by J. Rosemary Moss
Genre: Fan Fiction Crossover (Bonanza-Gone With The Wind)
Rating: PG
Link to Part One
~
“Sit down, Mr. Cartwright.”
He nodded his head at that and moved to obey her. Scarlett caught a gleam in his eye, however, as he seated himself on the opposite side of her desk. She frowned, wondering what he found so amusing.
Scarlett peered intently at him. He had certainly proved himself useful today, this Adam Cartwright.
There’d been no time to speak with him about his wages after he hauled in the crates of china, but instead of idling about he had put himself to work. She knew now that he had a fine head for figures, that he had a good eye for displaying merchandise and that his manners were friendly and pleasing.
He had a good speaking voice too—a pleasant baritone. But she couldn’t place his accent. She could tell that he wasn’t Southerner, but she didn’t trust her ear enough to guess any further. Why, he might have served under Sherman in the Yankee army, for all she knew. Or he might be a carpetbagger. Or he might have been with the Freedmen’s Bureau.
But if he had been a Union soldier, he wasn’t in uniform now. Scarlett could overlook his service in the Yankee army so long as he didn’t flaunt it.
And since the worst of the Reconstruction was over, most carpetbaggers had fled Atlanta. Besides, Scarlett knew all about carpetbaggers—she’d had to pretend friendship with them in the wake of Georgia’s defeat. This man didn’t seem like one of those ‘new people’ who had come like vultures to pick on the Confederacy’s remains.
And if he had worked with the Freedmen’s Bureau—well, amidst all the corrupt carpetbaggers in that institution, there were a few hopeless idealists. If this man believed that blacks were the equals of whites and should be treated as such—well, that was his own concern. It made no difference to Scarlett.
She narrowed her eyes at him. There was something about him that reminded her of Ashley. Ashley was an idealist too—that was it. But at least this man seemed to have more sense than Ashley.
And so she dismissed her three worst fears about Mr. Cartwright. But one nagging doubt remained—he couldn’t possibly be desperate for work. Someone with his brains and manners could do better than to work as hired help in a mercantile.
Of course, he’d never claimed to be desperate. Scarlett had just assumed that he was because he didn’t dress like a gentleman. But what did it matter? He was here, he was willing to work for her and she suspected that he was worth his weight in gold. There was no sense looking a gift horse in the mouth.
But why was there that gleam of humor in his eyes? It was almost as if he were mocking her. No, not mocking her—teasing her, more like. That reminded her of Rhett. Except that this man’s eyes held none of the hard and bitter sarcasm she’d grown accustomed to seeing in her husband’s.
How odd that this stranger should remind her of both Ashley and Rhett. For a brief moment, Scarlett wondered if she were attracted to him. But she dismissed that notion at once.
This man wasn’t even a gentleman—although that fact didn’t trouble her. After all, she had let her sister marry Will Benteen, and he was what her plantation neighbors called a ‘cracker.’ But Will was worth any ten gentlemen that Scarlett knew. She might soon feel the same about Adam Cartwright.
No, it wasn’t Mr. Cartwright’s lack of birth and breeding that made Scarlett dismiss him. She was too single-minded. Where romance was concerned, she had only one goal: to win back Rhett’s heart.
Any relationship with this Mr. Cartwright would have to remain strictly business.
And so Scarlett went straight to the heart of the matter. She offered Mr. Cartwright a very reasonable wage—she didn’t want to risk some other businessman snatching him away. Then she explained precisely what she expected from him.
*
Mrs. Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler was a fierce taskmaster, Adam discovered. But, to give her credit, she was a shrewd businesswoman with a good head on her shoulders—at least when it came to dollars and sense.
She was not so wise when it came to dealing with other people. Oh, she knew how to sweet talk her customers and steer them toward more expensive merchandise. But in the week that he’d been working for her, Adam found out that Scarlett was an outcast from her own social class.
Adam disliked the class structure of the South—or of any part of the country, for that matter. Americans, he felt, should never ask who your father was.
