“Do get on with it Ernest,” said his wife.

With many starts and stops and sputters Ernest got on with it. There were bathing costumes for anyone who wanted one and ropes strung across the river for the adventurous to hold on to while cooling off in the rushing water.

“Hardly ‘rushing,’ ” amended Nan Sutcliffe, “but a decent little current. Footmen will be there with iced champagne.”

Scarlett was one of the first to accept. It sounded like being in a cool tub all afternoon.

It was immensely more enjoyable than a cool tub, even though the water was warmer than she’d hoped it would be. Scarlett moved along the rope hand over hand towards the center and deeper water. Suddenly she found herself in the grip of the current. It was colder, so much colder that gooseflesh rose on her arms, and very swift. It pushed her up against the rope then knocked her feet out from under her. She was holding on for her life. Her legs gyrated out of control and the current twisted her body in half circles. She felt a dangerous temptation to let go of the rope and ride swirling in the current to wherever it would take her. Free of the earth under her feet, free of walls or roads or anything controlled and controlling. For long heartracing moments she imagined herself letting go, just letting go.

She was shaking from the effort she had to make to keep her grip fast on the rope. Slowly, with intense concentration and determination, she moved on, hand over hand, until she was free of the current’s pull. She turned her head away from the others splashing and shouting in the water, and she cried, she didn’t know why.

There were slow eddies, like fingers from the current, in the warmer water outside it. Scarlett slowly became aware of their caresses, then she let herself float among them. Warm tendrils of movement stroked her legs, her thighs, her body, her breasts, twined around her waist and her knees beneath the wool tunic and bloomers. She felt longings she could not name, an emptiness that cried out to be filled within her. “Rhett,” she whispered against the rope, bruising her lips, inviting the roughness and the hurt.

“Isn’t this splendid fun?” cried Nan Sutcliffe. “Who wants champagne?”

Scarlett forced herself to look around. “Scarlett, you brave thing, you went right through the frightening part. You’ll have to come back. None of us has the nerve to bring your champagne to you.”

Yes, thought Scarlett, I have to go back.

After dinner she made her way to Charles Ragland’s side. Her cheeks were very pale, her eyes very bright.

“May I offer you a sandwich tonight?” she asked quietly.


Charles was an experienced, skillful lover. His hands were gentle, his lips firm and warm. Scarlett closed her eyes and let her skin receive his touch the way it had received the caresses of the river. Then he spoke her name, and she felt the ecstatic sensations slipping away. No, she thought, no, I don’t want to lose it, I mustn’t. She closed her eyes tighter, thought of Rhett, pretended that the hands were Rhett’s hands, the lips Rhett’s lips, that the warm, strong thrusting filling her aching emptiness was Rhett’s.

It was no good. It was not Rhett. The sorrow of it made her want to die. She turned her face away from Charles’ questing mouth and wept until he was at rest.

“My darling,” he said, “I love you so.”

“Please,” Scarlett sobbed, “oh, please go away.”

“What is it, darling, what’s wrong?”

“Me. Me. I was wrong. Please leave me alone.” Her voice was so small, so poignant with despair that Charles reached out to comfort her, then drew back in full knowledge that there was only one comfort he could give. He moved quietly as he gathered his clothes, and he shut the door behind him with only the slightest sound.

83

I have gone to join my regiment. I will love you forever. Yours, Charles.

Scarlett folded the note carefully, tucked it beneath the pearls her jewel case. If only . . .

But there was little room in her heart for anyone. Rhett there. Laughing at her, outwitting her, challenging her, sut her, dominating her, sheltering her.


She went down to breakfast with bruise-like dark shadows under her eyes, imprint of the desolate weeping that had replaced sleep for her. She looked cool in her mint-green linen frock. She felt encased in ice.

She was obliged to smile, talk, listen, laugh. Guests had a duty to make a house party a success. She looked at the people seated along the sides of the long table. Smiling, talking, listening, laughing. How many of them, she wondered, have wounds inside them, too? How many feel dead, and grateful for it? How brave people are.

She nodded at the footman who was holding a plate for her at the long sideboard. At her signal he opened the big silver serving dishes one after another for her approval. Scarlett accepted some rashers of bacon and a spoonful of salt and scrambled eggs. “Yes, a grilled tomato,” she said, “no, nothing cold.” Ham, preserved goose, jellied quail eggs, spiced beef, salted fish, aspics, ices, fruits, cheeses, breads, relishes, jams, sauces, wines, ale, cider, coffee—all no. “I’ll have tea,” she said.

