Scarlett (40 page)

Middleton’s wife, Edith, looked increasingly drawn and pale. And no one could understand Rhett’s imperturbability.

Why didn’t he do something? the little world of Charleston society wondered.

T
he yearly races were second only to the Saint Cecilia Ball as the crowning event of Charleston’s social season. Indeed there were many people—largely bachelors—who considered them the only event. “You can’t gamble on a bunch of waltzes,” they grumbled mutinously.

Before the War, the Season had included a full week of racing, and the Saint Cecilia Society hosted three balls. Then came the years of siege; an artillery shell ignited a path of fire through the city that consumed the building where the balls had always been held; and the long, landscaped oval track, its clubhouse, and its stables were used as a Confederate Army encampment and hospitals for the wounded.

In 1865 the city surrendered. In 1866 an enterprising and ambitious Wall Street banker named August Belmont bought the monumental carved stone entrance pillars of the old Race Course and had them transported north to become the entrance to his Belmont Park recetrack.

The Saint Cecilia Ball found a borrowed home only two years after the end of the War and Charlestonians rejoiced that the Season could begin again. It took longer to regain and restore the fouled and rutted land of the Race Course. Nothing was quite the same—there was one ball, not three; Race Week was Race Day; the entrance pillars could not be recovered, and the Clubhouse had been replaced by half-roofed tiers of wooden benches. But on the bright afternoon in late January 1875, the entire remaining population of old Charleston was
en fête
for the second year of racing. The streetcars of all four City Railway lines were diverted to the Rutledge Avenue route that ended near the Race Course, the cars were hung with green and white bunting, the Club colors, and the horses pulling them had green and white ribbons braided in their tails and manes.

Rhett presented his three ladies with green and white striped parasols when they were ready to leave the house and inserted a white camellia into his buttonhole. His white smile was brilliant in his tanned face. “The Yankees are taking the bait,” he said. “The esteemed Mr. Belmont himself has sent down two horses, and Guggenheim has one. They don’t know about the brood mares Miles Brewton hid in the swamp. Their get grew into a mettlesome family—a bit shaggy from swamp living and unbeautiful from crossbreeding with strays from the cavalry—but Miles has a wonder of a three-year-old that’s going to make every big-money pocket a lot lighter than it expected to be.”

“You mean there’s betting?” Scarlett asked. Her eyes glittered.

“Why else would anyone race?” Rhett laughed. He tucked folded banknotes into his mother’s reticule, Rosemary’s pocket, and Scarlett’s glove. “Put it all on Sweet Sally and buy yourselves a trinket with your winnings.”

What a good mood he’s in, Scarlett thought. He put the banknote inside my glove. He could have just handed it to me, he didn’t have to touch my hand that way—no, not my hand, my bare wrist. Why, it was practically a caress! He’s noticing me now that he thinks I’m interested in somebody else. Really noticing me, not just paying polite attention. It’s going to work!

She’d been worried that maybe letting Middleton have every third dance was going too far. People had been talking, she knew. Well, let them talk if a little gossip would bring Rhett back to her.

When they entered the grounds of the Race Course, Scarlett gasped. She’d had no idea it was so big! Or that there’d be a band! And so many people. She looked around with delight. Then she caught hold of Rhett’s sleeve. “Rhett… Rhett… there are Yankee soldiers all over the place. What does it mean? Are they going to stop the races?”

Rhett smiled. “Don’t you think Yankees gamble, too? Or that we should mind relieving them of some of their money? God knows, they didn’t object to taking all of ours. I’m glad to see the gallant colonel and his officers sharing in the simple pleasures of the vanquished. They’ve got a lot more money to lose than our kind do.”

“How can you be so sure they’ll lose it?” Her eyes were narrowed, calculating. “The Yankee horses are thoroughbreds, and Sweet Sally is nothing but a swamp pony.”

Rhett’s mouth twisted. “Pride and loyalty don’t weigh much for you when there’s money involved, do they, Scarlett? Well, go ahead, my pet, lay your bet on Belmont’s filly to win. I gave you the money, you can do what you like with it.” He walked away from her, took his mother’s arm and gestured up at the stand. “I think you’ll have a good view from higher up, Mama. Come along, Rosemary.”

