She looked from the corner of her eye at Mrs. Butler as the horsecar moved slowly along its tracks, but she couldn’t see any outward sign of trouble. Eleanor was talking cheerfully about more shopping they would do together. “We’ll go to the Market tomorrow, you’ll meet everyone you should know there. It’s the traditional place to learn all the news, too. The paper never prints the really interesting things.”

The car jolted and turned to the left, then moved a block and stopped at an intersection. Scarlett gasped. Immediately outside the open window next to Eleanor she saw a soldier in blue, rifle on his shoulder, marching in the shadows of a tall colonnade. “Yankees,” she whispered.

Mrs. Butler’s gaze followed Scarlett’s eyes. “That’s right, Georgia’s been rid of them for some time, hasn’t it? We’ve been occupied so long that we hardly even notice them any more. Ten years next February. One gets accustomed to almost anything in ten years.”

“I’ll never get used to them,” Scarlett whispered. “Never.”

A sudden noise made her jump. Then she realized that it was the chime of a great clock somewhere above them. The horsecar moved into the intersection, turning to the right.

“One o’clock,” said Mrs. Butler. “No wonder I’m tired; it was a long morning.” Behind them the chimes ended their quartet of notes. A single bell rang once. “That’s every Charlestonian’s timekeeper,” Eleanor Butler said, “the bells in Saint Michael’s steeple. They record our births and our passings.”

Scarlett was looking at the tall houses and walled gardens they were passing. Without exception they bore the scars of war. Pockholes of shelling marred every surface, and poverty was visible on all sides: peeling paint, boards nailed over shattered windows that could not be replaced, gaps and rust disfiguring elaborate, lace-like wrought iron balconies and gates. The trees lining the street had thin trunks; they were youthful replacements for the giants broken by shelling. Damn the Yankees.

And yet the sun gleamed on brightly polished brass door knobs, and there was the scent of flowers blooming behind the garden walls. They’ve got gumption, these Charleston folks, she thought. They don’t give in.

She helped Mrs. Butler down at the last stop, the end of Meeting Street. In front of them was a park, with neatly clipped grass and gleaming white paths that converged on and circled a freshly painted round bandstand with a shiny pagoda-like roof. Beyond it was the harbor. She could smell the water and the salt. A breeze rattled the sword-shaped fronds of palm trees in the park and swayed the long airy clumps of Spanish moss on the scarred limbs of liveoaks. Small children were running, rolling hoops, tossing balls on the grass under the watchful eyes of turbanned black nursemaids sitting on benches.

“Scarlett, I hope you’ll forgive me; I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask.” Mrs. Butler’s cheeks had splotches of bright color.

“What is it, Miss Eleanor? Are you feeling bad? Do you want me to run get you something? Come sit down.”

“No, no, I’m perfectly well. I just can’t stand not knowing . . . Have you and Rhett ever thought of another child? I understand that you’d be afraid to repeat the heartbreak you felt when Bonnie died . . .”

“A baby . . .” Scarlett’s voice trailed off. Had Mrs. Butler read her mind? She was counting on getting pregnant as soon as possible. Rhett would never send her away then. He was crazy about children, and he’d love her forever if she gave him one. Her voice rang with sincerity when she spoke.

“Miss Eleanor, I want a baby more than anything else in the whole world.”

“Thank God,” said Mrs. Butler. “I do so long to be a grandmother again. When Rhett brought Bonnie to visit me, I could hardly keep from smothering her with hugging. You see, Margaret—that’s my other son’s wife, you’ll meet her today—poor Margaret is barren. And Rosemary . . . Rhett’s sister . . . I’m very much afraid that there’ll never be anyone for Rosemary to marry.”

Scarlett’s mind worked furiously, fitting together the pieces of Rhett’s family and what they meant to her. Rosemary could be a problem. Old maids were so nasty. But the brother what was his name anyhow? Oh, yes, Ross, that was it. Ross was a man, and she’d never had any trouble charming men. Babyless Margaret wasn’t worth bothering about. It wasn’t likely she’d have any influence on Rhett. Fiddle-dee-dee, what did any of them matter? It was his mother that Rhett loved so much, and his mother wanted them together, with a baby, two babies, a dozen. Rhett had to take her back.

She kissed Mrs. Butler quickly on her cheek. “I’m just longing for a baby, Miss Eleanor. We’ll convince Rhett, the two of us.”

