Many of the men wore bright sashes slashed across their chests, pinned with jewelled orders; the Viceroy’s knee breeches touched the Garter around his leg. The men were almost more splendid than the women.

Almost, but not quite, for the women were jewelled at neck, breast, ears, and wrists; many wore tiaras as well. Their gowns were made of rich materials—satin, velvet, brocade, silk—embroidered often in glowing silks or gold and silver threads.

A body could get blinded just looking, I’d better go on in and make my manners. Scarlett made her way across the room to curtsey to the Viceregal host and hostess. The music started as she finished.

“May I?” A gold-braided red arm crooked to offer support for her hand. Scarlett smiled. It was Charles Ragland. She’d met him at a house party, and he had called on her every day since her arrival in Dublin. He made no secret of his admiration. Charles’ handsome face blushed every time she spoke to him. He was awfully sweet and attractive, even though he was an English soldier. They weren’t at all like Yankees, no matter what Colum said. For one thing, they were infinitely better dressed. She rested her hand lightly on Ragland’s arm, and he escorted her into the pattern of the quadrille.

“You are very beautiful tonight, Scarlett.”

“So are you, Charles. I was just thinking that the men are more dressed up than the ladies.”

“Thank heaven for uniforms. Knee breeches are the devil to wear. A man feels a perfect fool in satin shoes.”

“Serves them right. They’ve been peeking at ladies’ ankles for ages, let them see what it feels like when we ogle their legs.”

“Scarlett, you shock me.” The pattern shifted and he was gone.

I probably do, Scarlett thought. Charles was as innocent as a schoolboy sometimes. She looked up at her new partner.

“My God!” she said aloud. It was Rhett.

“How flattering,” he said with his twisty half smile. No one else smiled like that. Scarlett was filled with light, with lightness. She felt as if she were floating above the polished floor, buoyant with happiness.

And then, before she could speak again, the quadrille took him away. She smiled automatically at her new partner. The love burning in her eyes took his breath away. Her mind was racing: Why is Rhett here? Could it be because he wanted to see me? Because he had to see me, because he couldn’t keep away?

The quadrille moved at its stately tempo, making Scarlett frantic with impatience. When it ended, she was facing Charles Ragland. It took all her self-control to smile and thank him and murmur a hasty excuse before she turned to search for Rhett.

Her eyes met his almost immediately. He was standing only an arm’s length away.

Scarlett’s pride kept her from reaching out to him. He knew I’d be looking for him, she thought angrily. Who does he think he is, anyhow, to come strolling into my world and just stand there and expect me to fall into his arms? There are plenty of men in Dublin—in this room, even—who’ve been smothering me with attention, hanging around my drawing room, sending flowers every day, and notes, and even jewelry. What makes Mister High and Mighty Rhett Butler think that all he has to do is lift his little finger and I’ll come running?

“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, and the cool tone of her voice pleased her.

Rhett held out his hand, and she put hers in it without thinking. “May I have this dance, Mrs . . . er . . . O’Hara?”

Scarlett caught her breath in alarm. “Rhett, you’re not going to tell on me? Everybody believes I’m a widow!”

He smiled and took her into his arms as the music began. “Your secret is safe with me, Scarlett.” She could feel the rasp of his voice on her skin, and his warm breath. It made her weak.

“What the devil are you doing here?” she asked. She had to know. His hand was warm at her waist, strong, supporting, directing her body as they turned. Unconsciously Scarlett revelled in his strength and rebelled against his control over her even as she remembered the joy of following his steps in the giddying swirling motion of the waltz.

Rhett chuckled. “I couldn’t resist my curiosity,” he said. “I was in London on business, and everyone was talking about an American who was taking Dublin Castle by storm. ‘Could that be Scarlett of the striped stockings?’ I asked myself. I had to find out. Bart Morland confirmed my suspicions. Then I couldn’t get him to stop talking about you. He even made me ride with him through your town. According to him, you rebuilt it with your own hands.”

His eyes raked over her from head to toe. “You’ve changed, Scarlett,” he said quietly. “The charming girl has become an elegant, grown-up woman. I salute you, I really do.”

The unvarnished honesty and warmth of his voice made Scarlett forget her resentments. “Thank you, Rhett,” she said.

“Are you happy in Ireland, Scarlett?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m glad.” His words were rich with deeper meaning.

