“Ach, well. Likely it was only talk.” Mrs. Fitzgerald gave Scarlett the week’s household account book and abandoned talk of the inn for the moment. Colum would have to work on it; he was much more persuasive than she was.

“We’re getting to have more servants than the Queen of England,” said Scarlett. She said the same thing every week.

“If you’re going to have cows, you’re going to need hands to milk them,” said the housekeeper.

Scarlett picked up the refrain “. . . and to separate the cream and make the butter—I know. And the butter’s selling. I just don’t like cows, I guess. I’ll go over this later, Mrs. Fitz. I want to take Cat down to watch them cutting peat in the bog.”

“You’d better go over it now. We’re out of money in the kitchen and the girls need paying tomorrow.”

“Bother! I’ll have to get some cash from the bank. I’ll drive in to Trim.”

“If I was the banker, I’d never give money to a creature dressed like you.”

Scarlett laughed. “Nag, nag, nag. Tell the dressmaker I’ll order the painting done.”

But not the inn opened, thought Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She’d have to talk to Colum tonight.


The Fenians had been steadily growing in strength and numbers throughout Ireland. With Ballyhara, they now had what they most needed: a secure location where leaders from every county could meet to plan strategy, and where a man who needed to flee the militia could safely go, except that strangers were too noticeable in a town that was hardly larger than a village. Militia and constabulary patrols from Trim were few, but one man with sharp eyes was enough to destroy the best-laid plans.

“We really need the inn,” Rosaleen Fitzpatrick said urgently. “It makes sense that a man with business in Trim would take a room this close but cheaper than in town.”

“You’re right, Rosaleen,” Colum soothed, “and I’ll talk to Scarlett. But not right away. She’s too quick-minded for that. Give it a rest for a bit. Then when I bring it up, she won’t wonder why we’re both pressing.”

“But Colum, we mustn’t waste time.”

“We mustn’t lose everything by hurry, either. I’ll do it when I believe the moment’s right.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick had to settle for that. Colum was in charge. She consoled herself by remembering that at least she’d gotten Margaret Scanlon in. And she hadn’t even had to make up a tale to do it. Scarlett did need some clothes. It was a shocking disgrace the way she insisted on living-the cheapest clothes, two rooms lived in out of twenty. If Colum weren’t Colum, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would doubt what he’d said, that not so long ago Scarlett had been a very fashionable woman.


“ ‘. . . and that diamond ring turns brass, Momma’s gonna buy you a looking glass,’ ” Scarlett sang. Cat splashed vigorously in the sudsy water of the bath. “Momma’s gonna buy you some pretty frocks, too,” said Scarlett, “and buy Momma some. Then we’ll go on the great big ship.”

There was no reason to put it off. She had to go to America. If she left soon after Easter, she could be back in plenty of time for the harvest.

Scarlett made up her mind on the day she saw the delicate haze of green on the meadow where she’d turned the first sod. A fierce surge of excitement and pride made her want to cry aloud, “This is mine, my land, my seeds burst into life.” She looked at the barely visible young growth and pictured it reaching up, becoming taller, stronger, then flowering, perfuming the air, intoxicating the bees until they could hardly fly. The men would cut it then, scythes flashing silver, and make tall ricks of sweet golden hay. Year after year the cycle would turn—sow and reap—the annual miracle of birth and growth. Grass would grow and become hay. Wheat would grow and become bread. Oats would grow and become meal. Cat would grow—crawl, walk, talk, eat the oatmeal and the bread and jump onto the stacked hay from the loft of the barn just as Scarlett had done when she was a child. Ballyhara was her home.

Scarlett squinted up at the sun, saw the clouds racing towards it, knew that soon it would rain, and soon after that it would clear again, and the sun would warm the fields until the next rain, followed by the next warming sunlight.

I’ll feel the baking heat of Georgia sun one more time, she decided, I’m entitled to that. I miss it sometimes so terribly. But, somehow, Tara’s more like a dream than a memory. It belongs in the past, like the Scarlett I used to be. That life and that person don’t have anything to do with me any more. I’ve made my choice. Cat’s Tara is the Irish Tara. Mine will be too. I’m The O’Hara of Ballyhara. I’ll keep my shares of Tara for Wade and Ella’s inheritance, but I’ll sell everything in Atlanta and cut those ties. Ballyhara’s my home now. Our roots go deep here, Cat’s and mine and Pa’s. I’ll take some O’Hara land with me when I go, some earth to mix into the Georgia clay of Gerald O’Hara’s grave.