She was sure she could swallow some tea. Then she’d be able to go back to her room. Luckily this was a big party, and mostly for shooting. Most of the men would already be out with their guns. There would be luncheon in the house and somewhere on the grounds, wherever the shoot was. There would be tea served indoors and out. Everyone could choose amusements. No one was required to be any special place at any special time until dinner was served. The guest card in her room said to gather in the drawing room after the first dinner gong at seven forty-five. Processing into dinner at eight.

She indicated a chair beside a woman she hadn’t met before. The footman deposited her plate and the small tray with individual tea service. Then he pulled out the chair, seated her, shook out the folds of her napkin, and draped it across her lap. Scarlett nodded to the woman. “Good morning,” she said, “my name is Scarlett O’Hara.”

The woman had a lovely smile. “Good morning. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My cousin Lucy Fane told me that she’d met you at Bart Morland’s. When Parnell was there. Tell me, don’t you find it delectably seditious to admit that one supports Home Rule? My name’s May Taplow, by the way.”

“A cousin of mine said he was sure I wouldn’t be for Home Rule at all if Parnell was short and fat and had warts,” Scarlett said. She poured her tea while May Taplow laughed. “Lady May Taplow” to be exact, Scarlett knew. May’s father was a duke, her husband the son of a viscount. Funny how one picked up these things as time and parties went by. Funnier still how a country girl from Georgia got used to thinking about “one” doing this and that. Next thing you know, I’ll be saying “toe-mali-toe” so that the footmen will know what it is I want. Guess it’s no different really from telling a darky you want goobers so he’ll know you’d like a handful of peanuts.

“I’m afraid your cousin would be dead on the nose if he accused me of the same thing,” May confided. “I lost all interest in the succession when Bertie started to put on weight.”

It was Scarlett’s turn to confess. “I don’t know who Bertie is.”

“Stupid of me,” said May, “of course you don’t. You don’t do the London Season, do you? Lucy said you run your own estate all alone. I do think that’s wonderful. Makes the men who can’t cope without a bailiff look as pouffish as they are, half of them. Bertie’s the Prince of Wales. A dear, really, so enjoys being naughty, but it’s beginning to show. You would adore his wife, Alexandra. Deaf as a post, you can’t possibly tell her a secret unless you write it down, but beautiful past measuring and as sweet as she is pretty.”

Scarlett laughed. “If you had any idea, May, what I feel like, you’d die laughing. Back home when I was growing up, the most high-toned gossip going was about the man who owned the new railroad. Everybody wondered when he’d started wearing shoes. I can hardly believe I’m chatting about the King of England to be.”

“Lucy told me I’d be mad about you, and she was dead on the nose. Promise me you’ll stay with us if you ever decide to do London. What did you decide about the railway man? What kind of shoes did he have? Did he limp when he walked? I’m sure I would adore America.”

Scarlett discovered with surprise that she’d eaten all her breakfast. And that she was still hungry. She lifted her hand and the footman behind her chair stepped forward. “Excuse me, May, I’m going to ask for seconds,” she said. “Some kedgeree, please, and some coffee, lots of cream.”

Life goes on. A mighty good life, too. I made up my mind I was going to be happy and I guess I am. I’ve just got to notice it.

She smiled at her new friend. “The railroad man was as Cracker as they come—”

May looked confused.

“Oh. Well, Cracker is what we call a white man who likely never wore shoes. That’s not the same as poor white . . .” She enthralled the Duke’s daughter.


It rained that evening during dinner. All the house party ran outside and capered for joy. The impossible summer would soon be over.

Scarlett drove home at midday. It was cool, the dusty hedgerows had been washed clean, and soon the hunting season would begin. The Galway Blazers! I’ll definitely want my own horses. I’ll have to see about sending them ahead by rail. The best thing, I suppose, would be to load them at Trim, then to Dublin, then back across to Galway. Otherwise it’s the long road to Mullingar, then rest them, then train to Galway. I wonder if I should send feed, too? I’ll have to find out about stabling. I’ll write to John Graham tomorrow . . .