But she smiled and bowed to each of the ladies as Eleanor introduced her . . . yes, I just love Charleston . . . yes, ma’am, I am Pauline Smith’s niece . . . no, ma’am, I haven’t seen the art gallery yet, I’ve only been here since night before last . . . yes’m I do think the Market’s real exciting . . . Atlanta—more Clayton County actually, my folks had a cotton plantation there . . . oh, yes, ma’am, the weather is a real treat, these warm winter days . . . no, ma’am, I don’t think I met your nephew when he was in Valdosta, that’s quite a ways from Atlanta . . . yes’m, I do enjoy a game of whist . . . Oh, thank you so much, I’ve been positively aching for a taste of coffee . . .

She buried her face in the mug, her job done. Miss Eleanor’s got no more sense than a pea hen, she thought mutinously. How could she just pitch me in to the middle like that? She must think I’ve got a memory like an elephant. So many names, and they all mix up together. They’re all looking at me as if I was an elephant, too, or something else in a zoo. They know what Ross said, I know they do. Miss Eleanor might be fooled by their smiling, but I’m not. Bunch of old cats! Her teeth ground against the rim of the mug.

She wouldn’t show her feelings, not if she went blind to keep from crying. But her cheeks were stained with high color.

When she finished her coffee, Mrs. Butler took her mug and handed it, with her own, to the busy coffee-seller. “I’ll have to ask you for some change, Sukie,” she said. She held out a five dollar bill. With no waste motion, Sukie dipped and swirled the mugs in a big pail of brownish water, set them on the table at her elbow, wiped her hands on her apron, took the bill and deposited it in a cracked leather pouch hanging from her belt, withdrawing a dollar bill without looking. “Here you is, Miz Butler, hope you enjoyed it.”

Scarlett was aghast. Two dollars for a cup of coffee! Why, with two dollars you could buy the best pair of boots on King Street.

“I always enjoy it, Sukie, even though I have to do without food on the table to pay for it. Don’t you ever feel ashamed of yourself for being such a robber?”

Sukie’s white teeth flashed against her brown skin. “No ma’am, I surely don’t!” she said, rumbling with amusement. “I can swear on the Good Book that ain’t nothing disturbing my sleep.”

The other coffee drinkers laughed. Each of them had had a similar exchange with Sukie many times.

Eleanor Butler looked around until she located Celie and her basket. “Come along, dear,” she said to Scarlett, “we have a long list today. We’ll have to get to it before everything’s gone.”

Scarlett followed Mrs. Butler to the end of the Market hall where the rows of tables were crowded with dented galvanized washtubs filled with seafood that emitted a strong acrid odor. Scarlett’s nose wrinkled at the reek, and she looked at the tubs with disdain. She thought she knew fish well enough. Ugly, whiskered, bone-filled catfish were plentiful in the river that ran alongside Tara. They’d had to eat them when there was nothing else. Why anyone would actually buy one of the nasty little things was beyond her, but there were lots of ladies with one glove off poking into the tubs. Oh, bother! Miss Eleanor was going to introduce her to every single one of them. Scarlett readied her smile.

A tiny white-haired lady raised a big silvery beast of a fish from the tub in front of her. “I’d love to meet her, Eleanor. What do you think of this flounder? I was planning on sheepshead, but they’re not in yet, and I can’t wait. I don’t know why the fishing boats can’t be more punctual, and don’t talk to me about no wind for the sails. My bonnet nearly blew right off my head this morning.”

“I really prefer flounder myself, Minnie, it takes to a sauce so much better. Let me present Rhett’s wife, Scarlett . . . This is Mrs. Wentworth, Scarlett.”

“How do, Scarlett. Tell me, does this flounder look good to you?”

It looked disgusting to her, but Scarlett murmured, “I’ve always been partial to flounder myself.” She hoped that all Miss Eleanor’s friends wouldn’t ask her opinion. She didn’t even know what flounder was, for pity sakes, much less if it was any good or not.

In the next hour, Scarlett was introduced to more than twenty ladies, and a dozen varieties of fish. She was receiving a thorough education in seafood. Mrs. Butler bought crabs, going to five different sellers until she had accumulated eight. “I suppose I seem awfully picky to you,” she said when she was satisfied, “but the soup’s just not the same if it’s made with he-crabs. The roe gives it a special flavor, you see. It’s a lot harder to find she-crab this time of year, but it’s worth the effort, I think.”

Scarlett didn’t care a bit what gender the crabs were. She was appalled that they were still alive, scuttling around in the tubs, reaching out their claws, making nervous rustling noises as they climbed on top of one another trying to reach up the sides to get out. And now she could hear them in Celie’s basket, pushing at the paper sack that held them.

The shrimp were worse, even though they were dead. Their eyes were horrible black balls on stalks, and they had long trailing whiskers and feelers and spiky stomachs. She couldn’t believe that she’d ever eaten anything that looked like that, much less enjoyed it.

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.