Scarlett started to run after him. “I didn’t mean—” she said, but his wide back was like a wall. She shrugged angrily, then looked from right to left. Where did she go to place a bet, anyhow?

“Can I help you, ma’am?” said a man nearby.

“Why, yes, maybe you can.” He looked like a gentleman, and his accent sounded like Georgia. She smiled gratefully. “I’m not used to such complicated racing. Back home somebody would just yell, ‘I bet you five dollars I can beat you to the crossroads,’ and then everybody would holler back and start riding lickety-split.”

The man took off his hat and held it against his chest with both hands. He sure is looking at me peculiar, Scarlett thought uneasily. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said earnestly, “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, but I believe I know you. You’re Mrs. Hamilton, aren’t you? From Atlanta. You nursed me in the hospital there when I was wounded. My name’s Sam Forrest, from Moultrie, Georgia.”

The hospital! Scarlett’s nostrils flared, an involuntary reaction to the memory of the stench of blood and gangrene and filthy, lice-ridden bodies.

Forrest’s face was a picture of embarrassed discomfort. “I—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have made any claim to knowing you. I didn’t mean to offend.”

Scarlett returned the hospital to the corner of her mind reserved for the past and closed the door on it. She put her hand on Sam Forrest’s arm and smiled at him. “Land, Mr. Forrest, you didn’t offend me at all. I was just thrown off by being called Mrs. Hamilton. I married again, you see, and I’ve been Mrs. Butler for years and years. My husband’s a Charlestonian, that’s why I’m here. And I must say hearing your good Georgia talk makes me mighty homesick. What brings you here?”

Horses, Forrest explained. After four years in the cavalry, there was nothing about horses that he didn’t know. When the War was over he’d saved the money he made as a laborer and started buying horses. “Now I’ve got a fine breeding and boarding business. I’ve brought the prize of the stable to race for the prize money. I tell you, Mrs. Hamil—sorry—Mrs. Butler, it was a happy day when the news got to me that the Charleston Race Course was open again. There’s nothing else like it any place in the South.”

Scarlett had to pretend to listen to more horse talk while he accompanied her to the booth set up for taking bets, then escorted her back to the stands. Scarlett said goodbye to him with a feeling of escape.

The stands were very nearly full, but she had no trouble finding her place. The green and white striped parasols were a beacon. Scarlett waved hers at Rhett, then began to climb the risers. Eleanor Butler returned her salute. Rosemary looked away.

Rhett seated Scarlett between Rosemary and his mother. She was barely settled when she felt Eleanor Butler stiffen. Middleton Courtney and his wife, Edith, were taking seats in the same row not far away. The Courtneys nodded and smiled a friendly greeting. The Butlers returned it. Then Middleton began to point out the starting gate and finish line to his wife. At the same time Scarlett said, “You’ll never guess who I met, Miss Eleanor, a soldier that was in Atlanta when I first went to live there!” She could feel Mrs. Butler relax.

An excited stir ran through the crowd. The horses were coming onto the track. Scarlett stared open-mouthed, eyes shining. Nothing had prepared her for the smooth grass oval and the bright checker-boards and stripes and harlequin diamonds of the racing silks. Gaudy and shining and festive, the riders paraded past the grandstand while the band played a rollicking oom-pah tune. Scarlett laughed aloud without knowing it. It was a child’s laughter, free and unconsidered, expressing pure joyful surprise. “Oh, look!” she said. “Oh, look!” She was so enraptured that she was unaware of Rhett’s eyes watching her, instead of the horses.

There was an interval for refreshments after the third race. A tent hung with green and white streamers sheltered long tables of food, and waiters circulated throughout the crowd bearing trays of champagne-filled glasses. Scarlett took one of Emma Anson’s glasses from one of Sally Brewton’s crested trays, pretending that she didn’t recognize Minnie Wentworth’s butler, who was serving. She’d learned Charleston’s ways of dealing with shortages and loss. Everyone shared their treasures and their servants, acting as if they belonged to the host or hostess of the event. “That’s just about the silliest thing I ever heard,” she’d said when Mrs. Butler first explained the charade. Lending and borrowing she could understand. But pretending that Emma Anson’s initials belonged on Minnie Wentworth’s napkins made no sense at all. Still, she went along with the deception, if that was the term for it. It was just one more of the peculiarities of Charleston.

