Scarlett’s eyes were flooded. “Oh, no, no, no, dearest, darlingest John Morland, Bart. You didn’t say anything wrong at all. He loves me. He loves me. That’s the rightest, most perfect thing I could hear.”

Rhett came after me. That’s why he came to Ireland. Not for Bart’s horse, he could have bought her and all the rest of it by mail. He came for me as soon as he was free again. He must have been wanting me as much as I’ve been wanting him. I’ve got to go home. I don’t know where to find him, but he can find me. The wedding announcement shocked him, and I’m glad. But it won’t stop him. Nothing stops Rhett from going after what he wants. Rhett Butler’s not impressed by titles and ermine and tiaras. He wants me and he’ll come to get me. I know it. I knew he loved me, and I was right all the time. I know he’ll come to Ballyhara. I’ve got to be there when he comes.

“Goodbye, Bart, I’ve got to go now,” said Scarlett.

“Don’t you want to see Dijon win? What about our fivers?” John Morland shook his head. She was gone. Americans! Fascinating types, but he’d never understand them.


She’d missed the through train to Dublin by ten minutes. The next one wouldn’t leave until four. Scarlett bit her lip in frustration. “When is the next train east to anywhere?” The man behind the brass grille was maddeningly slow.

“You could go to Ennis, now, if you had a mind to. That’s east to Athenry, then south. Two new carriages that train has, very nicely done they are too, say the ladies . . . or there’s the Kildare train, you’ll not be able to take that one, the whistle’s already sounded . . . Tuam, now, it’s a short trip and more north than east, but the engine’s the finest of all on the Great Western line . . . madam?”

Scarlett was shedding tears all over the uniform of the man at the barrier to the track. “. . . I only got the telegram two minutes ago, my husband’s been run over by a milk dray, I’ve got to get that train to Kildare!” It would take her more than halfway to Trim and Ballyhara. She’d walk the rest of the way if she had to.

Every stop was torture. Why couldn’t they hurry? Hurry, hurry, hurry, said her mind with the clack-clack of the wheels. Her case was in the best suite in Galway’s Railway Motel, in the convent sore-eyed nuns were putting the final tiny stitches into exquisite lace. None of it mattered. She must be home, waiting, when Rhett arrived. If only John Morland hadn’t taken so long to tell her about everything, she could have been on the Dublin train. Rhett might even be on it, he could have been going anywhere when he left Bart’s box.

It took nearly three and a half hours to get to Moate, where Scarlett got out of the train. It was after four, but at least she was on her way, instead of on the train that was just leaving Galway. “Where can I buy a good horse?” she asked the station master. “I don’t care what it costs, as long as it has a saddle and bridle and speed.” She had almost fifty miles still to go.

The owner of the horse wanted to bargain. Wasn’t that half the pleasure of the selling? he asked his friends in the King’s Coach bar after he bought a pint for every man there. The crazy woman had thrown gold sovereigns at him and gone off like the devil was on her trail. Astride! He didn’t want to say how much lace she was showing nor how much leg with no decent covering to it at all, only a silk stocking and some boots not thick enough to walk on a floor with, never even to imagine resting in a stirrup.

Scarlett led the limping horse across the bridge into Mullingar just before seven o’clock. At the livery stable she handed the reins to a groom. “He’s not lame, just winded and with a weakness,” she said. “Cool him down slowly and he’ll be as good as he ever was, not that he was ever much. I’ll give him to you if you’ll sell me one of the hunters you keep for the officers at the fort. Don’t tell me you don’t have any, I’ve hunted with some of the officers, and I know where they rented their mounts. Change over this saddle in under five minutes and there’s an extra guinea for you.” By ten after seven she was on her way, with twenty-six miles ahead and directions for a shortcut if she went cross-country instead of following the road.

She rode past Trim Castle and onto the road to Ballyhara at nine o’clock. Every muscle in her body ached, and her bones felt splintered. But she was only a little over three miles from home, and the misty twilight was gentle and soft on eyes and skin. A gentle rain began to fall. Scarlett leaned forward, patted the horse’s neck. “A good walk around and rubdown and the best hot mash in Counry Meath for you, whatever your name is. You took those jumps like a champion. Now we’ll trot home easy, you deserve the rest.” She half-closed her eyes and let her head loll. She’d sleep tonight like she’d never slept before. Hard to believe she’d been in Dublin this morning and crossed Ireland twice since breakfast.

There was the wooden bridge over the Knightsbrook. Once over the bridge I’m on Ballyhara. Only a mile to the town, a half-mile through it to the crossroad, then up the drive and I’ve made it. Five minutes, not much more than that. She sat up straight, clicked her tongue against her teeth, urged the horse with her heels.


Something’s wrong. Ballyhara town’s up ahead, and there are no lights in the windows. Usually the bars are glowing like moons by now. Scarlett kicked with the heels of her battered, delicate city boots. She had passed the first five dark houses before she saw the group of men at the crossroads in front of the Big House drive. Redcoats. Militia. What did they think they were doing in her town? She’d told them before, she didn’t want them here. How bothersome, tonight of all nights, when she was about to drop from fatigue. Of course, that’s why the windows are dark, they don’t want to have to pull any pints for the English. I’ll get rid of them and then things can get back to normal. I wish I didn’t look so bedraggled. It’s hard to order people around when your underclothes are hanging out over the place. I’d better be walking. At least my skirts won’t be up around my knees.

She reined in. It was hard not to groan when she swung her leg over the back of the horse. She could see a soldier—no, an officer—walking towards her from the group at the crossroad. Well, good! She’d give him a piece of her mind, she was just in the mood to do it. His men were in her town, in her way, keeping her from getting home.

