“No. But you asked my reasons and I have given them. And another thing. Don’t think you can juggle books on me and lie about how much your clothes cost and how much it takes to run the house, so that you can use the money to buy more mules or another mill for Ashley. I intend to look over and carefully check your expenditures and I know what things cost. Oh, don’t get insulted. You’d do it. I wouldn’t put it beyond you. In fact, I wouldn’t put anything beyond you where either Tara or Ashley is concerned. I don’t mind Tara. But I must draw the line at Ashley. I’m riding you with a slack rein, my pet, but don’t forget that I’m riding with curb and spurs just the same.”
Mrs. Elsing cocked her ear toward the hall. Hearing Melanie’s steps die away into the kitchen where rattling dishes and clinking silverware gave promise of refreshments, she turned and spoke softly to the ladies who sat in a circle in the parlor, their sewing baskets in their laps.
“Personally, I do not intend to call on Scarlett now or ever,” she said, the chill elegance of her face colder than usual.
The other members of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle for the Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy eagerly laid down their needles and edged their rocking chairs closer. All the ladies had been bursting to discuss Scarlett and Rhett but Melanie’s presence prevented it. Just the day before, the couple had returned from New Orleans and they were occupying the bridal suite at the National Hotel.
“Hugh says that I must call out of courtesy for the way Captain Butler saved his life,” Mrs. Elsing continued. “And poor Fanny sides with him and says she will call too. I said to her ‘Fanny,’ I said, ‘if it wasn’t for Scarlett, Tommy would be alive this minute. It is an insult to his memory to call.’ And Fanny had no better sense than to say, ‘Mother, I’m not calling on Scarlett. I’m calling on Captain Butler. He tried his best to save Tommy and it wasn’t his fault if he failed.”
“How silly young people are!” said Mrs. Merriwether. “Call, indeed!” Her stout bosom swelled indignantly as she remembered Scarlett’s rude reception of her advice on marrying Rhett. “My Maybelle is just as silly as your Fanny. She says she and Rene will call, because Captain Butler kept Rene from getting hanged. And I said if it hadn’t been for Scarlett exposing herself, Rene would never have been in any danger. And Father Merriwether intends to call and he talks like he was in his dotage and says he’s grateful to that scoundrel, even if I’m not. I vow, since Father Merriwether was in that Watling creature’s house he has acted in a disgraceful way. Call, indeed! I certainly shan’t call. Scarlett has outlawed herself by marrying such a man. He was bad enough when he was a speculator during the war and making money out of our hunger but now that he is hand in glove with the Carpetbaggers and Scallawags and a friend-actually a friend of that odious wretch, Governor Bullock-Call, indeed!”
Mrs. Bonnell sighed. She was a plump brown wren of a woman with a cheerful face.
“They’ll only call once, for courtesy, Dolly. I don’t know that I blame them. I’ve heard that all the men who were out that night intend to call, and I think they should. Somehow, it’s hard for me to think that Scarlett is her mother’s child. I went to school with Ellen Robillard in Savannah and there was never a lovelier girl than she was and she was very dear to me. If only her father had not opposed her match with her cousin, Philippe Robillard! There was nothing really wrong with the boy-boys must sow their wild oats. But Ellen must run off and marry old man O’Hara and have a daughter like Scarlett. But really, I feel that I must call once out of memory to Ellen.”
“Sentimental nonsense!” snorted Mrs. Merriwether with vigor. “Kitty Bonnell, are you going to call on a woman who married a bare year after her husband’s death? A woman-”
“And she really killed Mr. Kennedy,” interrupted India. Her voice was cool but acid. Whenever she thought of Scarlett it was hard for her even to be polite, remembering, always remembering Stuart Tarleton. “And I have always thought there was more between her and that Butler man before Mr. Kennedy was killed than most people suspected.”
Before the ladies could recover from their shocked astonishment at her statement and at a spinster mentioning such a matter, Melanie was standing in the doorway. So engrossed had they been in their gossip that they had not heard her light tread and now, confronted by their hostess, they looked like whispering schoolgirls caught by a teacher. Alarm was added to consternation at the change in Melanie’s face. She was pink with righteous anger, her gentle eyes snapping fire, her nostrils quivering. No one had ever seen Melanie angry before. Not a lady present thought her capable of wrath. They all loved her but they thought her the sweetest, most pliable of young women, deferential to her elders and without any opinions of her own.
