Scarlett (120 page)

“You’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles not to tell a soul,” Scarlett warned Mrs. Sims.

Dublin’s most exclusive dressmaker gave Scarlett her most freezing stare. “No one has ever had cause to question my discretion, Mrs. O’Hara.”

“I’m to be married, Mrs. Sims, and I want you to create my gown.” She held out the jewel case in front of her and opened it. “These will be worn with it.”

Mrs. Sims’ eyes and mouth made O’s. Scarlett felt repaid for all the hours of torture she’d spent in the dressmaker’s dictatorial fittings. She must have shocked ten years off the woman’s life.

“There’s a tiara also,” Scarlett said in an off-handed manner, “and I’ll want my train edged in ermine.”

Mrs. Sims shook her head vigorously. “You cannot do that, Mrs. O’Hara. Tiaras and ermine are only for the grandest ceremonies at Court. Most particularly ermine. In all likelihood, it hasn’t been worn since Her Majesty’s wedding.”

Scarlett’s eyes glittered. “But I don’t know all that, do I, Mrs. Sims? I’m only an ignorant American who will become a countess overnight. People are going to cluck-cluck and shake their heads no matter what I do. So I’m going to do what I want, the way I want it!” The misery in her heart became cutting imperiousness in her voice.

Mrs. Sims cringed inwardly. Her agile mind swiftly sorted through Society gossip to identify Scarlett’s future husband. They’ll be a well-matched pair, she thought. Trample all decent tradition and be admired the more for it. What was the world coming to? Still, a woman had to make her way in it, and people would be talking about the wedding for years to come. Her handiwork would be on display as never before. It must be magnificent.

Mrs. Sims’ habitual haughty certainty returned. “There’s only one gown that will do justice to ermine and these rubies,” she said. “White silk velvet with overlaid lace, Galway would be best. How long do I have? The lace must be made, then sewn onto the velvet around each petal of each flower. It takes time.”

“Will five months do?”

Mrs. Sims’ well-kept hands dishevelled her well-groomed hair. “So short… Let me think… If I get two extra needlewomen… if the nuns will do only this… It will be the most talked-about wedding in Ireland, in Britain… It must be done, no matter what.” She realized she was talking aloud, and her fingers covered her mouth. Too late.

Scarlett took pity on her. She stood and held out her hand. “I leave the gown in your care, Mrs. Sims. I have every confidence in you. Let me know when you need me to come to Dublin for the first fitting.”

Mrs. Sims took her hand and squeezed it. “Oh, I’ll come to you, Mrs. O’Hara. And it would please me if you called me Daisy.”

In County Meath the sunny day made no one happy. Farmers worried about another year like the year before. At Ballyhara they shook their heads and predicted doom. Wasn’t the changeling seen coming from the witch’s cottage by Molly Keenan? And another time by Paddy Conroy, though what he was doing going there himself he wouldn’t say outside the confessional. They did say, too, that there’d been owls heard in daylight over to Pike Corner, and Mrs. MacGruder’s prize calf had died in the night for no cause at all. Rain, when it came the next day, did nothing to stop the rumors.

Colum went with Scarlett to the hiring fair in Drogheda in May. The wheat was well begun, the meadow grass very nearly ready for cutting, the rows of potatoes bright green with healthy foliage. Both of them were unusually quiet, each of them preoccupied with private concerns. For Colum the worry came from the increase in militia and constabulary troops all over County Meath. An entire regiment was coming to Navan, said his informants. The Land League’s work was good; he’d be the last to deny the good of reduced rents. But the rent strikes had stirred up the landlords. Now evictions were done without prior warning and the thatch burned before the people could drag their furnishings out of the house. It was said two children had burned to death. Two soldiers were wounded the next day. Three Fenians had been arrested in Mullingar, including Jim Daly. Inciting violence was the charge although he’d been serving drinks in his bar day and night all the week.

Scarlett remembered the hiring fair for only one thing. Rhett had been with Bart Morland there. She avoided even looking in the direction of the horse sales; when Colum suggested they walk around and enjoy the fair, she all but shouted when she told him no, she wanted to get home. There’d been a distance between them ever since she told Colum she was going to marry Fenton. He didn’t say anything harsh, but he didn’t have to. Anger and accusation were hot in his eyes.

