The Past And Pending
Tara is dark and mostly quiet; the only sound is the occasional groan of the house settling in its foundation. Everyone has gone to bed, and so has Scarlett. She is not asleep. She is quite sure it is past midnight, and she will have to rise to the fields in a few hours, but she cannot will herself to close her eyes. Whenever she does, her thoughts turn to Ashley. It is unfair, she thinks, to feel guilty over her own thoughts, but she does, because she shouldn't think of Ashley, not at night, not in bed, not in the way she used to hear Prissy talking to Ruth, one of the slave girls from Twelve Oaks, about their men and what they did with them. She feels less guilt when thinking of Rhett this way, but then she remembers how very angry she is with him, and she cannot bring herself to entirely like the thought of his lips pressing against her skin.
There is a knock at her door and Scarlett starts, sits up in her bed and pulls her blanket to her chin. Silly, she thinks almost immediately, like some Yankee soldier's going to ask permission to come into her bedroom. And just so, as the door creaks open, Melanie Wilkes pokes her head through the opening and asks, softly, "Are you awake, Scarlett?"
"Uh, yes, I am, Melly. Is there something the matter?" Scarlett has come to dread these little nighttime visits, which have become more frequent as Ashley's time away has become longer. It is always the same: Melanie and her bad dreams, her fears that Ashley is dead somewhere, or wounded.
Melanie walks to the side of the bed and Scarlett automatically makes room for her, pushes back the covers so Melanie can get in beside her. "I'm sorry to be such a bother. But I can't stop thinking...As soon as I put Beau down for the night, I'm seized by the thought of Ashley alone and hurt, needing me."
Pulling the blanket more tightly around them both, Scarlett merely replies, "Don't be silly, Melly, you know how bad news travels. Besides, Ashley always has been clever. He'll find a way back." She pats Melanie awkwardly on the hand. At these times Scarlett feels wholly inadequate, wishes her mother were still alive to take care of everyone, to run Tara just as she did before the War. Her mother always was so good at taking care of people.
"Of course, you're so strong, Scarlett. You're right about my being silly, but sometimes I cannot help what I think. It's a weakness I'm afraid I shan't overcome."
Scarlett closes her eyes and sighs deeply. Nothing she can say will bring any peace of mind to Melanie, not while she's in such a mood. Then again, perhaps her melancholy is contagious, because Scarlett's thoughts drift to the soldiers in that Atlanta hospital, the ones who weren't going to make it home. The memories make her shiver, and she digs more deeply into her blankets, finding warmth nearer to Melanie's small body. She hugs herself against it. "Oh, Melly, I'm not so very strong. Now you've got me thinking..."
"Don't, Scarlett. I'm sorry. It wasn't right to bring my worries to you." Melanie is wrapping her arms around Scarlett, squeezing reassuringly. She strokes Scarlett's hair gingerly and murmurs, "Your hair is so soft. How do you keep it so soft, doing all the work you do for us, being so brave?"
Scarlett looks up into the depths of Melanie's brown eyes, those kind, comforting eyes she's hated for so long. Hated their compassion and hated them for the love they stole from her. "That's lovely," she says, "but I can't imagine it's true. I haven't time for it. My hands hurt even to think of holding a brush when I come in from picking."
Melanie smiles. "I would do it for you, dear, if you'd let me."
She is so tired, so bone-tired, that Scarlett thinks she may cry from the nonsense coming from Melanie's mouth. "You have your own responsibilities, Melly. Beau's getting to be a handful, and all those errant soldiers you insist on caring for..."
"It would be my pleasure. You've done so much, Scarlett."
"I've done nothing," Scarlett replies, a flash of anger seizing her unexpectedly. "Must you always be so nice?"
Melanie shrinks back a little at her words, but she doesn't remove the fingers she has tangled in Scarlett's hair. She does not seem angry, or hurt. "You are a much better person than you think, Scarlett." She leans in and kisses Scarlett on the lips; when she pulls away she is blushing.
It is that blush, Scarlett thinks, that makes Melanie beautiful. Without it she is almost plain—too pale, too thin, no vanity to speak of. She brings a hand up and touches her fingers to her lips. She runs her fingers over her dry mouth then moves to close them tentatively 'round Melanie's slight shoulders. It isn't very far to Melanie's lips, and Scarlett kisses her back, kisses her as she might have kissed Ashley. But she does not taste Ashley, not even the Ashley of her dreams, that smooth-faced boy who was supposed to be her love. Melanie tastes like no man Scarlett's ever kissed. She tastes a little like Gerald O'Hara's brandy, and her mouth is soft and unsure. When Scarlett tilts her head back she sees Melanie's cheeks are burning bright red, and her eyes are glossy. She breathes deeply and composes herself, smiles tremulously as she sits up in the bed. Scarlett wonders if she looks like that, as if she is nearly delirious with desire.
"I should go back to Beau. He'll make a fuss if he wakes and I'm not with him."
Scarlett nods, fingers the worn edges of her blanket. "Of course, Melly." She does not dare to breathe until the room is empty, until the only sounds are those of the house settling in its foundation. Then, Scarlett sighs heavily and closes her eyes, knowing she will not dream of Ashley. Perhaps she'll dream of Rhett...