay might mean trouble.

Gangs were moving methodically to and from the Evening Star. She carried cargo as well as passengers. “This is no place for a woman right now, Scarlett darling. Let’s go back to the hotel, and I’ll come back later.”

Scarlett’s jaw set. “No. I want to talk to the Captain.”

“He’ll be too busy to see anyone, even someone as lovely as yourself.”

She was in no mood for compliments. “You know him, don’t you, Colum? You know everybody. Fix it so I can see him now.”

“The man’s a stranger to me; I’ve never laid eyes on him, Scarlett. How should I be knowing him? This is Galway, not County death.”

A uniformed man came off the Star’s gangplank. The two big canvas sacks on his shoulders seemed to burden him not at all; his gait was light and quick, unusual for a man of his size and girth.

“And isn’t that Father Colum O’Hara himself?” he bellowed when he came near them. “What finds you so far from Matt O’Toole’s bar, Colum?” He heaved one of the sacks to the ground nd took off his hat to Scarlett and Bridie. “Didn’t I always say that the O’Haras have the devil’s own luck with the ladies?” he roared, laughing at his own humor. “Did you tell them you were a priest, Colum?”

Scarlett’s smile was perfunctory when she was introduced to Frank Mahoney, and she paid no attention at all to the chain of cousinships that connected him to Maureen’s family. She wanted to talk to the Captain!

“I’m just taking the post from America over to the station for sorting tomorrow,” said Mahoney. “Will you want a look, Colum, or will you wait till you’re back home again to read your perfumed love letters?” He laughed uproariously at his wit.

“That’s kind of you, Frank. I’ll take a look if you’ll let me.” Colum untied the sack near his feet, pulled it nearer the tall gas lamp that lighted the pier. He found the envelope from Savannah with ease. “Luck’s in my pocket today,” he said. “I knew from his last letter that another’d be coming soon from my brother, but I’d given up hope of it. I thank you, Frank. Would you allow me to buy you a pint?” His hand reached into his pocket.

“There’s no need. I did it for the pleasure of breaking the English rules.” Frank hoisted the sack again. “The God-rotting supervisor will be looking at his gold watch, I can’t tarry. Good evening to you, ladies.”


There were a half dozen smaller letters in the envelope. Colum flicked through them, searching for Stephen’s distinctive handwriting. “Here’s one for you, Scarlett,” he said. He put the blue envelope in her hand, found Stephen’s letter, tore it open. He had just begun to read it when he heard a high, prolonged cry, and felt a weight sliding against him. Before he could throw out his arms, Scarlett was lying at his feet. The blue envelope and thin pages fluttered in her limp hand, then the breeze scattered them across the cobbles. While Colum lifted Scarlett’s shoulders and held his fingers to the pulse in her throat, Bridie ran after the pages.

The hackney cab jounced and swayed from the speed of their race back to the hotel. Scarlett’s head rolled grotesquely from side to side, even though Colum tried to hold her firmly in his arms. He carried her quickly through the hotel lobby. “Call a doctor,” he shouted to the liveried attendants, “and get out of my way.” Once in Scarlett’s room, he laid her on the bed.

“Come on, Bridie, help me get her clothes off,” he said. “We’ve got to get some breath into her.” He took a knife from a leather sheath inside his coat. Bridie’s fingers moved nimbly along the buttons on the back of Scarlett’s dress.

Colum cut the corset laces. “Now,” he said, “help me lift her head up on the pillows, and cover her with something warm.” He rubbed Scarlett’s arms roughly, slapped her cheeks gently. “Have you got smelling salts?”

“I don’t, Colum, nor do she, far’s I know.”

“The doctor will. I hope it’s only a faint.”


“She fainted, that’s all, Father,” said the doctor when he left Scarlett’s bedroom, “but it’s a deep one. I’ve left some tonic with the girl for when she comes out of it. These ladies! They will cut off all their circulation for the sake of fashion. Nothing to worry about, though. She’ll be fine.”

Colum thanked him, paid him, saw him out. Then he sat heavily on a chair by the lamplit table, put his head in his hands. There was a great deal to worry about, and he questioned whether Scarlett O’Hara would ever be “fine” again. The crumpled, water-spotted pages of the letter were strewn on the table beside him. In their midst was a neatly trimmed clipping from a newspaper. “Yesterday evening,” it read, “in a private ceremony at the Confederate Home for Widows and Orphans, Miss Anne Hampton was joined in matrimony to Mr. Rhett Butler.”

56

Scarlett’s mind spiralled up, up, spinning, swirling, up, up out of the black toward consciousness, but some instinct forced it downward again, sliding, slipping back into darkness, away from the unbearable truth lying in wait for her. Again and again it happened, the struggle tiring her so much that she lay exhausted, motionless and pale in the big bed, as if dead.

She dreamed, a dream full of movement and urgency. She was at Twelve Oaks, and it was whole again and beautiful, as it had been before Sherman’s torches. The gracious curving staircase turned through space as if magically suspended, and her feet were lightly nimble on its treads. Ashley was ahead of her, climbing, unaware of her cries to stop. “Ashley,” she called, “Ashley, wait for me,” and she ran after him.

How long the staircase was. She didn’t remember it being so tall; it seemed to be growing ever higher as she ran, and Ashley was so far above her. She had to reach him. She didn’t know why, but she knew she must, and she ran faster, always faster, until her heart was pounding in her breast. “Ashley!” she cried. “Ashley!” He paused, and she found strength she didn’t know she possessed; she climbed, running even faster.

Relief flooded her body and her soul when her hand touched his sleeve. Then he turned toward her, and she screamed without sound. He had no face, only a pale featureless blur.

Then she was falling, tumbling through space, her eyes fixed in terror on the figure above her, her throat straining to scream. But the only sound was laughter, from below, rising like a cloud to surround her and mock her muteness.

I’m going to die, she thought. Terrible pain will crush me and I’ll die.

But suddenly, strong arms closed around her and drew her gently from the falling. She knew them, she knew the shoulder that pillowed her head. It was Rhett. Rhett had saved her. She was safe in his embrace. She turned her head, lifted it to look into his eyes. Icy terror paralyzed her whole body. His face was formless, like mist or smoke, like Ashley’s. Then the laughter began again, from the blankness that should be Rhett’s face.