But Scarlett had been born and raised on the Southern caste system. Adam wondered if she realized that it didn’t hold sway everywhere. A girl like Scarlett really belonged in New York City or out West—someplace where her grit and determination would count for more than the Robillard blood she had inherited from her mother.
Adam had watched Scarlett hold her chin up proudly when Mrs. Merriwether—one of the matriarchs of Atlanta—openly cut her. But she marched into her office afterward, slammed the door and—judging by the sound of something shattering—smashed whatever bric-a-brac she had lying about.
He exchanged glances with the other two store employees. They both looked grateful to be out of the line of fire. Adam sighed and made his way to the office. He knocked on the door twice, but there was no response. Finally he opened it and let himself inside.
“What do you want, Mr. Cartwright?” Scarlett asked brusquely. She was seated behind her desk with her hands folded demurely in front of her. But her green eyes were flashing and he could see the shattered remains of some knickknack or other off to the side.
There were also papers scattered about the floor—papers with neat, dense handwriting.
Adam didn’t respond to her question. He just knelt down and started cleaning up the mess.
“Don’t bother with that, Mr. Cartwright,” Scarlett told him. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“It’s no problem,” he assured her as he collected the papers. Some of the writing caught his eye, however. It appeared to be a story of some sort—a bloody story about the war.
He peered intently at Scarlett. She didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who indulged in writing fiction.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Never mind that,” she answered sharply. “It’s just something Ashley wrote.”
“Ashley?” Adam asked.
“Mr. Wilkes,” she corrected. “He’s—he’s an in-law of mine. My first husband, Charles Hamilton, was his cousin. And Ashley married Melanie Hamilton, Charlie’s sister.”
“Would you mind if I read it?”
She looked surprised at his interest. “I suppose you may, if you think you can stomach his nonsense,” she answered.
Adam grinned. “I’m willing to try.”
Scarlett shrugged as he finished cleaning the mess. Adam set the papers—now neatly in order—aside and turned back to her.
She was still furious at her encounter with Mrs. Merriwether. And unless Adam was far off his mark, she was hurt and bewildered as well.
“Would you like some fresh air, Mrs. Butler?” he asked. “I’d be happy to get your carriage and take you out for a drive.”
“I’m more than capable of driving myself,” she snapped. “Heaven knows I’ve done it often enough—it gives the old cats of this town one more reason to disapprove of me.”
Adam accepted her outburst with equanimity. “Would you like me to fetch your carriage?” he repeated.
She stared at him for a long moment. She seemed annoyed at his persistence, but at length her glare softened.
“Yes,” she answered at last. “Please do. And I—I wouldn’t mind the company.”
*
Scarlett was already at her desk the next day when Mr. Cartwright made his way into the shop. She had left her home early, annoyed with everything and everyone. She sighed and took a sip of the bitter prune juice she had brought to her desk. She wanted something stronger, but even Scarlett couldn’t justify drinking brandy so early in the morning.
If only Rhett hadn’t walked out on her! Wade and Ella wouldn’t be so unmanageable, Pork wouldn’t frown at her the way he did and Mammy—why, perhaps Mammy would agree to leave Tara and return to Atlanta.
Even Tara itself had lost some of its luster. Scarlett still loved every inch of the red earth there, but her sister Suellen was now the mistress of the house. Each time Scarlett went back to Tara for succor and strength she had the headache of putting up with Suellen’s endless airs and prattling—not to mention the temper tantrums of the spoiled brats she was raising.
Scarlett brought her mind back to the present and glanced at the clock. Mr. Cartwright was precisely on time. What a pity—she was aching to reprimand someone.
He strode into her office whistling a tune under his breath. He paused to tip his hat at her, and then he set Ashley’s manuscript on her desk.
“Do you know what you have here?” he asked her as he pulled up a chair on the opposite side of her desk.
She shrugged. “Some story about the war. Ashley can’t get past it—he keeps longing for the old days before the war turned everything upside down. That’s why he’s no use to anyone now.”
With that she turned back to a long column of figures. But she could feel Mr. Cartwright staring at her.
