Scarlett asked Will Benteen, "Why don't they live on Tara like Big Sam and the house negroes?”
"Miss Scarlett, they'd rather live in the worst broken-down shanty than back in Tara's 'Slave Quarters.' B'sides, what would we do with 'em in the wintertime?”
"Tara always found work for its people.”
"Miss Scarlett," Will explained. "They ain't Tara's 'people' no more. I need field hands from March to September and I pay a fair wage. Full-task hands get fifty cents a day.”
"The rest of the year, what do they live on?”
"They're free labor now, Miss Scarlett." Will had sighed. "Wasn't us set 'em free.”
Miss Scarlett had rushed the cash from this year's cotton crop into the Atlanta bank — had taken it into town personally. When Will had told her they'd want new work harnesses for the spring planting, she'd replied, "Will, we'll have to make do with the old ones.”
Love trouble and money trouble: Will didn't know which was worse.
Captain Butler was in Europe with Mr. Watling.
Evenings in the parlor, Miss Rosemary read her brother's letters aloud.
Mr. Rhett described Paris racetracks and cathedrals and artists and joked about the cardinals' hats hanging high in the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
"The French believe that when the hats fall down, the cardinal enters heaven. Some of those hats have been hanging for centuries!”
Will marveled with the children. He felt sorry for Miss Scarlett. She seemed so neglected.
Miss Rosemary was modest and helpful, and Tara accepted her and Louis Valentine without a ripple.
Miss Rosemary became the schoolmarm and the nursery was her schoolroom.
Suellen managed the house negroes, except Mammy, who managed herself.
Sundays, Big Sam drove the buggy into Jonesboro, where Rosemary and the children worshiped with the Methodists. The negroes walked across the tracks to Reverend Maxwell's First African Baptist.
Money or no money, they wouldn't go hungry. The summer's produce had been put up and stored in Tara's root cellar, where glistening rows of Mr. Mason's patented canning jars were filled with peaches, berries, tomatoes, and beans.
A three-year-old ox had been butchered and packed in brine. Fifteen hogs had been slaughtered, butchered, salted down, and hung in the meat house to take the cure. Will Benteen's hams were locally famous, and every Christmas, he hand-delivered a ham to favored neighbors as "a little something from Tara.”
Although Will was a crop farmer, his first love was animals. Like Mrs. Tarleton, Will Benteen was mad about horses. He liked Tara's cattle and mules and he befriended his hogs: Tusker, Runt, Big Girl. He admired their pure piggishness. When Big Girl got sick, Will sat up half the night dosing her with turpentine.
The hog killing on the first chilly day in November was bittersweet.
Yes, Will'd filled Tara's meat house, but tomorrow morning he'd not go to the hog lot. Big Girl wouldn't be there to grunt her greeting and snuffle his pant legs.
Saturday mornings, Ashley came out from Atlanta. He'd thank Scarlett for keeping Beau and often brought her a small gift: an embroidered lawn handkerchief or a tin of English toffees.
Ashley said nobody was building. His saws were idle and his lumber turned blue in the stacks. The Kimball House had closed its doors. "It's this depression," Ashley said, as if it didn't really concern him.
"Goodness, Ashley." Scarlett frowned. "Don't you care?”
"I care that Monday morning, I will be deciding which worker I will let go and how he'll feed his family.”
Ashley took coffee with Scarlett, Beau, and Rosemary and he'd quiz his son about Beau's progress with McGuffey Readers, but Ashley never drank a second cup before he left for Twelve Oaks, where he'd climb to the hilltop graveyard and talk to Melanie.
Gentle Melanie didn't share Ashley's regrets. She assured her grieving husband they would be reunited one day. As they talked, Ashley cleaned the graveyard, tossing dead limbs and brush over the wall. On his third visit, he brought a poleax to open up the vista. Melanie had always loved the view from here.
He spent the night in Twelve Oaks' negro driver's house. As at Tara, Sherman's men had spared the negro quarters. This was the one night in the week when Ashley Wilkes's sleep was dreamless and untroubled.
Before Ashley left for Atlanta, he'd dally at Tara and reminisce about times gone by. Sometimes, Scarlett was bemused by Ashley's sonorous, gentle voice. When she was irritable, she'd remind him he had a train to catch.
One Saturday morning when Ashley arrived, his cheeks were ruddy and his eyes sparkled. Scarlett had been doing accounts at the table. Rosemary set aside her mending. "I've sold the sawmills," Ashley announced. "A Yankee from Rhode Island. Goodness! The man has no end of money.”
Scarlett's mouth tightened. "Atlanta's most modern sawmills. Ashley, how much did he pay?”
His happiness deserted his eyes. "I won't need much," he said. "I'm coming home to Twelve Oaks. I'll live in the driver's house.”
Rosemary took his hand. "I'm delighted you'll be our neighbor. But what will you do with yourself out there?”
"I won't be alone!" Ashley's words tumbled out. "I'm hiring Old Mose — you'll remember Mose — and Aunt Betsy to help me. It'll be good to have them back on the place. The formal gardens. Scarlett remembers them, don't you, Scarlett? Wilson, the Jonesboro liveryman — every summer, Yankee tourists hire Wilson to drive past our 'picturesque ruins.' I'm going to restore the gardens. We'll clear the brambles and wild grapes and get that old fountain flowing again. Do you remember the fountain, Scarlett? How beautiful it was? The gardens will be Melanie's memorial. Twelve Oaks — as it was, as it is supposed to be. Melanie loved it so.”
"Mr. Wilkes," Rosemary smiled, "you have a gentle heart.”
Scarlett frowned. "You'll charge the Yankee tourists to tour your gardens?”
"Why, I hadn't thought about charging. I suppose ... I suppose I could.”
Abruptly, it turned colder. The Flint River froze solid and Taras stoves glowed red. Rosemary moved the schoolroom downstairs into the parlor. Fog hung above the horse troughs, where warmer springwater flowed.
Four days before Christmas, Tara's people were at the breakfast table when Mammy marched in from the meat house so angry, she could hardly speak. "They's ruint! They's sp'iled! Been some deviltry here!" Mammy propped her bulk against the dry sink and took deep breaths. "Ain't no colored folks done this, neither.”
Scarlett was on her feet. "What is it, Mammy?”
Mammy pointed with a quivering arm.
When the children made to follow, Scarlett snapped, "Ella, Wade, Beau — all of you, stay in the house. Rosemary, Suellen, tend them, please!”
The meat house door had been crowbarred off its top hinge and hung slantwise across the opening. Will Benteen dragged the door aside and cautiously stepped into the building. "Lord have mercy!" he groaned.
Scarlett cried, "Oh Will!”
Every one of their cured, wrapped hams had been cut down. They lay on the dirt floor like so many slain babies. The casks of brined beef had been overturned and manure strewn over everything.
Mammy was behind them in the doorway. "Weren't no coloreds!”
"Mammy," Scarlett snapped, "I can see that!”
Tail between his legs, Boo poked his head inside the forbidden sanctuary and sniffed.
Meat and manure sloshed beneath their feet. The stink was overpowering.
"Can't we just wash them?”
Will picked up a ham, dropped it, and wiped his hands on his pant legs.
"No, ma'am. See how somebody cut 'em open? That meat's tainted, Miss Scarlett. Pure poison.”
Will stepped out of the meat house, walked around the corner, and threw up.
The wide-eyed Mammy trembled. "Them bummers, they come back,”