That and pulling Ashley back from breaking his neck flinging himself into the grave after Melly. If it had been the other way around, and I’d saved her at Ashley’s burial, it would have been all right. Hypocrites!

What gives people whose whole life is a lie the right to judge me? What’s wrong with working as hard as you can, and then more besides? Why is it so terrible to push in and stop disaster from happening to anyone, especially a friend?

They were wrong. Here in Ballyhara I worked as hard as I could, and I was admired for it. I kept Uncle Daniel from losing his farm, and they started calling me The O’Hara.

That’s why being The O’Hara makes me feel so strange and so happy all at the same time. It’s because The O’Hara is honored for all the same things that I’ve been thinking were bad all these years. The O’Hara would have stayed up late doing the books for the store. The O’Hara would have grabbed Ashley away from the grave.

What was it Mrs. Fitzpatrick said? “You don’t have to do anything, you only have to be what you are.” What I am is Scarlett O’Hara, who makes mistakes sometimes and does things right sometimes, but who never pretends any more to be what she’s not. I’m The O’Hara, and I’d never be called that if I was as bad as they make me out to be in Atlanta. I’m not bad at all. I’m not a saint, either, God knows. But I’m willing to be different, I’m willing to be who I am, not pretend to be what I’m not.

I’m The O’Hara, and I’m proud of it. It makes me happy and whole.

Cat made a gurgling noise to indicate that she was awake, too, and ready to be fed. Scarlett lifted her from her basket and settled the two of them in the bed. She cupped the tiny unprotected head in one hand and guided Cat to her breast.

“I promise you on my word of honor, Cat O’Hara. You can grow up to be whatever you are, even if it’s as different from me as day from night. If you have a leaning towards being a lady, I’ll even show you how, never mind what I think about it. After all, I know all the rules even if I can’t abide them.”

65

“I’m going out, and there’s no more to be said about it.” Scarlett glowered mulishly at Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

The housekeeper stood in the open doorway like an immovable mountain. “No, you are not.”

Scarlett changed her tactics. “Please do let me,” she coaxed, with the sweetest smile in her arsenal. “The fresh air will do me a world of good. It’ll perk up my appetite, too, and you know how you’ve been after me about not eating enough.”

“That will improve. The cook has arrived.”

Scarlett forgot that she was being beguiling. “And high time, too! Is her high-and-mightiness bothering to say what took her so long?”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled. “She started out on time, but her piles bothered her so badly she had to stop overnight every ten miles on the way here. It seems we won’t have to worry about her lazing in a rocking chair when she should be on her feet working.”

Scarlett tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help it. And she couldn’t really stay mad at Mrs. Fitzpatrick; they had grown too close for that. The older woman had moved into the housekeeper’s apartment the day after Cat was born. She was Scarlett’s constant companion while she was ill. And readily available afterwards.

Many people came to visit Scarlett in the long convalescent weeks after Cat was born. Colum almost daily, Kathleen almost every other day, her big O’Hara men cousins after Mass each Sunday, Molly more often than Scarlett liked. But Mrs. Fitzpatrick was always there. She brought tea and cakes to the visitors, whiskey and cakes to the men, and after the visitors left she stayed with Scarlett to hear the news the visitors had brought and finish off the refreshments. She brought news herself—about the happenings in the town of Ballyhara and in Trim—and gossip she’d heard in the shops. She kept Scarlett from being too lonely.

Scarlett invited Mrs. Fitzpatrick to call her “Scarlett” and asked, “What’s your first name?”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick never told her. It wouldn’t do for any informality to develop, she said firmly, and she explained the strict hierarchy of an Irish Big House. Her position as housekeeper would be undermined if the respect accorded to it was diminished by familiarity on anyone’s part, even the mistress’s. Perhaps especially the mistress’s.

It was all too subtle for Scarlett, but Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s pleasant unyieldingness made it clear to her that it was important. She settled for the names the housekeeper suggested. Scarlett could call her “Mrs. Fitz,” and she would call Scarlett “Mrs. O.” But only when they were alone together. In front of other people, full formality had to be maintained.

“Even Colum?” Scarlett wanted to know. Mrs. Fitz considered, then yielded. Colum was a special case.

