Scarlett (14 page)

It reinforced her belief that just about anything could be bought. Money could do anything.

“How will you decorate the wagon, Mrs. Butler?” asked Kershaw.

The question opened up a hundred possibilities.

“I’ll think about it, Willie.” Why, she could spend hours and hours—fill up lots of evenings—thinking about how to make all the other floats look pitiful next to hers.

She had to think about her costume for the Ball, too. What a lot of time it was going to take! She’d have to go through all her fashion magazines again, have to find out what people were wearing, have to select fabric, schedule fittings, choose a hairstyle…

Oh, no! She was still in ordinary mourning. Surely that didn’t mean she had to wear black for a masquerade ball. She’d never been to one, she didn’t know what the rules were. But the whole idea was to fool people, wasn’t it? Not to look like you usually did, to be disguised. Then she definitely should not wear black. The Ball was sounding better every minute.

Scarlett hastened through her routines at the store and hurried to her dressmaker, Mrs. Marie.

The corpulent, wheezing Mrs. Marie took a sheaf of pins out of her mouth so that she could report that ladies had ordered costumes to represent Rosebud—pink ballgown trimmed with silk roses—Snowflake—white ballgown trimmed with stiffened and sequined white lace—Night—deep blue velvet with embroidered silver stars—Dawn—pink over darker pink skirted silk—Shepherdess—striped gown with lace-edged white apron—

“All right, all right,” said Scarlett impatiently. “I see what they’re doing. I’ll let you know tomorrow what I will be.”

Mrs. Marie threw up her hands. “But I won’t have time to make your gown, Mrs. Butler. I’ve had to find two extra seamstresses as it is, and I still don’t see how I’m going to finish in time… There’s just no way on earth I can add another costume to the ones I’ve already promised.”

Scarlett dismissed the woman’s refusal with a wave of her hand. She knew she could bully her into doing what she wanted. The hard part was deciding what that was.

The answer came to her when she was playing Patience while she waited for dinnertime. She peeked ahead into the deck of cards to see if she was going to get the King she needed for an empty place. No, there were two Queens before the next King. The game was not going to come out right.

A queen! Of course. She’d be able to wear a wonderful costume with a long train trimmed with white fur. And all the jewelry she wanted.

She spilled the remaining cards on the table and ran upstairs to look in her jewel case. Why, oh why had Rhett been so stingy about buying her jewelry? He bought her anything else she wanted, but the only jewelry he approved was pearls. She pulled out rope after rope, piled them on the bureau. There! Her diamond earbobs. She’d definitely wear them. And she could wear pearls in her hair as well as around her throat and wrists. What a pity that she couldn’t risk wearing her emerald and diamond engagement ring. Too many people would recognize it, and if they knew who she was, they might cut her. She was counting on her costume and mask to protect her from Mrs. Merriwether and India Wilkes and the other women. She intended to have a wonderful time, to dance every dance, to be part of things again.

By January fifth, the day before Carnival, all Atlanta was gala with preparation. The mayor’s office had ordered that all businesses be closed on the sixth and that all buildings on the parade route be decorated with red and white, the colors of Rex, the King of Carnival.

Scarlett thought it a terrible waste to close the store on a day when the city would be jammed with people from the country, in for the celebrations. But she hung big rosettes of ribbon in the store window and on the iron fence in front of her house, and just like everyone else she goggled at the transformation of Whitehall and Marietta streets. Banners and flags bedecked every lamp standard and building front, making a virtual tunnel of bright, fluttering red and white for the final leg of Rex’s parade to his throne.

I should have brought Wade and Ella in from Tara for the parade, she thought. But they’re probably still puny from the chicken pox, her mind quickly added. And I don’t have ball tickets for Suellen and Will. Besides, I sent great piles of Christmas presents to them.

The incessant rain on the day of Carnival soothed any vestige of compunction about the children. They couldn’t have stood out in the wet and cold to see the parade anyway.

But she could. She wrapped herself in a warm shawl and stood on the stone bench near the gate under a big umbrella, with a clear view over the heads and umbrellas of the spectators on the sidewalk outside.