“Scarlett.” She turned quickly to the speaker. It was Rosemary. “They’ll be sounding the bell any minute. Let’s go back before the rush starts.”

People were starting to return to the stands. Scarlett looked at them through the opera glasses she’d borrowed from Miss Eleanor. There were her aunts; thank heaven she hadn’t run into them in the refreshment tent. And Sally Brewton with her husband Miles. He looked almost as excited as she did. Good grief! Miss Julia Ashley was with them. Fancy
her
betting on the horses.

She moved the glasses from side to side. It was fun to be able to watch people when they didn’t know you were looking. Hah! There was old Josiah Anson dozing off. While Emma was talking to him, too. He’d get an earful if she found out he was asleep! Ugh! Ross! Too bad he had come back, but Miss Eleanor was pleased. Margaret looked nervous, but she always did. Oh, there’s Anne. My grief, she looks like the old woman in the shoe with all those children she’s got with her. They must be the orphans. Does she see me? She’s turning this way. No, she’s not looking high enough.

My stars, she’s positively glowing. Has Edward Cooper proposed at last? Must be; she’s looking up at him as if he could walk on water. She’s practically melting.

Scarlett moved the glasses upward to see if Edward was being as obvious as Anne… a pair of shoes, trousers, jacket—

Her heart leapt into her throat. It was Rhett. He must be talking to Edward. Her gaze lingered for a moment. Rhett looked so elegant. She shifted the glasses, and Eleanor Butler came into view. Scarlett froze, not even breathing. It couldn’t be. She scanned the area near Rhett and his mother. Nobody was there yet. Slowly she moved the glasses back to look at Anne again, then again at Rhett, then back to Anne. There was no doubt about it. Scarlett felt sick. Then searingly angry.

That miserable little sneak! She’s been praising me to the skies all this time to my face, and she’s wildly in love with my husband behind my back. I could strangle her to death with my bare hands!

Her hands were sweating, she almost lost hold of the glasses when she swung them back to Rhett. Was he looking at Anne?… No, he was laughing with Miss Eleanor… they were chatting with the Wentworths… greeting the Hugers… the Halseys… the Savages… old Mr. Pinckney… Scarlett kept Rhett in view until her eyes blurred.

He hadn’t looked in Anne’s direction even once. She was staring at him like she could eat him with a spoon, and he didn’t even notice it. There’s nothing to fret about. It’s just a silly girl with a crush on a grown-up man.

Why shouldn’t Anne have a crush on him? Why shouldn’t every woman in Charleston? He’s so handsome and so strong and so…

She looked at him with yearning naked on her face, the glasses in her lap. Rhett was bent down to adjust Miss Eleanor’s shawl across her shoulders. The sun was low in the sky and a cold fitful wind had begun to blow. He placed his hand under her elbow and they began to climb the steps to their seats, the very picture of a dutiful son with his mother. Scarlett waited eagerly for them to arrive.

The partial roof over the grandstand cast an angled shadow over the seats. Rhett changed places with his mother so that she could be warmed by what sunlight there was, and Scarlett had him beside her at last. She forgot Anne at once.

When the horses came out on the track for the fourth race, the spectators stood up, first two, then several groups of people, then everyone, in a tidal wave of anticipation. Scarlett was almost dancing with excitement.

“Having a good time?” Rhett was smiling.

“Wonderful! Which horse is Miles Brewton’s, Rhett?”

“I suspect Miles rubbed his down with shoe-polish. It’s number five, the very glossy black. The dark horse, you might say. Number six is Guggenheim’s; Belmont managed post position; his pace-setter is number four.”

Scarlett wanted to ask what “pace-setter” and “post position” meant, but there was no time, they were about to start.

Number five’s rider anticipated the starter’s pistol shot, and there were loud groans from the stands. “What happened?” Scarlett asked.