For the first time in all the years she’d known him, Scarlett understood Rhett, at least in part. He did come to see me, she understood, he’s been thinking about me all this time, worrying about where I’d gone and how I was. He never stopped caring, no matter what he said. He loves me and always will, just as I’ll always love him.

The realization filled her with happiness, and she tasted it, like champagne; sipped it, to make it last. Rhett was here, with her, and they were, in this moment, closer than they had ever been.

An aide-de-camp approached them when the waltz ended. “His Excellency requests the honor of the next dance, Mrs. O’Hara.”

Rhett raised his eyebrows in the quizzical mockery Scarlett remembered so well. Her lips curved in a smile for him alone. “Tell His Excellency that I will be delighted,” she said. She looked at Rhett before she took the aide’s arm. “In Clayton County,” she murmured to Rhett, “we’d say that I was in high cotton.” She heard his laughter follow her as she walked away.

I’m allowed, she told herself, and she looked back over her shoulder to see him laughing. It’s really too much, she thought, it’s not fair at all. He even looks good in those silly satin britches and shoes. Her green eyes sparkled with laughter when she curtseyed to the Viceroy before they began to dance.

Scarlett felt no real surprise that Rhett was no longer there when she looked for him again. For as long as she had known him, Rhett had appeared and disappeared without explanation. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him here tonight, she thought. I was feeling like Cinderella, why shouldn’t the only Prince Charming I want be here? She could feel his arms around her as if he had left a mark; otherwise it would be easy to believe that she had made it all up—the gilded room, the music, his presence, even hers.


When she returned to her rooms at the Shelbourne, Scarlett turned up the gas and stood before a long looking glass in the bright light to look at herself and see what Rhett had seen. She looked beautiful and sure of herself, like her portrait, like the portrait of her grandmother.

Her heart began to ache. Why couldn’t she be like the other portrait of Grandma Robillard? The one in which she was soft and flushed with love given and received.

For in Rhett’s caring words, she knew, there had also been sadness and farewell.

In the middle of the night Scarlett O’Hara woke in her luxurious scented room on the best floor of the best hotel in Dublin and wept with racking convulsive sobs. “If only . . .” repeated again and again in her head like a battering ram.

79

The night’s anguish left no visible marks on Scarlett. Her face was smoothly serene the next morning, and her smiles were as lovely as ever when she poured out coffee and tea for the men and women who crowded her drawing room. Sometime during the dark hours of the night she had found the courage to let Rhett go.

If I love him, she understood, I must not try to hold on to him. I have to learn to give him his freedom, just the way I try to give Cat hers because I love her.

I wish I could have told Rhett about her, he’d be so proud of her.

I wish the Castle Season was over. I miss Cat dreadfully. I wonder what she’s up to.


Cat was running with the strength of desperation through the woods at Ballyhara. The ground mists of morning still clung in places, and she couldn’t see where she was going. She stumbled and fell, but she got up right away. She had to keep running, even though she was short of breath from running so much already. She sensed another stone coming and ducked behind the protection of a tree trunk. The boys chasing her shouted and jeered. They had almost caught up with her, even though they’d never ventured into the woods near the Big House before. It was safe now. They knew The O’Hara was in Dublin with the English. Their parents talked about nothing else.

“There she is!” one shouted, and the others lifted their hands to throw.

But the figure stepping from behind a tree was not Cat. It was the cailleach, with a gnarled finger pointing. The boys howled with fear and ran.

“Come with me,” said Grainne. “I will give you some tea.”

Cat put her hand in the old woman’s. Grainne came out from hiding and walked very slowly, and Cat had no trouble keeping pace with her. “Will there be cakes?” Cat asked.

“There will,” said the cailleach.


Although Scarlett grew homesick for Ballyhara, she lasted the Castle Season out. She’d given Charlotte Montague her word. It’s exactly like the Season in Charleston, she thought. Why is it, I wonder, that fashionable people work so hard at having fun for so long at a time? She soared from success to even greater success, and Mrs. Fitz shrewdly took advantage of the rapturous paragraphs in the Irish Times that described them. Every evening she took the newspaper down to Kennedy’s bar to show the people of Ballyhara how famous The O’Hara was. Day by day, grumbling about Scarlett’s fondness for the English gave way to pride that The O’Hara was more admired than any of the Anglo women.