She went to the kitchen herself to give Mrs. Montague’s messenger the note inviting her to tea that afternoon. She knew she was trespassing on Mrs. Fitz’s territory. The kitchen was supposed to be viewed only from the bridge-like gallery above. But it was her kitchen, wasn’t it? And Cat had started spending hours there every day, why couldn’t she?


Scarlett nearly put on her pink frock for Mrs. Montague’s call. It was cooler than her Galway skirts and the afternoon was very warm, for Ireland. Then she put it back in the wardrobe. She wouldn’t pretend to be what she was not.

She ordered harm brack for tea instead of the scones she usually had.

Charlotte Montague was wearing a gray linen jacket and skirt with a lace jabot that Scarlett’s fingers itched to touch. She’d never seen lace so thick and elaborate.

The older woman took off her gray kid gloves and gray feathered hat before she sat in the plush-covered chair next to the tea table.

“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. O’Hara. I doubt that you want to waste time talking about the weather; you’d prefer to know why I’m here, is that correct?” Mrs. Montague had an interesting wryness in her voice and her smile.

“I’ve been dying of curiosity,” said Scarlett. She liked this beginning.

“I have learned that you’re a successful businesswoman, both here and in America . . . Don’t be alarmed. What I know, I keep to myself; it’s one of my most valuable assets. Another, as you can imagine, is that I have means of learning things that others do not. I’m a businesswoman, too. I would like to tell you about my business, if I may.”

Scarlett could only nod dumbly. What did this woman know about her? And how?

To put it at its most basic level, she arranged things, said Mrs. Montague. She was born the youngest daughter of a younger son of a good family, and she had married a younger son of another. Even before he died in a hunting accident she had grown tired of being always on the edge of things, always trying to keep up appearances and lead the life expected of well-bred ladies and gentlemen, always in need of money. After she was widowed she found herself in the position of poor relation, a position that was intolerable.

What she had was intelligence, education, taste, and entrée to all the best houses in Ireland. She built on them, adding discretion and information to the attributes she began with.

“I am—in a manner of speaking—a professional house guest and friend. I give generously of advice—in clothing, in entertaining, in decorating houses, in arranging marriages or assignations. And I am paid generous commissions by dressmakers and tailors, bootmakers and jewelers, furniture dealers and rug merchants. I am skillful and tactful, and it is doubtful that anyone suspects that I am being paid. Even if they do suspect, either they don’t want to know or they are so satisfied with the outcome that they don’t care, particularly since it costs them nothing.”

Scarlett was shocked and fascinated. Why was the woman confessing all of this, to her of all people?

“I’m telling you this because I am sure you’re no fool, Mrs. O’Hara. You would wonder—and rightly—if I offered to help you, as the saying goes, out of the goodness of my heart. There is no goodness in my heart, except insofar as it adds to my personal well-being. I have a business proposal for you. You deserve better than a shabby little party given by a shabby little woman like Alice Harrington. You have beauty and brains and money. You can be an original. If you put yourself in my hands, under my tutelage, I will make you the most admired, the most sought-after woman in Ireland. It will take two to three years. Then the whole world will be open to you, to do with as you will. You will be famous. And I will have enough money to retire in luxury.”

Mrs. Montague smiled. “I’ve been waiting nearly twenty years for someone like you to come along.”

75

Scarlett hurried across the kitchen bridge to Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s rooms as soon as Charlotte Montague left. She didn’t care that she was supposed to send for the housekeeper to come to her; she had to talk to someone.

Mrs. Fitz came out of her room before Scarlett could knock on the door. “You should have sent for me, Mrs. O’Hara,” she said in a low voice.

“I know, I know, but it takes so long, and what I have to tell you just won’t wait!” Scarlett was extremely agitated.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s cold look calmed her down rapidly. “It will have to wait,” she said. “The kitchen maids will hear every word you say and repeat it with embellishments. Walk slowly with and follow my lead.”

Scarlett felt like a chastised child. She did as she was told.

