Alexandra Ripley - Scarlett

Why was the Mother Superior being so difficult? Why wouldn’t she talk to her at least? Why on earth would a woman like that have to spend a whole day in retreat, even a holy day like Ash Wednesday? Surely a Mother Superior was already as good as a person could be. Why did she need to spend a day in prayer and fasting?

Fasting! Scarlett ran back to the drawing room to look at the tall clock. It couldn’t be only four o’clock. Not even. It was seven minutes to four. And there’d be nothing at all to eat until dinnertime tomorrow. No, it wasn’t possible. It didn’t make sense.

Scarlett walked to the bell pull and jerked it four times. “Go put your coat on,” she told Pansy when the girl came running. “We’re going out.”

“Miss Scarlett, how come we going to the bakery? Cook, she say bakery stuff ain’t fit to eat. She does all the baking her own self.”

“I don’t care what Cook says. And if you tell one single soul we’ve been here, I’ll skin you alive.”

Scarlett ate two cookies and a dinner roll in the store. She carried two sacks of baked goods home and up to her room, hiding them under her cape.

A telegram had been placed neatly in the center of her bureau. Scarlett dropped the sacks of breads and cookies on the floor and ran to get it.

“Henry Hamilton,” it said as signature. Damn! She’d thought it was from Rhett, begging her to come home or telling her that he was on his way to fetch her. She crumpled the flimsy paper angrily in her fist.

Then she smoothed it out. Better see what Uncle Henry had to say. As she read the message, Scarlett began to smile.

So Rhett was looking for her. Just what she’d expected. Hah! She’d been so right to come to Savannah. She hoped Uncle Henry had had the sense to tell Rhett right away and by telegram, not letter. Why, he might be reading his right this minute, just like she was reading hers.

Scarlett hummed a waltz tune and danced around the room holding the telegram against her heart. He might even be on his way now. The train from Charleston arrived just about this time of day. She ran to the mirror to smooth her hair and pinch color into her cheeks. Should she change her dress? No, Rhett would notice, and it would make him think she wasn’t doing anything except wait for him. She rubbed toilet water on her throat and temples. There. She was ready. Her eyes, she saw, were glowing green like a prowling cat’s. She’d have to remember to drop her lashes over them. She took a stool to the window, seated herself where she’d be hidden by the curtain but still able to see out.

An hour later, Rhett hadn’t come. Scarlett’s small white teeth tore at a roll from the bakery bag. What a bother this Lent business was! Imagine having to hide in her room and eat rolls without even any butter to put on them. She was in a very bad mood when she went downstairs.

And there was Jerome with her grandfather’s supper tray! It was almost enough to make her turn Huguenot or Presbyterian like the old man.

Scarlett stopped him in the hall. “This food looks terrible,” she said. “Take it back and put big lumps of butter on the mashed potatoes. Put a thick slice of ham on the plate, too; I know you’ve got a ham down there, I saw it hanging in the larder. And add a pitcher of cream to pour on that pudding. A little bowl of strawberry jam, too.”

“Mr. Robillard, he can’t chew no ham. And his doctor say he’s not supposed to eat sweets, nor cream and butter neither.”

“The doctor doesn’t want him to starve to death, either. Now do what I say.”

Scarlett looked angrily at Jerome’s stiff back until he disappeared down the stairs. “Nobody should have to go hungry,” she said. “Not ever.” Her mood changed abruptly and she giggled. “Not even an old loo-la.”

Fortified by her rolls, Scarlett was cheerfully singing under her breath when she went downstairs Thursday. She found her aunts in a nervous frenzy of preparation for her grandfather’s birthday dinner. While Eulalie wrestled with branches of dark green magnolia leaves for arrangements on the sideboard and mantel, Pauline was going through stacks of heavy linen tablecloths and napkins, trying to find the ones she remembered as her father’s favorite.

“What difference does it make?” Scarlett asked impatiently. Talk about a tempest in a teapot! Grandfather wouldn’t even see the dining room table from his room. “Just pick the one that shows the darning least.”

Eulalie dropped an armload of rattling leaves. “I didn’t hear you come in, Scarlett.  Good morning.”

Pauline nodded coldly. She had forgiven Scarlett for her insults, as a good Christian woman should, but in all likelihood she’d never forget them. “There are no darns in Mere’s linens, Scarlett,” she said. “They’re all in perfect condition.”