“You’ve made me very happy, Scarlett. Let’s go home now, it’s only around the corner there. Then I think I’ll have a little rest before dinner. My committee is meeting at the house this afternoon, and I need to have my wits about me. I hope you’ll join us, if only for tea. Margaret will be there. I don’t want to pressure you to work, but of course if you were interested, I’d be pleased. We raise money with cake sales and bazaars of handcrafts and such for the Confederate Home for Widows and Orphans.”

God’s nightgown, were they all the same, these Southern ladies? It was just like Atlanta. Always Confederate this and Confederate that. Couldn’t they admit the War was over and get on with their lives? She’d have a headache. Scarlett’s step faltered, then resumed its steady pace, matching Mrs. Butler’s. No, she’d go to the committee meeting, she’d even work on the committee if they asked her. She was never going to make the mistakes here she’d made in Atlanta. She was never going to be shut out and lonely again, not even if she had to wear the Stars and Bars embroidered on her corsets.

“That sounds mighty nice,” she said. “I was always a little sad that I never had time for extra work in Atlanta. My former husband, Frank Kennedy, left a fine business as an inheritance for our little girl. I felt it was my duty to watch over it for her.”

That should take care of that story Rhett was telling.

Eleanor Butler nodded comprehension. Scarlett lowered her lashes to hide the delight in her eyes.


While Mrs. Butler was resting, Scarlett wandered through the house. She hurried down the stairs to see what Rhett was so busy buying back from the Yankees for his mother.

The place looked mighty bare to her. Scarlett’s eye wasn’t educated to appreciate the perfection of what he had done. On the second floor, the magnificent double drawing rooms held exquisite sofas, tables, and chairs, placed so that each could be appreciated as well as used. Scarlett admired the obvious quality of the silk upholstery and the well-polished gleam of the wood, but the beauty of the space surrounding the furniture escaped her completely. She liked the small card room much better. The table and chairs filled it more, and besides, she loved to play cards.

The ground floor dining room was only a dining room to her; she’d never heard of Hepplewhite. And the library was just a place full of books, therefore boring. What pleased her most were the deep porches, because the day was so warm, and the view over the harbor included wheeling gulls and small sailboats that looked as if they might themselves soar into the air at any moment. Landlocked all her life, Scarlett found the broad expanse of water incredibly exotic. And the air smelled so good! It gave her an appetite, too. She’d be glad when Miss Eleanor finished her rest and they could eat dinner.


“Would you like to take coffee on the piazza, Scarlett?” asked Eleanor Butler when she and Scarlett were finishing their dessert. “It might be our last chance for a while. It looks as if weather is coming in.”

“Oh, yes, I’d like that very much.” The dinner had been very good, but she still felt restless, almost confined. Outside would be nice.

She followed Mrs. Butler to the second floor porch. My grief, it’s turned chilly since I was here before dinner, was her first thought. Hot coffee’s going to taste good.

She drank the first cup quickly and was about to ask for another when Eleanor Butler laughed and gestured toward the street. “Here comes my committee,” she said. “I’d recognize that sound anywhere.”

Scarlett heard it, too, a tinkling of tiny bells. She ran to the railing above the street to look.

A pair of horses was racing toward her, pulling a handsome dark green brougham with yellow-spoked wheels. The wheels gave off silver flashes of light and also the merry jingling sound. The carriage slowed, then stopped in front of the house. Scarlett could see the bells then, sleigh bells attached to a leather strap that was woven around and through the yellow spokes. She’d never seen such a thing. Nor had she ever seen anyone like the driver on the high seat on the front of the carriage. It was a woman, wearing a dark brown riding habit and yellow gloves. She was half standing, pulling on the traces with all her might, her ugly face screwed up with determination; she looked for all the world like a dressed-up monkey.

The brougham’s door opened and a laughing young man stepped out onto the mounting block before the house. He held out his hand. A stout lady took it and stepped from the carriage. She, too, was laughing. The young man helped her down from the carriage block, then handed down a younger woman with a broad smile on her face. “Come inside, dear,” Mrs. Butler said, “and help me with the tea things.” Scarlett followed her eagerly, seething with curiosity. What a peculiar turnout of people. Miss Eleanor’s committee sure is different from the bunches of old cats who run everything in Atlanta. Where did they find that monkey-woman driver? And who could the man be? Men didn’t bake cakes for charity. He looked rather handsome, too. Scarlett paused to smooth her windblown hair at a mirror.