Alexandra Ripley - Scarlett

She was torn by the dilemma, and she couldn’t understand what was making her so miserable. She roamed restlessly through the silent rooms of her grandfather’s house, blind to their austere beauty, imagining the music and dancing at the O’Haras’, wishing with all her heart that she was with them, thinking as she’d been taught that such boisterous merriment was vulgar and lower class.

Scarlett didn’t care really that her grandfather looked down on her cousins. He was a selfish old man, she thought accurately, who looked down on everyone, including his own daughters. But her mother’s gentle inculcation had marked her for life. Ellen would have been proud of her in Charleston. In spite of Rhett’s jeering prediction, she had been recognized and accepted as a lady there. And she had liked it. Hadn’t she? Of course she had. It was also what she wanted, what she was meant to be. Why, then, was it so hard to stop herself from envying her Irish kin?

I won’t think about that now, she decided. I’ll think about it later. I’ll think about Tara instead. And she retreated into the idyll of her Tara, as it had been and as she’d make it again.

Then a note came from the Bishop’s secretary, and her idyll exploded in her face. He wouldn’t grant her request. Scarlett didn’t think at all. She clutched the note to her breast and ran, heedless and hatless and alone, to the unlocked door into Jamie O’Hara’s house. They’d understand how she felt, the O’Haras would. Pa told me so, again and again. “To anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother. It’s the only thing that lasts, that’s worth working for, worth fighting for . . .”

She burst through the door with Gerald O’Hara’s voice in her ear, and ahead of her she saw the compact stock body and silver head of Colum O’Hara, so like her father’s. It seemed right that he should be the one, certain that he’d feel what she felt.

Colum was standing in the doorway, looking into the dining room. When the outside door crashed open and Scarlett stumbled into the kitchen, he turned.

He was dressed in a dark suit. Scarlett looked at him through the daze of her pain. She stared at the unexpected white line across his throat that was his woman collar. A priest! No one had told her Colum was a priest. Thank God. You could tell a priest anything, even the deepest secrets of your heart.

“Help me, Father,” she cried. “I need someone to help me.”

“So there you have it,” Colum concluded. “Now, what can be done to remedy it? That’s what we must find.” He sat at the head of the long table in Jamie’s dining room. All the adults from the three O’Hara houses were in chairs around the table. Mary Kate and Helen’s voices could be heard through the closed door to the kitchen, where they were feeding the children. Scarlett was seated at Colum’s side, her face swollen and blotched from earlier storms of weeping.

“You mean to say, Colum, that the farm doesn’t go intact to the eldest child in America?” Matt asked.

“So it would seem, Matthew.”

“Well, then, Uncle Gerald was foolish not to leave a will and testament.”

Scarlett roused herself to glare at him. Before she could speak, Colum intervened. “The poor man wasn’t granted his old age, he had no time to think about his death and after, God rest his soul.”

“God rest his soul,” echoed the others, making the sign of the cross. Scarlett looked without hope at their solemn faces. What can they do? They’re just Irish immigrants.

But she soon learned that she was wrong. As the talking went on, Scarlett felt more and more hopeful. For there was quite a lot these Irish immigrants could do.

Patricia’s husband, Billy Carmody, was foreman of all the bricklayers working on the Cathedral. He had come to know the Bishop very well. “To my sorrow,” he complained. “The man interrupts the work three times a day to tell me it’s not being done fast enough.” There was a real urgency, Billy explained, because a Cardinal from Rome itself would be touring America in the autumn, and he might come to Savannah for the dedication. If it was done to suit his schedule.

Jamie nodded. “An ambitious man, our Bishop Gross, would you say? Not unwilling to be noticed by the Curia.”

He looked at Gerald. So did Billy, Matt, Brian, Daniel, and Old James. And the women—Maureen, Patricia, and Katie. Scarlett did, too, although she didn’t know why they were all looking.

Gerald took his young bride’s hand in his. “Don’t be shy, sweet Polly,” he said, “you’re an O’Hara now, same as the rest of us. Tell us which of us you would choose to talk to your Pa.”

“Tom MacMahon’s contractor for the whole job,” Maureen murmured to Scarlett. “A mention from Tom that the work might be slowed would make Bishop Gross promise anything. Doubtless he’s scared to trembling of MacMahon. Everyone else in the world is.”

Scarlett spoke up. “Let Colum do it.” She had no doubt that he was the best to do anything that needed doing. For all his small size and disarming smile, there was strength and power in Colum O’Hara.

A chorus of agreement sounded from all the O’Haras. Colum was the one to do what needed doing.

He smiled around the table, then at Scarlett alone. “We’ll help you, then. Isn’t it a grand thing to have a family, Scarlett O’Hara? Especially one with in-laws that can help, too? You’ll have your Tara, wait and see.”

“Tara? What’s this about Tara?” Old James demanded.

“’Tis the name Gerald gave his plantation, Uncle James.”

The old man laughed until it made him cough. “That Gerald,” he said when he could speak again, “for a small bit of a man, he always did have a high opinion of himself!”

Scarlett stiffened. No one was going to make fun of her Pa, not even his brother.

Colum spoke very softly to her. “Whist, now, he means no insult. I’ll explain it all later.”

And so he did, when he was escorting her to her grandfather’s house.