It was the same with Mrs. Fitz. Who did they think they were anyhow, judging her like that? What did they know about her sorrows and her fears? Wasn’t it enough that they’d have Ballyhara to themselves after she left? That was all they had ever really wanted. No, that wasn’t fair. Colum was her almost-brother, Mrs. Fitz her friend. All the more reason they should be sympathetic. It wasn’t fair. Scarlett began to think she saw disapproval everywhere, even on the faces of Ballyhara’s shopkeepers when she made the special effort to think of things to buy from them in these lean months before the harvest. Don’t be a fool, she told herself, you’re imagining things because you’re not really sure yourself about what you’re going to do. It’s the right thing, it is, for Cat and for me. And it’s nobody else’s business what I do. She was irritable with everyone except Cat, and she saw little of her. One time she even climbed several rungs of the new rope ladder, but then she backed down. I’m a grown woman, I can’t go boohooing to a little child for comfort. She worked in the hayfields day after day, glad to be busy, grateful for the ache in her arms and legs after the labor. Grateful, most of all, for the rich crop. Her fears about another bad harvest gradually went away.

Midsummer Night, June 24, completed the cure. The bonfire was the biggest ever, the music and dancing were what she’d been needing to relax her tense nerves and restore her spirits. When, as timeless tradition demanded, the toast to The O’Hara was shouted over the fields of Ballyhara, Scarlett felt that all was right with the world.

Still, she was a little sorry she’d refused all the house party invitations for the summer. She had to, she was afraid to leave Cat. But she was lonely, and she had too much time on her hands, too much time to think and worry. She was almost happy when she received the semi-hysterical telegram from Mrs. Sims, saying that the lace had not arrived from the convent in Galway, nor had she had any reply to her letters and telegrams.

Scarlett was smiling when she drove her buggy to the train depot in Trim. She was an old hand at battling with Mother Superiors, and she was glad to have a clear-cut reason for a fight.

T
here was just time enough in the morning to dash to Mrs. Sims’ workshop, calm her down, gather the specifics of yardage and pattern of lace ordered, and race to the station for the early train to Galway. Scarlett settled herself comfortably and opened the newspaper.

My grief, there it is.
The Irish Times
had printed the announcement of the wedding plans on the front page. Scarlett darted looks at the other passengers in the compartment to see if any of them were reading the paper. The tweed-suited sportsman was engrossed in a sporting magazine; the nicely dressed mother and son were playing cribbage. She read about herself again. The
Times
had added a great deal of its own commentary to the formal announcement. Scarlett smiled at the part about “The O’Hara of Ballyhara, a beautiful ornament to the innermost circles of Viceregal society” and “exquisite and dashing equestrienne.”

She had brought only a single small case with her for her stay in Dublin and Galway, so she needed only one porter to accompany her from the station to the nearby hotel.

The reception area was jammed with people. “What the devil?” said Scarlett.

“The races,” said the porter. “You didn’t do something so foolish as to come to Galway not knowing, did you? You’ll find no room to sleep in here.”

Impertinent, thought Scarlett, see if you get a tip. “Wait here,” she said. She weaved her way to the reception desk. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

The harassed desk clerk looked her up and down, then said, “Yes, of course, madam, one moment,” and vanished behind an etched-glass screen. He returned with a balding man in a black frock coat and striped trousers.

“Is there some complaint, madam? I’m afraid that the hotel’s service does become less, ah, flawless, shall we say, when the races are in progress. Whatever inconvenience—”

Scarlett interrupted him. “I remember the service as flawless.” She smiled winningly. “That’s why I like to stay at the Railway. I’ll need a room tonight. I am Mrs. O’Hara of Ballyhara.”

The manager’s unctuousness evaporated like August dew. “A room tonight? It’s quite out of—” The desk clerk was pulling at his arm. The manager glared at him. The clerk murmured in his ear, jabbed his finger at a
Times
on the desk.