Scarlett tried to take advantage now of Mrs. Fitz’s partiality to him. “I’ll only walk down to Colum’s,” she said. “He hasn’t been to see me for ages, and I miss him.”

“He’s away on business and you know it. I heard him tell you he was going.”

“Bother!” Scarlett muttered. “You win.” She went back to her chair by the window and sat down. “Go talk to Miss Piles.”

Mrs. Fitz laughed aloud. “By the way,” she said as she left, “her name is Mrs. Keane. But you can call her Miss Piles if you like. You’ll likely never meet her. That’s my job.”

Scarlett waited until she was sure Mrs. Fitz wouldn’t catch her and then she got ready to go out. She’d been obedient long enough. It was an accepted fact that after childbirth a woman recuperated for a month, most of the time in bed, and she’d done that. She didn’t see why she should have to add three more weeks to it just because Cat’s birth hadn’t been normal. The doctor at Ballyhara struck her as a good man, even reminded her a little of Dr. Meade. But Dr. Devlin himself admitted that he had no experience of babies brought by knife. Why should she listen to him? Particularly when there was something she really had to do.

Mrs. Fitz had told her about the old woman who had appeared, as if by magic, to deliver Cat in the middle of the Halloween tempest. Colum had told her who the woman was—the cailleach from the tower. Scarlett owed the wise woman her life, and Cat’s. She had to thank her.


The cold took Scarlett by surprise. October had been warm enough, how could one month make so much difference? She wrapped the folds of her cloak around the well-blanketed baby. Cat was awake. Her large eyes looked at Scarlett’s face. “You darling thing,” said Scarlett softly. “You’re so good, Cat, you never cry, do you?” She walked through the bricked stableyard to the route she’d used so often in the trap.


“I know you’re there someplace,” Scarlett shouted at the thicket of undergrowth beneath the trees that bordered the tower’s clearing. “You might as well come on out and talk to me, because I’m going to stand right here freezing to death until you do. The baby, too, if that matters to you.” She waited confidently. The woman who had brought Cat into the world would never let her be exposed for long to the cold damp in the shadow of the tower.

Cat’s eyes left Scarlett’s face to move from side to side as if she were looking for something. A few minutes later Scarlett heard a rustling in the thick growth of holly bushes to her right. The wise woman stepped out between two of them. “This way,” she said, and stepped back.

There was a path, Scarlett saw when she got near. She’d never have found it if the wise woman hadn’t held back the spiny holly branches with one of her shawls. Scarlett followed the path until it disappeared in a grove of low-branched trees. “I give up,” she said, “where to now?”

There was a rusty laugh behind her. “This way,” said the wise woman. She walked around Scarlett and bent low under the branches. Scarlett did the same. After a few steps she could straighten. The clearing in the center of the grove held a small mud hut thatched with reeds. A thin plume of gray smoke curled upward from its chimney. “Come in,” said the woman. She opened the door.


“She’s a fine child,” said the wise woman. She had examined every aspect of Cat’s body, down to the nails on her smallest toes. “What have you named her?”

“Katie Colum O’Hara.” It was only the second time Scarlett had spoken. Once inside the door, she’d begun thanking the wise woman for what she’d done, but the woman had stopped her.

“Let me have the babe,” she’d said, hands outstretched. Scarlett had passed Cat over at once, then kept silent during the detailed examination. “ ‘Katie Colum,’ ” the woman repeated. “ ’Tis a weak soft sound for this strong child. My name is Grainne. A strong name.”

Her rough voice made the Gaelic name sound like a challenge. Scarlett shifted on her stool. She didn’t know how she should reply.

The woman wrapped Cat in her napkin and blankets. Then she lifted her and whispered so quietly in her little ear that Scarlett couldn’t hear, even though she strained for the words. Cat’s fingers caught hold of Grainne’s hair. The wise woman held Cat against her shoulder.

“You would not have understood even if you had heard, O’Hara. I spoke in the old Irish. It was a charm. You have heard that I know magic as well as herbs.”

Scarlett admitted she had.

 “Perhaps I do. I have some knowledge of the old words and the old ways, but I do not say they are magic. I look and I listen and I learn. To some it may be like magic that another sees, where he is blind, or hears, when he is deaf. It lies largely in the believing. Do not hope that I can do magic for you.”