Halfway across the gallery above the kitchen Mrs. Fitzpatrick stopped. Scarlett stopped with her and contained her impatience while Mrs. Fitz talked about improvements that had been made in the kitchen. The wide balustrade was plenty big enough to sit on, Scarlett thought idly, but she stood as erect as Mrs. Fitz, looking down at the kitchen and the exceedingly busy-looking maids far below. Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s progress was stately, but she did move. When they reached the house, Scarlett started talking as soon as the door to the bridge closed behind them.

“Of course it’s ridiculous,” she said after she reported what Mrs. Montague had said. “I told her so, too. ‘I’m Irish,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to be sought after by the English.’ ” Scarlett was talking very fast, and her color was high.

“Quite right you were, too, Mrs. O. The woman’s no better than a thief, by the words out of her own mouth.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s vehemence silenced Scarlett. She didn’t repeat Mrs. Montague’s response. “Your Irishness is one of the intriguing things about you. Striped stockings and boiled potatoes one day, partridge and silks the next. You can have both; it will only add to your legend. Write to me when you decide.”


Rosaleen Fitzpatrick’s account of Scarlett’s visitor infuriated Colum. “Why did Scarlett even let her in the door?” he raged.

Rosaleen tried to calm him. “She’s lonely, Colum. No friends save you and me. A child is all the world to its mother, but not much company. I’m thinking some fancy socializing might be good for her. And for us, if you put your mind on it. Kennedy’s Inn is nearly finished. We’ll have men coming and going soon. What better than to have other comings and goings to distract the eyes of the English?

“I took this Montague woman’s measure at a glance. She’s a cold, greedy sort. Mark my words, the first thing she will do is tell Scarlett that the Big House must be furnished and furbished. This Montague will play games with the cost of everything, but Scarlett can well afford it. And there will be strangers coming through Trim to Ballyhara every day of the year with their paints and velvets and French fashions. No one will pay heed to one or two more travelling this way.

“There’s wonder already about the pretty American widow. Why isn’t she looking for a husband? I say we’ll do better to send her out to the English at their parties. Otherwise, the English officers may start coming here to court her.”

Colum promised to “put his mind on it.” He went out that night and walked for miles, trying to decide what was best for Scarlett, what was best for the Brotherhood, how they could be reconciled.

He’d been so worried of late that he didn’t always think clearly. There had been reports of some men losing their commitment to the Fenian movement. Good harvests for two years in a row were making men comfortable, and comfort made it harder to risk everything. Also, Fenians who had infiltrated the constabulary were hearing rumors about an informer in the Brotherhood. Underground groin were perpetually in danger from informants. Twice in the past uprising had been destroyed by treachery. But this one had been so carefully, so slowly planned. Every precaution taken. Nothing left to chance. It mustn’t go wrong now. They were so close. The highest councils had planned to give the signal for action in the winter, when three-fourths of the English militia would be away from their garrisons for fox hunting. Instead the word had come down: delay until the informer is identified and disposed of. The waiting was eating away at him.

When the sunrise came, he walked through the rose-tinted ground mist to the Big House, let himself in with a key, and went to Rosaleen’s room. “I believe you’re right,” he told her. “Does that earn me a cup of tea?”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick made a graceful apology to Scarlett later that day, admitting that she had been too hasty and too prejudiced. She urged Scarlett to start creating a social life for herself with Charlotte Montague’s help.

“I’ve decided it’s a silly idea,” Scarlett replied. “I’m too busy.”

When Rosaleen told Colum, he laughed. She slammed the door when she left his house.


Harvest, Harvest Home celebration, golden autumn days, golden leaves beginning to fall. Scarlett rejoiced in the rich crops, mourned the end of the growing year. September was the time for the half-yearly rents, and she knew her tenants would have profit left over. It was a grand thing, being The O’Hara.

She gave a big party for Cat’s second birthday. All the Ballyhara children ten and under played in the big empty rooms on the ground floor, tasted ice cream for probably the first time, ate barm brack with tiny favors baked in it as well as currants and raisins. Every one of them went home with a shiny coin. Scarlett made sure they went home early because of all the superstitions about Halloween. Then she took Cat upstairs for her nap.