“Mrs. Butler,” he said at length, “this is a masterpiece. It’s taut and gripping. I couldn’t put it down—I had to finish it last night. Now, it needs a decent publisher, but I know just the man in New York. Then with the right publicity—”
Scarlett tore her eyes away from the figures and stared dumbstruck at Adam. “Do you mean tell me that Ashley—that his writing might be worth something?”
He laughed. “Mr. Wilkes has a goldmine here. He’s that good.”
“But—” Scarlett stopped, trying to comprehend him. “You don’t understand. Ashley has no business sense—why, I still have to help him with the mills or he’d run them into the ground. And he has no notion of how to manage money. And he couldn’t even farm when he and Melly lived at Tara.”
Adam shrugged. “That may all be true, but it doesn’t preclude him from being a great author. I’d like you to introduce me to him, if you don’t mind.”
Scarlett bit her lip. Her brain was racing ahead. “Do you suppose we could make money from Ashley’s book?” she asked suddenly.
“Ashley and the publisher stand to make the money,” Adam answered, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Why shouldn’t we publish the book?” she returned. “Why let some New York publisher get his hands on it?”
“Because neither of us knows the first thing about the publishing business—we’d never do his book justice.”
“Well, we can learn, can’t we?” Scarlett demanded. “Just let me speak with Ashley. I’ll convince him—”
“Why are you so determined, Mrs. Butler?” Adam interrupted. “Why not let an expert handle the manuscript? You don’t need the money.”
Scarlett wasn’t aware of it, but her eyes hardened at that. “There’s never enough money, Mr. Cartwright. Once I thought—I thought that I could stand to be poor again. But I know now that I’ll never let that happen.”
“I don’t think you’re in any danger of poverty,” he said dryly.
She shrugged. “I don’t intend to be either. I’ll speak with Ashley tonight. I’ll offer to buy the rights to his manual and make it seem like I’m doing him a favor. Then we can publish it now and perhaps resell it later—”
Adam laughed and shook his head at her, causing Scarlett to shoot a suspicious glance at him.
“What are you thinking?” she demanded.
“I’m thinking that if you weren’t another man’s wife, I’d put you over my knee,” he answered amiably.
Scarlett felt her mouth pop open at that. She’d been itching to fight with someone today and he had just left the door open for her.
She stood up, grabbed the glass of prune juice and threw the contents at his face. Then she watched with satisfaction as he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the dark, sticky liquid off.
But her satisfaction was short lived. Scarlett could never think of the ensuing scene without cringing.
Husband or no husband, Adam had narrowed his eyes at her and then walked around the desk to grab hold of her. Scarlett had backed away from him—but not on time. Before she knew it he had dragged her across his knee. Not even her bustle saved her. By the time he stood her on her feet again Scarlett had a new found respect for both his presumption and the strength of his arm.
She felt her face burn with fury as she glared at him. “You had no right to do that!”
He stared at her for a long moment. His eyes seemed to show some inner conflict.
At length he sighed. “No, I didn’t,” he agreed. “I have no authority over you. I’m sorry.”
Scarlett narrowed her eyes at him, wondering just what he was apologizing for. “Are you sorry that you—that you spanked me, or just sorry that you didn’t have the authority to do so?”
He laughed at that as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. “Touché,” he said. “No, I’m not sorry that I spanked you. You deserved that.”
Despite her best efforts, she felt an answering smile jump to her lips. Why was it so difficult to stay angry with this man?
“I am sorry about the juice,” she owned. “I’ve—I’ve been upset all morning. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Adam nodded. “Apology accepted. Look, why don’t we speak to Mr. Wilkes together? You can still make your offer—and I’m sure you’ll find a way to twist him around your finger. But he should know all his options.”
Scarlett thought that over. “I suppose there’s nothing unreasonable about that,” she admitted. “Very well—I’ll introduce you to Ashley this evening. Now would you take care of these books?”
He raised his eyebrows at that. “I thought you never allowed anyone else to do the accounting.”
“I don’t,” she said, slanting her eyes at him. “But as it happens, Mr. Cartwright, I don’t care to sit down at the moment. Now will do as I ask?”
Adam laughed again. “Yes Ma’am.”
LINK TO PART THREE
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