The hotel manager bowed to Scarlett. His smile was quivering with the will to please. “Such an honor for us, Mrs. O’Hara. I trust you’ll accept a very particular suite, the finest in Galway, as the guest of the management. Do you have baggage? A man will take it up.”

Scarlett gestured to the porter. There was really a lot to be said for marrying an earl. “Send this to my rooms. I’ll be back later.”

“At once, Mrs. O’Hara.”

In truth Scarlett didn’t expect to need the rooms at all. She hoped she’d be able to get the afternoon train back to Dublin, maybe even the early afternoon train, then she’d have time to connect for the evening journey back up to Trim. Thank heavens for the long days. I’ll have until ten tonight if I need it. Now let’s see if the nuns are as impressed by the Earl of Fenton as the hotel manager was. Too bad he’s Protestant. I guess I shouldn’t have made Daisy Sims swear to keep everything a secret.

Scarlett started toward the door to the square. Phew, what a smelly crowd. It must be raining on their tweeds at the track. Scarlett edged between two gesticulating, red-faced men. She bumped headlong into Sir John Morland and hardly recognized him. He looked as if he were extremely ill. There was no color in his normally ruddy face and no light in his usually warm, interested eyes. “Bart, my dear. Are you all right?”

He seemed to have trouble bringing her face into focus. “Oh, sorry Scarlett. Not quite myself. One too many and all that kind of thing.”

At this hour of the day? It wasn’t like John Morland to drink too much at any time, and certainly not before luncheon. She took firm hold of his arm. “Come along, Bart. You’re going to have coffee with me and then something to eat.” Scarlett walked him to the dining room. Morland’s steps were unsteady. I guess I’ll be needing my room after all, she thought, but Bart’s a lot more important than rushing off after some lace. What on earth could have happened to him?

After a great deal of coffee she found out. John Morland broke down and cried when he told her.

“They burned my stables, Scarlett, they burned my stables. I’d taken Dijon to race at Balbriggan, not a big race at all, I thought she might like a run on the sands, and when we came home the stables were just black ruins. My God, the smell! My God! I hear the horses screaming in my dreams, in my head even when I don’t sleep.”

Scarlett felt herself gagging. She put down her cup. It couldn’t be. No one would do such a horrible thing. It had to be an accident.

“It was my tenants. Because of the rents, you see. How could they hate me so much? I tried to be a good landlord, I always tried. Why couldn’t they burn the house? At Edmund Barrows’ place they burned the house. They could have burned me in it, I wouldn’t care. Not if they’d spared the horses. Name of God, Scarlett! What had my poor burned horses ever done to them?”

There was nothing she could say. All Bart’s heart was in his stables… Wait, he’d been away with Dijon. His special pride and joy.

“You’ve got Dijon, Bart. You can start over, breed her. She’s such a wonderful horse, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. You can have the stables at Ballyhara. Don’t you remember? You told me they were like a cathedral. We’ll put in an organ. You can raise your new foals on Bach. You can’t let things beat you, Bart, you’ve got to keep going on. I know, I’ve been down to the bottom myself. You can’t give up, you just can’t.”

John Morland’s eyes were like cold embers. “I’m going to England tonight on the eight o’clock boat. I never want to see an Irish face or hear an Irish voice again. I put Dijon in a safe place while I sold up. She’s entered in the claiming race this afternoon, and when it’s over, so is Ireland for me.” His tragic eyes were at least steady. And dry. Scarlett almost wished he would begin to cry again. At least he’d felt something then. Now he looked as if he would never be able to feel anything ever again. He looked dead.

Then, as she watched, a transformation took place. Sir John Morland, Baronet, came back to life by effort of will. His shoulders firmed, and his mouth curved in a smile. His eyes even had a hint of laughter in them. “Poor Scarlett, I fear I rather put you through the wringer. It was beastly of me. Do forgive me. I’ll soldier on. One does. Finish your coffee, there’s a good girl, and come along to the track with me. I’ll put a fiver on Dijon for you, and you can buy the champagne with your winnings when she shows her heels to the rest of the field.”

Scarlett had never in her life respected anyone as much as she did Bart Morland at that moment. She found a smile to meet his.