He stopped in front of the post office. He could, at the very least, have the manners to come all the way to her. Scarlett walked stiffly down the center of her town’s wide street.

“You there, with the horse. Halt, or I’ll fire.” Scarlett stopped short. Not because of the officer’s command; it was his voice. She knew that voice. God in heaven, that was the one voice in all the world she’d hoped never to hear again as long as she lived. She had to be wrong, she was so tired, that was it, she was imagining things, inventing nightmares.

“The rest of you, in your houses, there’ll be no trouble if you send out the priest Colum O’Hara. I have a warrant for his arrest. No one will be hurt if he gives himself up.”

Scarlett had a mad impulse to laugh. This couldn’t be happening. She’d heard right, she did know the voice, she’d last heard it next to her ear speaking words of love. It was Charles Ragland. Once, only once in her entire life, she had gone to bed with a man who wasn’t her husband, and now he had come from the far end of Ireland to her town to arrest her cousin. It was insane, absurd, impossible. Well, at least she could be sure of one thing—if she didn’t die of shame when she looked at him, Charles Ragland was the one officer in the entire British army who would do what she wanted him to do. Go away and leave her and her cousin and her town alone.

She dropped the horse’s reins and strode forward. “Charles?”

Just as she called his name, Charles Ragland shouted, “Halt!” Hhe fired his revolver into the air.

Scarlett winced. “Charles Ragland, have you gone crazy?” she shouted. There was the crack of a second shot, drowning out her words, and Ragland seemed to jump into the air, then fall sprawling. Scarlett started to run. “Charles, Charles!” She heard more shots, heard shouting, ignored it all. “Charles!”

“Scarlett!” she heard, and “Scarlett!” from another direction, and “Scarlett,” weakly, from Charles when she knelt by him. He was bleeding horribly from his neck, red blood spurting onto, staining his red tunic.

“Scarlett darling, get down, Scarlett aroon.” Colum was somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t look at him now.

“Charles, oh, Charles, I’ll get a doctor, I’ll get Grainne, she can help you.” Charles raised his hand, and she took it between hers. She felt the tears on her face, but she had no knowledge of crying. He mustn’t die, not Charles, he was so dear and loving, he’d been so tender with her. He mustn’t die. He was a good, gentle man.

There was terrible noise all around. Something whined past her head. Dear God, what was happening? Those were shots, people were shooting, the British were trying to kill her people. She would not allow it. But she had to get help for Charles, and there were boots running, and Colum was shouting, and oh, God, please help, what can I do to stop this, oh, God, Charles’ hand is getting cold. “Charles! Charles, don’t die!”

“There’s the priest!” someone shouted. Shots fusilladed from the dark windows of the houses of Ballyhara. A soldier staggered and fell.

An arm closed around Scarlett from behind, she threw up her arms to defend herself from the unseen attack. “Later, my dear, no fighting now,” said Rhett. “This is the best chance we’ll ever have. I’ll carry you, just go limp.” He threw her across his shoulder, his arm behind her knees, and ran crouching into the shadows. “What’s the back way out of here?” he demanded.

“Put me down and I’ll show you,” said Scarlett. Rhett lowered her to her feet. His big hands closed on her shoulders, and he pulled her to him impatiently, then kissed her, briefly, firmly, and let her go.

“I’d hate to be shot without getting what I came for,” he said. She could hear the laughter in his voice. “Now, Scarlett, get us out of here.”

She took his hand and ducked into a narrow dark passageway between two houses. “Follow me; this goes to a boreen. We can’t be seen once we’re in it.”

“Lead on,” Rhett said. He freed his hand and gave her a light push. Scarlett wanted to keep hold of his hand, never let go. But the firing was loud, and close, and she ran for the safety of the boreen.

The hedgerows were high and thick. As soon as Scarlett and Rhett ran four paces into the boreen, the sound of battle became muffled and indistinct. Scarlett stopped to catch her breath, to look at Rhett, to comprehend that at last they were together. Her heart was swelling with happiness.

But the seemingly distant sound of shooting demanded her attention, and she remembered. Charles Ragland was dead. She’d seen a soldier wounded, maybe killed. The militia was after Colum, was shooting at the people of her town, maybe killing them. She could have been shot—Rhett, too.

“We’ve got to get to the house,” she said. “We’ll be safe there. I’ve got to warn the servants to stay away from town until this is over. Hurry, Rhett, we’ve got to hurry.”

He caught her by the arm as she started to move. “Wait, Scarlett. Maybe you shouldn’t go to the house. I’ve just come from there. It’s dark and empty, darling, with all the doors left open. The servants are gone.”

Scarlett wrenched her arm from his clasp. She moaned with terror as she grabbed up her skirts and ran, faster than she had ever run in her life. Cat. Where was Cat? Rhett’s voice was speaking, but she paid no attention. She had to get to Cat.


Behind the boreen, in the wide street of Ballyhara, there were five red-coated bodies and three wearing the rough clothing of farmers. The bookseller lay across the sill of his shattered window, bloodstreaked bubbles falling from his lips with the whispered words of prayer. Colum O’Hara prayed with him, then traced a cross on his forehead as the man died. The broken glass refracted the thin light from the moon that was becoming visible in the rapidly darkening sky. The rain had stopped.

Colum crossed the small room in three long steps. He seized the twig broom on the hearth by its handle and thrust it into the bed of coals. It made a crackling sound for a moment, then burst into flame.

A shower of sparks flew from the torch onto Colum’s dark cassock when he ran into the street. His white hair was brighter than the moon. “Follow me, you English butchers,” he shouted as he plunged toward the deserted Anglo church, “and we’ll die together for the freedom of Ireland.”