Scarlett looked at the stacks that covered the long table and remembered the worn, mended cloths that her aunts had in Charleston. If it was up to her, she’d pack up all this stuff and take it back to Charleston when they left on Saturday. Grandfather wouldn’t miss it, and the aunts could use it. I’ll never in my life be as afraid of anybody as they are of that old tyrant. But if I said what I think, Aunt Eulalie would start to sniffle, and Aunt Pauline would lecture me for an hour about duty to my elders. “I have to go buy a present for him,” she said aloud. “Is there any shopping you want me to do for you?”

And don’t dare, she said silently, offer to come with me. I’ve got to go to the convent to see the Mother Superior. She can’t still be in retreat. If I have to, I’ll stand by the gate and grab her when she comes out. I’m almighty tired of being turned away.

They were much too busy, her aunts said, to go shopping, and they were astonished that Scarlett had not yet selected and wrapped a gift for her grandfather. Scarlett left before they could describe the extent of their busyness and depth of their astonishment. “Old loo-las,” she said under her breath. She wasn’t at all sure what the Irish phrase meant, but the sound of it was enough to make her smile.

The trees in the square looked somehow thicker, the grass greener than the day before. The sun was warmer, too. Scarlett felt the quickened optimism that always accompanied the first hint of spring. Today would be a good day, she was sure of it—in spite of her grandfather’s birthday party. “Walk up, Pansy,” she said automatically, “don’t drag along like a turtle,” and she set off at a brisk pace along the packed sand-and-shell sidewalk.

The sound of hammering and men’s voices shouting at the Cathedral building carried clearly through the still, sunlit air. Scarlett wished for a moment that the priest would take her on another tour of the site. But that wasn’t what she was here for. She turned into the gate of the convent.

The same elderly nun answered the doorbell. Scarlett readied herself for combat.

But, “The Mother Superior is expecting you,” said the nun. “If you’ll follow me . . .”

Scarlett was almost dazed when she left the convent ten minutes later. It had been so easy! The Mother Superior agreed at once to talk to the Bishop. She’d send word, she said, very soon. No, she couldn’t say just when that would be, but certainly within a short time. She herself would be returning to Charleston the following week.

Scarlett was euphoric. Her smile and her eyes were so bright that the grocer in the small shop on Abercorn Street nearly forgot to charge her for the bow-bedecked box of chocolate candies she selected for her grandfather’s birthday present.

Her high spirits carried her through the final preparations for the birthday dinner that engulfed her when she got back to the Robillard house. They began to dim slightly when she learned that her grandfather would actually come to table for the six courses of his particularly favorite foods. Her spirits plummeted when the aunts informed her that she wasn’t allowed to eat many of the delicacies that would be served.

“Flesh is forbidden during Lent,” said Pauline sternly. “Be certain that no gravy touches the rice or vegetables you eat.”

“But be careful, Scarlett. Don’t let Père notice,” added Eulalie in a whisper. “He doesn’t approve of fasting.” Her eyes were rheumy with sorrow.

Brooding about missing out on the food, thought Scarlett unkindly. Then—I don’t blame her. The aromas from the kitchen were making her mouth water.

“There’ll be soup for us. And fish,” Eulalie said with sudden cheerfulness. “Cake, too, a beautiful, beautiful cake. A true feast, Scarlett.”

“Remember, Sister,” warned Pauline, “gluttony is a sin.”

Scarlett left them; she could feel herself losing control of her temper. It’s only a dinner, she reminded herself, just calm down. Even with Grandfather at table with us, it can’t be all that bad. After all, what could one old man do?

He could, Scarlett learned at once, refuse to allow anything other than French to be spoken. Her “Happy Birthday, Grandfather,” was ignored as if she hadn’t said it. Her aunts’ greetings were acknowledged by a cold nod, and he sat down in the huge throne-like chair at the head of the table.

Pierre Auguste Robillard was no longer a night-shirted, frail elderly man. Impeccably clothed in an old-fashioned frock coat and starched linen, his thin body looked larger, and his erect military bearing was impressive even when he was seated. His white hair was like an old lion’s ruff, his eyes were hawk-like under his big white brows, and his big bony nose looked like a predator’s beak. The certainty that it was a good day began to ooze out of Scarlett. She unfolded the huge starched linen napkin over her lap and knees and braced herself for she knew not what.