Scarlett (121 page)

“I’ll match your fiver with one of my own, Bart, and we’ll have champagne, too. Done?” She spit in her palm, held it out. Morland spat, slapped, smiled.

“Good girl,” he said.

On the way to the race course Scarlett tried to dredge up from her memory what she’d heard about “claiming races.” All the horses running were for sale, their prices set by their owners. At the end of the race anyone could “claim” any one of the horses, and the owner was obliged to sell for the price he’d set. Unlike every other horse sale in Ireland, there was no bargaining. Unclaimed horses had to be reclaimed by their owners.

Scarlett didn’t believe for a minute that horses couldn’t be bought before the race began, no matter what the rules were. When they reached the race course, she asked Bart for the number of his box. She wanted, she said, to tidy up.

As soon as he was gone she found a steward and got directions to the officials’ office where the claiming would take place. She hoped Bart had put a whopping big price on Dijon. She intended to buy her and send her to him later when he was settled in England.

“What do you mean Dijon’s already been claimed? That’s not supposed to happen until after the race.”

The top-hatted official was careful not to smile. “You’re not the only one with foresight, madam. It must be an American trait. The gentleman who put in the claim was American, too.”

“I’ll double it.”

“It cannot be done, Mrs. O’Hara.”

“Suppose I bought Dijon from the Baronet before the race began?”

“Impossible.”

Scarlett felt desperate. She had to have that horse for Bart.

“I might suggest one thing…”

“Oh, please. What can I do? It’s really awfully important.”

“You might ask the new owner if he would be willing to sell.”

“Yes. I’ll do that.” She’d pay the man a king’s ransom if need be. American, the official said. Good. Money talks in America. “Will you point him out to me?”

The top-hatted man consulted a sheet of paper. “You might find him at Jury’s Hotel. He’s listed that as his address. His name is Butler.”

Scarlett had half-turned to leave. She stumbled to get her balance. Her voice was strangely thin when she spoke. “That wouldn’t by any chance be Mr. Rhett Butler?”

It seemed to take an eternity for the man’s eyes to return to the page in his hand, for him to read, for him to speak. “Yes, that is the name.”

Rhett! Here! Bart must have written him about the stables, about selling up, about Dijon. He must be doing what I was going to do. He came all the way from America to help a friend.

Or to get a winner for the next Charleston races. It doesn’t matter. Even poor, dear, tragic Bart doesn’t matter, may God forgive me. I’m going to see Rhett. Scarlett realized that she was running, running, pushing people aside without apology. To the devil with everyone, everything. Rhett was here, only a few hundred yards away.

“Box eight,” she gasped at a steward. He gestured. Scarlett forced herself to breathe slowly until she thought she must appear normal. No one could see her heart pounding, could they? She climbed the two steps into the bunting-trimmed box. Out on the great turfed oval twelve brightly shirted riders were whipping their horses towards the finish. All around Scarlett people were shouting, urging on the horses. She didn’t hear a thing. Rhett was watching the race through field glasses. Even ten feet away she could smell the whiskey on him. He was rocking on his feet. Drunk? Not Rhett. He could always hold his liquor. Had Bart’s disaster upset him that much?

Look at me, her heart begged. Put the glasses down and look at me. Say my name. Let me see your eyes when you say my name. Let me see something for me in your eyes. You loved me once.

Cheering and groans hailed the end of the race. Rhett lowered the glasses with a shaky hand. “Damn, Bart, that’s my fourth loser in a row,” he laughed.

“Hello, Rhett,” she said.

His head snapped, and she saw his dark eyes. They held nothing for her, nothing but anger. “Why hello, Countess.” His eyes raked her from her kidskin boots to her egret-plumed hat. “You are certainly looking—expensive.” He turned abruptly towards John Morland. “You should have warned me, Bart, so I could stay in the bar. Let me by.” And he sent Morland staggering as he pushed out of the box on the side away from Scarlett.

Her eyes followed him hopelessly as he plunged into the crowds. Then they filled with tears.

John Morland patted her shoulder clumsily. “I say, Scarlett, I apologize for Rhett. He’s had too much to drink. That’s two of us you’ve had to deal with today. Not much fun for you.”

“Not much fun.” Is that what Bart called it? “Not much fun” to be trampled on? I wasn’t asking for much. Just to say hello, say my name. What gives Rhett the right to be angry and insulting? Can’t I marry again after he threw me out like trash? Damn him. Damn him straight to Hell! Why is it fine and dandy for him to divorce me so he can marry a proper Charleston girl and have proper Charleston babies to grow up into more proper Charlestonians, but it’s oh-so-disgraceful for me to marry again and give his child all the things that he should be the one to give her.

“I hope he falls over his own drunken feet and breaks his neck,” she said to Bart Morland.

“Don’t be too hard on Rhett, Scarlett. He had a real tragedy last spring. I’m ashamed to feel so sorry for myself about the stables when there are people like Rhett with troubles like his. I told you about the baby, didn’t I? Beastly awful thing happened. His wife died having it, then the baby only lived for four days.”

“What? What? Say that again.” She shook his arm so fiercely that Morland’s hat fell off. He looked at her with confused dismay, almost fear. There was something so savage about her, something stronger than anything in his experience. He repeated that Rhett’s wife and child were dead.

“Where did he go?” Scarlett cried. “Bart, you must know, you must have some idea, where would Rhett be likely to go?”

“I don’t know, Scarlett. The bar—his hotel—any bar—anywhere.”

“Is he going with you tonight to England?”

“No. He said he had some friends he wanted to look up. He’s a really astonishing fellow, has friends everywhere. Did you know he was on safari with the Viceroy once? Some maharajah fellow was host. I must say I’m surprised he got so drunk. I don’t remember him even keeping up with me. He took me to my hotel last night, put me to bed and all that. Was in fine fettle, a strong arm to lean on. I was counting on him, actually, to get me through the day. But when I came downstairs this morning, the porter fellow told me Rhett had ordered coffee and a newspaper while he waited for me, then suddenly bolted without even paying. I went in the bar to wait for him—Scarlett, what is it? I can’t fathom you today. What are you crying for? Was it something I did? Did I say something wrong?”

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 ever 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, but 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 Hotel, 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 walkaround and rubdown and the best hot mash in County 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 all 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.