Her mind touched briefly on the business she had to deal with. All that could wait. What she must concentrate on was the best way to tell Wade and Ella about their wonderful new home. They wouldn’t believe she wanted them—why should they? In truth she never had. Until she discovered what it felt like to love a child, to be a real mother.

It’s going to be hard, Scarlett told herself many times, but I can do it. I can make up for the past. I’ve got so much love in me that it just spills over. I want to give some to my son and my daughter. They might not like Ireland at first, it’s so different, but once we go to Market Day a couple of times, and the races, and I buy them their own ponies . . . Ella should look darling in skirts and petticoats, too. All little girls love to dress up . . . They’ll have millions of cousins, with all the O’Haras around, and the children in Ballyhara town to play with . . .

66

“You cannot leave until after Easter, Scarlett darling,” said Colum. “There’s a ceremony on Good Friday that only The O’Hara can do.”

Scarlett didn’t argue. Being The O’Hara was too important to her. But she was annoyed. What difference could it possibly make who planted the first potato? It irritated her, too, that Colum wouldn’t go with her. And that he was away so much lately. “On business,” he said. Well, why couldn’t he do his fundraising in Savannah again, instead of wherever else he went to?

The truth was that everything irritated her. Now that she had decided to go, she wanted to be gone. She was snappish with Margaret Scanlon, the dressmaker, because it took so long to have her dresses made. And because Mrs. Scanlon looked so interested when Scarlett ordered dresses in colorful silks and linens as well as mourning black.

“I’ll be seeing my sister in America,” Scarlett said airily, “the colors are a gift for her.” And I don’t care whether you believe that or not, she thought crossly. I’m not really a widow, and I’m not about to go back to Atlanta looking drab and dowdy. Suddenly her utilitarian black skirt and stockings and shirt and shawl had become unspeakably depressing to her. She could hardly wait for the moment when she could put on the green linen frock with the wide ruffles thick creamy lace. Or the pink and navy striped silk . . . If Margaret Scanlon ever finished them.

“You’ll be surprised when you see how pretty your Momma looks in her new dresses,” Scarlett told Cat. “I’ve ordered some wonderful little frocks for you, too.” The baby smiled, showing her small collection of teeth.

“You’re going to love the big ship,” Scarlett promised her. She had reserved the largest and best stateroom on the Brian Boru for departure from Galway on the Friday following Easter.

On Palm Sunday the weather turned cold, with hard slanting rain that was still falling on Good Friday. Scarlett was soaking wet and chilled to the bone after the long ceremony on the open field.

She hurried to the Big House as soon after as she could, longing for a hot bath and a pot of tea. But there was not even time for her to put on dry clothes. Kathleen was waiting for her with an urgent message. “Old Daniel is calling for you, Scarlett. He took sick in the chest, and he’s dying.”


Scarlett drew in her breath sharply when she saw Old Daniel. Kathleen crossed herself. “He’s slipping,” she said quietly.

Daniel O’Hara’s eyes were sunken in their sockets, his cheeks so hollow that his face looked like a skull covered by skin. Scarlett knelt by the austere fold-out bed and took his hand. It was hot, papery dry and weak. “Uncle Daniel, it’s Katie Scarlett.”

Daniel opened his eyes. The tremendous effort of will it required made Scarlett want to weep. “I’ve a favor to ask,” he said. His breathing was shallow.

“Anything.”

“Bury me in O’Hara earth.”

Don’t be silly, you’re a long way from that, Scarlett meant to say, but she couldn’t lie to the old man. “I will that,” she said, the Irish way of affirmation.

Daniel’s eyes closed. Scarlett began to weep. Kathleen led her to a chair by the fire. “Will you help me brew the tea, Scarlett? They’ll all be coming.” Scarlett nodded, unable to speak. She hadn’t realized until this moment how important her uncle had become in her life. He seldom spoke, she almost never talked to him, he was simply there—solid, quiet, unchanging and strong. Head of the household. In her mind Uncle Daniel was The O’Hara.

Kathleen sent Scarlett home before dark fell. “You’ve your baby to tend, and there’s nothing more to do here. Come back tomorrow.”

On Saturday everything was much the same. People came to pay their respects in a steady stream all day. Scarlett fixed pot after pot of tea, sliced the cakes people brought, buttered bread for sandwiches.