The oysters didn’t bother her; they just looked like dirty rocks. But when Mrs. Butler picked up a curved knife from a table and opened one, Scarlett felt her stomach heave. It looks like a hawk of spit floating in old dishwater, she thought.

After the seafood the meats had a reassuring familiarity even though the swarms of flies around the blood-soaked newspapers under them made her queasy. She managed to smile at a small black boy who was waving them off with a big heart-shaped fan made of some woven dried straw-like stuff. By the time they reached the rows of limp-necked birds, she was sufficiently herself again to think about trimming a hat with some of the feathers.

“Which feathers, dear?” asked Mrs. Butler. “The pheasant? Of course you may have some.” She bargained briskly with the inkblack fat woman who was selling the birds, finally buying a large handful that she plucked herself for a penny.

“What in blue blazes is Eleanor doing?” said a voice at Scarlett’s elbow. She looked around and saw Sally Brewton’s monkey face.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brewton.”

“Good morning, Scarlett. Why is Eleanor buying the inedible parts of that bird? Or has someone discovered a way to cook feathers? I have several mattresses that I’m not using right now.”

Scarlett explained why she wanted them. She could feel herself getting red in the face. Maybe only “fancy pieces” wore trimmed hats in Charleston.

“What a good idea!” said Sally with genuine enthusiasm. “I have an old riding top hat that could be resurrected with a cockade of ribbon and some feathers trailing down from it. If I can find it, it’s been so long since I used it last. Do you ride, Scarlett?”

“Not for years. Not since . . .” She tried to remember.

“Not since before the War. I know. Me, too. I miss it horribly.”

“What do you miss, Sally?” Mrs. Butler joined them. She held out the feathers to Celie. “Tie a piece of string ’round these, at both ends, and be careful not to crush them.” Then she gasped. “Excuse me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll miss Brewton’s sausage. Thank goodness I saw you, Sally, it had clean slipped my mind.” She hurried away, with Celie in pursuit.

Sally smiled at Scarlett’s puzzled expression. “Don’t worry, she hasn’t gone mad. The best sausage in the world is for sale on Saturdays only. It sells out early. The man who makes it was a footman of ours when he was a slave. Lucullus is his name. After he was freed, he added Brewton for a last name. Most of the slaves did that—you’ll find all of Charleston’s aristocracy here as far as names go. Of course there’s a good number of Lincolns, too. Come walk with me, Scarlett. I’ve got to get my vegetables. Eleanor will find us.”

Sally stopped before a table of onions. “Where the devil is Lila?—oh, there you are. Scarlett, this tiny young creature, if you can credit it, runs my entire household as if she were Ivan the Terrible. This is Mrs. Butler, Lila, Mister Rhett’s wife.”

The pretty young maid bobbed a curtsey. “We needs lots of onions, Miss Sally,” she said, “for the artichoke pickles I’m putting up.”

“Do you hear that, Scarlett? She thinks I’m senile. I know we need lots of onions,” Sally grabbed one of the brown paper bags from the table and began to drop onions into it. Scarlett watched with dismay. Impulsively, she put her hand over the mouth of the bag.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Brewton, but those onions are no good.”

“No good? How can onions be no good? They’re not rotten or sprouting.”

“These onions were dug up too soon,” Scarlett explained. “They look fine enough, but they won’t have any flavor. I know, because it’s a mistake I made myself. When I had to run our place, I planted onions. Since I didn’t know anything about growing things, I dug up a batch as soon as the tops started to brown, afraid they were dying and would rot. They were pretty as pictures, and I was proud as a peacock, because most of my planting came out mighty sorry. We ate them boiled and stewed and in fricassee to help the taste of the squirrels and raccoons. But they didn’t have any bite to them at all. Later, when I dug up the row to plant something else, I came across one I’d missed. That one was what an onion’s supposed to be. The fact is, they need time to flavor up. I’ll show you what a good onion should be like.” Scarlett sorted with expert eyes, hands, and nose through the baskets on the table. “These are the ones you want,” she said at last. Her chin was belligerent. You can figure me for a country bumpkin if you want to, she was thinking, but I’m not ashamed that I got my hands dirty when I had to. You high-toned Charlestonians think you’re the be-all and end-all, but you’re not.

“Thank you,” said Sally. Her eyes were thoughtful. “I’m grateful. I did you an injustice, Scarlett. I didn’t think anyone as pretty as you could have any sense. What else did you plant? I wouldn’t mind learning about celery.”

