"I be at the hardware, Miss Scarlett. Mr. Will need'n' plow points.”
The sheriff's office was in the courthouse basement, and the air cooled as Scarlett went down the steps. Inside, the wall behind the sheriff's desk bore a Clayton County map, yellowed wanted posters, and the obligatory lithograph of Robert E. Lee on Traveller. Sheriff Oliver Talbot stood to greet her, and when Scarlett introduced herself, Talbot said he was so pleased, so pleased. He knew Mrs. Butler's husband.
"You served with Rhett?”
"No, ma'am." He pivoted to show her his withered arm. "Born that way, ma'am. Ugly, ain't it." Sheriff Talbot chuckled, "My wife says, 'Praise God, Oily. Your poor arm kept you from bein' kilt in the War.' “
Scarlett said, "My plantation has been vandalized and the negroes are too frightened to work for me.”
"I knew your father, too. Gerald O'Hara was a grand gentleman. Mrs. Butler, who do you suspect?”
Scarlett described ruined hams rolling down the slope into the boneyard and a foal trying to nurse its dead mother.
"Twenty-eight hams, you say. Two mares. A dog?" Sheriff Talbot frowned. "Tell me what niggers done it and I'll show them the error of their ways.”
"This wasn't negro work, Sheriff. Only white men could be so malicious — the same white men who set fire to my Atlanta home. The finest home in Atlanta, burned to the ground.”
Sheriff Talbot's smile shrank. "Mrs. Butler, I can't do nothin' 'bout 'Lanta. J. P. Robertson, he's 'Lanta sheriff. Vandalizing isn't white man's work.”
She named Isaiah and Josie Watling and Archie Flytte. "Flytte hates me. He was a convict, you know. Archie murdered his wife.”
Talbot nodded. "Poor Hattie Flytte was kin to me, Mrs. Butler. I knowed Archie before he was sent up and I know him now. Ol' Archie's a rough customer. But wreckin' your meat house? That ain't like Archie.
These other fellows? Isaiah Watling is a pious, hardworkin' man. When he still had his farm in Mundy Hollow — oh, must have been 1840 or '41 ...”
"Sheriff, please spare me your affecting reminiscences. My family is of some consequence in this county.”
Sheriff Talbot's smile vanished as if it had never been. "Mrs. Butler, every white citizen is of consequence in Clayton County. I know those boys you're namin'. And they ain't no angels. But they wouldn't do somethin' like what you're sayin' they done. You got you some impudent niggers out your way and I certainly mean to look into it.”
When Scarlett came into the bright sunshine, a leathery oldster was leaning against her buggy. He tapped his hat brim. "Mornin', Miz Butler. I'm Isaiah Watling and I knew your husband when he was Young Master at Broughton Plantation. I hear Butler's in Europe." He tut-tutted.
"It's a caution how some people get around. When you write your husband, you'll tell him Isaiah Watling was asking after him.”
"Mr. Watling, what are you doing? Why are you tormenting us?”
He cackled. "There's torments and torments, Miz Butler, but the worst is the torments of hell." He pointed a bony forefinger at her. "Archie says you are Jezebel, but you don't look like I imagine Jezebel to be.”
"If I catch you sneaking around my property, I'll have you horsewhipped.”
"Whipped, Miz Butler?" He considered. "Miz Butler, as much whipping as I've seen and done in my long, long life, I can't say it ever did a lick of good." Isaiah Watling's eyes crinkled with amusement, "I b'lieve I made a joke. 'A lick of good,' my, my.”
When Scarlett looked around the empty square, she felt a chill.
"Where's Sam? He was supposed to wait for me.”
"Was that big nigger yours, Miz Butler? I believe he has done run off.”
"Sam's a good negro. He wouldn't leave me.”
"Well then, I'm right sorry he's run off, ma'am. But might be that boy won't quit runnin' until he's far away.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
A Telegram
The Georgia Railroad telegrapher reckoned he could send a telegram care of Rob Campbell in London, England — they had the transatlantic cable — yes ma'am. But it might take some time, account of he'd never sent a telegram to London, England, before. He checked his book and whistled. "Ma'am, it's gonna be a dollar a word.”
Scarlett's pencil pressed deep into the message pad where she wrote.
"Rosemary needs you." She handed the pad to the clerk but snatched it back to add, "I need you. Darling come home.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Glasgow
Tazewell Watling wanted to tear the damn thing up, but he returned it to its envelope and gave the boy sixpence.
Who touched his cap anxiously. "Sir, you will deliver this to Mr. Butler?”
"When I find him.”
Six months before, when Rhett Butler had walked into Nicolet and Watling's office, Tazewell had scarcely recognized him. Once-elegant clothes hung on his gaunt frame. He had the face of an old man.
Rhett rolled his hat in his hands. "I'm going abroad, Taz." His weary smile was sadder than no smile would have been. "The grand tour. Museums.
Historic places. Fine art." He paused. "I wondered if you might join me.
It was on Taz's tongue to say October was the firm's busiest month.
Ships were backed up at Nicolet's wharf and so much cotton was coming in, they'd rented a second warehouse. Taz looked into his guardian's blasted eyes and said, "Of course I'll come.”
They caught the mail steamer that same day.
Belle had written Taz about Rhett. "Honey, I never seen him so bad.
First Bonnie Blue and then Miss Melly. It'd be hard enough if Rhett and Miss Scarlett could console one another, but they can't. I'm fearing Rhett ain't got much to live for.”
Rhett didn't speak about this, and they were in England's Bristol Channel before Rhett mentioned Melanie Wilkes. Seabirds whirled and dipped over white chalk cliffs. "Miss Melly couldn't be deceived," Rhett said.
"Melanie Wilkes never doubted her heart.”
Tazewell Watling looked away so he couldn't see the tears streaming down his guardian's face.
Taz didn't ask about Rhett's wife. That Scarlett's name never crossed Rhett's lips told Taz everything he needed to know.
The bellman at their London hotel unpacked their luggage while Rhett sat, hands between his knees. Taz wanted to call on the Campbells, but Rhett said he was too tired.
Taz spent a pleasant afternoon renewing his acquaintance with the Campbell family, but when he returned to the hotel, Rhett was gone. The doorman said Rhett hadn't taken a cab; he'd walked into Mayfair. "The gentleman seemed distracted like," the doorman said. "Like the gentleman had something on his mind.”
Rhett's tailor hadn't seen him and he hadn't been to the gambling clubs. Of course they knew Mr. Butler. Was Mr. Butler back in London? Three days later, wearing the clothes he'd worn when he disappeared, Rhett came back to the hotel. He was filthy and unshaven. Perhaps he'd slept in his clothes. "It's no use, Taz. I can't forget. Drink, laudanum, women — I never thought I'd curse my memory." He looked at his hands.
"You may as well go back to New Orleans. I am grateful you interrupted your work to come, b u t ...”
Taz said, "I'll draw your bath.”
Rob Campbell provided the necessary letters of credit and would forward their mail. Taz bought tickets for the Dieppe steamer. Taz made sure Rhett had fresh shirts and tempted him to eat.
In December, Paris was bitter cold and its famous light was unforgiving.
Rhett couldn't keep warm. Sometimes when they went outdoors, he wore two overcoats.
Like a dutiful son with his frail parent, Taz escorted Rhett to the Louvre, Notre Dame, and the Op?ra Gamier. Taz chattered through the long silences. When Taz did ask a direct question, Taz's companion replied courteously, but Rhett made few observations and no suggestions. He initiated nothing.