“Tara is a magical word to all us Irish, Scarlett, and a magical place. It was the center of all Ireland, the home of the High Kings. Before there was a Rome, or an Athens, far, far back when the world was young and hopeful, there ruled in Ireland great Kings who were as fair and beauteous as the sun. They passed laws of great wisdom and gave shelter and riches to poets. And they were brave giants of men who punished wrong with fearful wrath and fought the enemies of truth and beauty and Ireland with blood-gouted swords and stainless hearts. For hundreds and thousands of years they ruled their sweet green island, and there was music throughout the land. Five roads led to the hill of Tara from every corner of the country, and every third year did all the people come to feast in the banquet hall and hear the poets sing. This is not a story only, but a great truth for all the histories of other lands record it, and the sad words of the end are written in the great books of the monasteries. ‘In the Year of Our Lord five hundred fifty and four was held the last feast of Tara.’ ”

Colum’s voice faded slowly on the last word, and Scarlett felt her eyes sting. She was spellbound by his story and his voice.

They walked on in silence for a while. Then Colum said, “It was a noble dream your father had to build a new Tara in this new world of America. He must have been a fine man indeed.”

“Oh, he was, Colum. I loved him very much.”

“When next I go to Tara, I’ll think of him and of his daughter.”

“When next you go? Do you mean it’s still there? It’s a real place?”

“As real as the road beneath our feet. It’s a gentle green hill with magic in it and sheep grazing on it, and from the top you can see for great distances all around the same beautiful world the High Kings saw. It’s not far from the village where I live, where your father and mine were born, in County Meath.”

Scarlett was thunderstruck. Pa must have gone there, too, must have stood where the High Kings stood! She could picture him sticking out his chest and strutting the way he did when he was pleased with himself. It made her laugh softly.

When they reached the Robillard house she stopped reluctantly. She would have liked to walk for hours listening to Colum’s lilting voice. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything,” she told him. “I feel a million times better now. I’m so sure you’ll make the Bishop change his mind.”

Colum smiled. “One thing at a time, Cousin. First the fierce MacMahon. But what name shall I tell him, Scarlett? I see the band on your finger. You’re not O’Hara to the Bishop.”

“No, of course not. My married name is Butler.”

Colum’s smile collapsed, then returned. “It’s a powerful name.”

“In South Carolina it is, but I don’t see that it’s done me much good here. My husband’s from Charleston, his name is Rhett Butler.”

“I’m surprised he’s not helping you with your troubles.”

Scarlett smiled brightly. “He would if he could, but he had to go up North on business. He’s a very successful businessman.”

“I understand. Well, I’m happy to stand in as your helper, as best I can.”

She felt like hugging him, the way she used to hug her father when he gave her what she wanted. But she had an idea you shouldn’t go around hugging priests, even if they were your cousin. So she simply said good night and went into the house.

Colum walked away whistling “Wearing o’ the Green.”

“Where have you been?” Pierre Robillard demanded. “My supper was quite unsatisfactory.”

“I’ve been at my cousin Jamie’s house. I’ll order you another tray.”

“You’ve been seeing those people?” The old man quivered with outrage.

Scarlett’s anger swelled to meet his. “Yes, I have, and I intend to see them again. I like them very much.” She stalked out of the room. But she did see to a fresh supper tray for her grandfather before she went up to her room.

“What about your supper, Miss Scarlett?” Pansy asked. “You wants I should fetch you a tray upstairs?”

“No, just come up now and get me out of these clothes. I don’t want any supper.”

Funny, I don’t feel hungry at all, and I only had a cup of tea. All I want now is some sleep. All that crying wore me out. I could hardly get out the words to tell Colum about the Bishop, I was crying so hard. I believe I could sleep for a week, I’ve never felt so washed out in my life.

Her head felt light, her whole body heavy and relaxed. She sank into the soft bed and plunged at once into a deep refreshing sleep.

In all Scarlett’s life, she had faced her crises alone. Sometimes she had refused to admit she needed help, more often there had been nowhere she could turn. It was different now, and her body recognized the difference before her mind did. There were people to help her. Her family had willingly lifted her burden from her shoulders. She wasn’t alone any more. She could allow herself to let go.

Pierre Robillard slept little that night. He was disturbed by Scarlett’s defiance. Just so had her mother defied him, so many years before, and he had lost her forever. His heart had broken then; Ellen was his favorite child, the daughter most like her mother. He didn’t love Scarlett. All the love he had was in the grave with his wife. But he wouldn’t let Scarlett go without a fight. He wanted his last days to be comfortable, and she could see to it. He sat erect in bed, his lamp finally fading when the oil was gone, and he planned his strategy as if he were a general facing superior numbers.

After a fitful hour of rest shortly before dawn, he woke with his decision made. When Jerome brought his breakfast, the old man was signing a letter he had written. He folded and sealed it before he made room across his knees for the tray.

“Deliver this,” he said, handing the letter to his butler. “And wait for a reply.”

Scarlett opened the door a crack and stuck her head through. “You sent for me, Grandfather?”

“Come in, Scarlett.”

She was surprised to see that there was someone in the room. Her grandfather never had guests. The man bowed, and she inclined her head.

“This is my lawyer, Mr. Jones. Ring for Jerome, Scarlett. He’ll show you to the drawing room, Jones. Wait there until I send for you.”

Scarlett had hardly touched the bell pull before Jerome opened the door.

“Pull that chair up closer, Scarlett. I have a great deal to say to you, and I don’t want to strain my voice.”