As promised, the parade was more than a mile long. It was a brave and sorry spectacle. The rain had all but destroyed the medieval-court-type costumes. Red dye had run, ostrich plumes dropped, once-dashing velvet hats sagged over faces like dead lettuce. The marching heralds and pages looked cold and wet, but determined; the mounted knights struggled grim-faced with their bespattered horses to keep moving through the sucking, slick mud. Scarlett joined in the crowd’s applause for the Earl Marshal. It was Uncle Henry Hamilton, who seemed to be the only one having a good time. He squelched along in bare feet, carrying his shoes in one hand and his bedraggled hat in the other, waving first one hand then the other at the crowd and grinning from ear to ear.

She grinned herself when the Ladies of the Court rolled slowly past in open carriages. The leaders of Atlanta society wore masks, but stoic misery showed clearly on their faces. Maybelle Merriwether’s Pocahontas was sporting dejected feathers in her hair that dribbled water down her cheeks and neck. Mrs. Elsing and Mrs. Whiting were easily recognized as sodden, shivering Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale. Mrs. Meade was a sneezing representation of The Good Old Days in a billow of hoop-skirted wet taffeta. Only Mrs. Merriwether was unaffected by the rain. Queen Victoria held a wide black umbrella over her dry regal head. Her velvet cape was unspotted.

When the ladies were past, there was a long hiatus, and the spectators began to leave. But then there was the distant sound of “Dixie.” Within a minute the crowd was cheering itself hoarse, and it kept cheering until the band came before them, when silence fell.

It was a small band, only two drummers and two men playing pennywhistles and one man playing a sweet, high-pitched cornet. But they were dressed in gray, with gold sashes and bright brass buttons. And in front of them a man with one arm was holding the staff of the Confederate flag in his remaining hand. The Stars and Bars was honorably tattered, and it was being paraded again through Peachtree Street. Throats were too choked with emotion to utter cheers.

Scarlett felt tears on her cheeks, but they were not tears of defeat, they were tears of pride. Sherman’s men had burned Atlanta, the Yankees had pillaged Georgia, but they hadn’t been able to destroy the South. She saw tears like hers on the faces of the women, and the men, in front of her. Everyone had lowered umbrellas to stand bare-headed to honor the flag.

They stood tall and proud, exposed to the cold rain, for a long time. The band was followed by a column of Confederate veterans in the ragged butternut homespun uniforms they’d come home in. They marched to “Dixie” as if they were young men again, and the rain-soaked Southerners watching them found their voices to cheer and whistle and let out the chilling, rousing cry that was the Rebel Yell.

The cheering lasted until the veterans were out of sight. Then umbrellas swung upward and people began to leave. They’d forgotten Rex, and Twelfth Night. The high point of the parade had come and gone, leaving them wet and chilled but exalted. “Wonderful.” Scarlett heard it from dozens of smiling mouths as people passed her gate.

“There’s more parade to come,” she said to some of them.

“Can’t top ‘Dixie,’ can it?” they replied.

She shook her head. Even she didn’t feel interested in seeing the floats, and she’d worked very hard on hers. Spent a lot of money, too, on crepe paper and tinsel that the rain must have ruined. At least she could sit down to watch now, that was something. She didn’t want to tire herself out when tonight was the Masquerade Ball.

Ten endless minutes dragged by before the first float appeared. Scarlett could see why when it got near. The wagon’s wheels kept getting stuck in the churned red clay mud of the street. She sighed and pulled her shawl more closely around her. Looks like I’m in for a long wait.

It took over an hour for the decorated wagons to make their way past her; her teeth were chattering before it was over. But at least hers was the best. The bright crepe paper flowers around the wagon’s sides were soggy, but still bright. And “Kennedy’s Emporium” in silver gilt tinsel shone clearly through the rain drops caught in it. The big barrels labelled “flour,” “sugar,” “cornmeal,” “molasses,” “coffee,” “salt” were empty, she knew, so no damage was done there. And the tin washtubs and washboards wouldn’t rust. The iron kettles were damaged anyhow; she’d glued paper flowers over the dents. The only dead loss was the wooden-handled tools. Even the lengths of fabric that she’d draped so artistically over a stretch of chicken wire could be salvaged for the penny bargain bin.