Scarlett studied Sally’s face. She saw the honest interest and responded to it. “Celery was too fancy for me. I had a dozen mouths to feed. I know about all there is to know about yams, though, and carrots and white potatoes and turnips. Cotton, too.” She didn’t care if she was bragging or not. She’d bet anything that no lady in Charleston had ever sweated in the sun picking cotton!

“You must have worked yourself to a shadow.” Respect was written clear in Sally Brewton’s eyes.

“We had to eat.” She shrugged off the past. “Thank goodness that’s way behind us.” Then she smiled. Sally Brewton made her feel good. “It did make me mighty particular about root crops, though. Rhett said one time that he’d known plenty of people to send wine back but I was the only one who’d do it with carrots. We were at the fanciest restaurant in New Orleans, and did it ever cause a rumpus!”

Sally laughed explosively. “I think I know that restaurant. Do tell me. Did the waiter rearrange the napkin over his arm and look down his nose in disapproval?”

 Scarlett giggled. “He dropped the napkin and it fell onto one of those frying pans they cook dessert in.”

“And caught on fire?” Sally grinned wickedly.

Scarlett nodded.

“Oh, Lord!” Sally hooted. “I’d have given my eye teeth to have been there.”

Eleanor Butler broke in. “What are you two talking about? I could use a good laugh. Brewton only had two pounds of sausage left, and he’d promised them to Minnie Wentworth.”

“Get Scarlett to tell you,” said Sally, still chuckling. “This girl of yours is a wonder, Eleanor, but I’ve got to go.” She put her hand on the basket of onions that Scarlett had designated. “I’ll take this,” she said to the vendor. “Yes, Lena, the whole basket. Just pour them into a croaker sack and give them to Lila. How’s your boy, is he still whooping?” Before she got involved in a discussion of cough remedies she turned to Scarlett and looked up into her face. “I hope you’ll call me ‘Sally’ and come see me, Scarlett. I’m at home the first Wednesday of the month in the afternoon.”

Scarlett didn’t know it, but she had just advanced to the highest level of Charleston’s tight-knit, stratified society. Doors that would have opened a polite crack for Eleanor Butler’s daughter-in-law swung wide for a protégée of Sally Brewton’s.

Eleanor Butler gladly accepted Scarlett’s judgments on the potatoes and carrots she needed to buy. Then she made her purchases of cornmeal, hominy, flour, and rice. Finally, she bought butter, buttermilk, cream, milk, and eggs. Celie’s basket was overflowing. “We’ll have to take everything out and repack it,” Mrs. Butler fretted.

“I’ll carry something,” Scarlett offered. She was impatient to be gone before she had to meet any more of Mrs. Butler’s friends. They had stopped so often, the walk through the vegetable and dairy sections had taken them more than an hour. She didn’t mind meeting the women who were selling the produce—she wanted to mark them down in her mind very clearly, because she was sure she’d be dealing with them in the future. Miss Eleanor was too soft. She was sure she could do better on the prices. It would be fun. As soon as she got the hang of things she’d offer to take over some of the shopping. Not the fishy things, though. They made her sick.

Not, she discovered, when she ate them. Dinner was a revelation. The she-crab soup was a velvety blend of tastes that made her open her eyes wide. She’d never tasted anything so subtly delicious, except in New Orleans. Of course! Now that she remembered it, Rhett had identified many of the dishes he ordered for them as one kind of seafood or another.

Scarlett had a second bowl of soup and relished every drop, then did full justice to the rest of the generous dinner, including dessert, a whipped-cream-topped, crusty nut and fruit confection that Mrs. Butler identified as Huguenot Torte.

That afternoon she had indigestion for the first time in her life. Not from overeating. Eulalie and Pauline upset her. “We’re on our way to see Carreen,” Pauline announced when they arrived, “and we figured Scarlett would want to go with us. Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know you’d just be finishing dinner.” Her mouth was tight with disapproval of a meal that would last so long. Eulalie released a small sigh of envy.

Carreen! She didn’t want to see Carreen at all. But she couldn’t say that, her aunts would have a fit.

“I’d just love to go, Auntie,” she cried, “but I’m really not feeling very well. I’m just going to put a cool cloth on my forehead and lie down.” She dropped her eyes. “You know how it is.” There! Let them think I’m having female troubles. They’re much too prissy-nice to ask any questions.

She was right. Her aunts made the hastiest possible farewells. Scarlett saw them to the door, careful to walk as if she had cramping in her stomach. Eulalie patted her shoulder sympathetically when she kissed her goodbye. “You have yourself a good long rest, now,” she said. Scarlett nodded meekly. “And come to our house in the morning at nine-thirty. It’s a half-hour walk to Saint Mary’s for Mass.”