If only anybody had waited around to see her float, she was sure they’d have been impressed.

She hunched her shoulders and made a face at the last wagon. It was surrounded by dozens of shouting, capering children. A man in a parti-colored elf costume was throwing candy right and left. Scarlett peered at the name on the sign above his head. “Rich’s.” Willie kept talking about this new store at Five Points. He was worried because prices were lower there and Kennedy’s was losing some customers. Fiddle-dee-dee, Scarlett thought with contempt. Rich’s won’t stay in business long enough to do me any harm. Cutting prices and throwing away merchandise is not any way to be successful in business. I’m mighty glad I saw this. Now I can tell Willie Kershaw not to be such a fool.

She was even gladder to see the Grand Finale float behind Rich’s. It was Rex’s throne. There was a leak in the red-and-white striped canopy above it, and water was pouring steadily on the gilt-crowned head and cotton-batting-ermined shoulders of Dr. Meade. He looked thoroughly miserable.

“And I hope you catch double pneumonia and die,” Scarlett said under her breath. Then she ran to the house for a hot bath.

Scarlett was costumed as the Queen of Hearts. She would have preferred to be the Queen of Diamonds, with a glittering paste crown and dog collar and brooches. However, then she wouldn’t have been able to wear her pearls, which the jeweller had told her were “fine enough for the Queen herself.” And besides she had found nice big imitation rubies to sew all around the low neck of her red velvet gown. It was so good to be wearing color!

The train of her dress was bordered with white fox. It would be ruined before the Ball was over, but no matter; it looked elegant draped over her arm to dance. She had a mysterious red satin eye mask that covered her face down to the tip of her nose, and her lips were reddened to match it. She felt very daring, and quite safe. Tonight she could dance to her heart’s content without anyone knowing who she was so they could insult her. What a wonderful idea it was to have a masquerade!

Even with her mask in place Scarlett was nervous about entering the ballroom without an escort, but she needn’t have been. A large group of masked revellers was entering the lobby when she stepped out of her carriage, and she joined them without comment from anyone. Once inside, she looked around her with astonishment. DeGives Opera House had been transformed almost beyond recognition. The handsome theater was now truly a convincing King’s palace.

A dance floor had been built over the lower half of the auditorium, extending the large stage into a mammoth ballroom. At the far end Dr. Meade as Rex was seated on his throne, with uniformed attendants on each side, including a Royal Cup Bearer. In the center of the Dress Circle was the biggest orchestra Scarlett had ever seen, and on the floor were masses of dancers, watchers, wanderers. There was a tangible feeling of heightened gaiety, a recklessness that arose from the anonymity of being masked and disguised. As soon as she entered the room, a man in Chinese robes and a long pigtail put his silken arm around her waist and whirled her onto the dance floor. He might be a perfect stranger. It was dangerous and exciting.

The tune was a waltz, her partner a dizzying dancer. As they spun, Scarlett caught glimpses of masked Hindus, clowns, Harlequins, Pierrettes, nuns, bears, pirates, nymphs, and cardinals, all dancing as madly as she. When the music stopped, she was breathless. “Wonderful,” she gasped, “it’s wonderful. So many people. All Georgia must be here dancing.”

“Not quite,” said her partner. “Some had no invitations.” He gestured upward with his thumb. Scarlett saw that the galleries were full of spectators in ordinary dress. Some were not so ordinary. Mamie Bart was there, wearing all her diamonds, surrounded by other dregs. What a good thing I didn’t take up with that bunch again. They’re too trashy to be invited anywhere. Scarlett had managed to forget the origin of her invitation.

The presence of an audience made the Ball seem even more desirable. She tossed her head and laughed. Her diamond earrings flashed; she could see them reflected in the Mandarin’s eyes through the holes in his mask.

Then he was gone. Elbowed aside by a monk with his cowl pulled forward to shadow his masked face. Without a word, he took Scarlett’s hand, then circled her waist with his arm when the orchestra struck up a lively polka.