Charms Of Silence

Chapter 1

 The next day, the sky was free of clouds, and the summer sun wrapped around Margret like a soft, fuzzy blanket. But the happy atmosphere barely penetrated the tight bonds of her pale pink ball gown. She wondered why she had been invited to the ball - high society had shunned her ever since her childhood, when her mother started dressing her as a boy.

"Ms. Mitchell? We have reached your destination." As the taxi driver opened the door for her, she smiled, took a deep breath, then grimaced. She had forgotten how confining corsets were. How could women wear these day after day, hour after hour?

"Ms. Mitchell?" Margaret looked around, startled. The taxi driver must have said something while she had been lost in her thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to wait here for you?"

"I am going home with a friend. You are dismissed." As the driver climbed back into the cab, she caught a glimpse of a peculiar blue charm bracelet. He must have seen that she had noticed, because he quickly pulled his sleeve back over it. After giving her a hurried smile, he sped away down the road.

When she turned and entered the chapel in which the ball was to be held, the first thing she noticed was that everyone there was an author or publisher, and the author's books lined the walls. She even saw a few of her friends, including Caroline Miller. As she looked around in awe, she heard a voice behind her.

"Ms. Mitchell, I take it?" Margret turned and saw an older man. He had wrinkles in the corners in his eyes from smiling, and a confident air. But how could he know her?

"Yes..." she replied shakily.

"It is a great privilege to meet you. May I have a dance?"

"You may," consented Margret. Once they had reached the dance floor and fallen in step with the others, the man spoke again.

"I am a publisher from New York, and have come to seek great southern writers," at this comment, Margaret's thoughts flashed back to her book. Surely he couldn't know? No, she hadn't told a soul. "And I heard you were writing a book," he finished. Margaret hoped her face didn't betray her thoughts. How could he know? He couldn't! What was the point in keeping something secret, if everybody knew about it?

"No, but I am honored that you think I could," she stammered.

"That's funny. I could have sworn somebody told me you were."

"Well, I haven't written anything," she assured him.

Later, as people began to leave, Margaret went and found her friend Caroline. "I mean really, Peggy! I heard what the publisher said to you," laughed Caroline as they got into a taxi. "Fancy you writing a book! You are much too serious."

Once again, Peggy hoped her feelings would not be betrayed by her face and words. She felt her anger flare into a little flame. She knew that if she fed it, it could be dangerous. She carefully put it out. Her next words were spoken calmly and slowly.

"I completely agree with you, Caroline."

Early the next morning, Peggy went to the publisher's hotel with her daughter and 80 manila folders: each of them contained a chapter of Gone With the Wind. She almost didn't. There were too many what ifs. But there was also her daughter. Sweet, quiet, wise Rory. Only eight, yet when Peggy looked into her swirling gray eyes and say the love in wisdom in them, she couldn't go back. She had to do this for Rory. When the old man came down for breakfast, she handed them to him.

"Take them, before I change my mind," she commanded. After thrusting them into his arms, she turned on her heels and walked out the door, leaving the publisher gaping at her back. As she walked back to her apartment, she wondered if she had done the right thing. Her Gone With the Wind was nothing like Caroline's Lamb In His Bosom. Yes, she was older than Caroline had been when her book was published, but Caroline had not kept it a secret, denying its existence to anyone that asked.

"Margaret!" It was her husband John, when she had made it to her apartment. "I saw your note, but I was worried. Where were you?"

"I was at the Georgian Terrace Hotel, and was giving my book to a publisher."

"I-but-you- What book?"

"The book that you told me to write," She began to feel that he was being ignorant. After all, it was him who told her to write it after she had read most of the books in the library. Did he think that, because she was a girl, she could not write a book? She felt the flame of anger once more, and fed it just a little.

"Have we not known each other long enough for you to know that I am as capable as  Jack Sharkey? As my friend, Caroline Miller? As any man? I am, NOT a typical housewife! I am not a servant! Do you think that my parents educated me for nothing? I thought they did for some time, but they kept me going. I wrote for people like them, who knew what women are capable of, not for people like you, who think women are like servants, or little children! My book will be a bestseller, you'll see!" She stormed into their bedroom and sat down, almost in tears.

Three months later, Margaret's book had sold a half million copies, and people had sued her regularly for stealing their manuscripts. She had just gotten back from a case and was going to put away the folders, when she screamed "John! Rory! The folders - they're gone!"

"Gone? All 80? They can't be!"

"Gone, and I don't know where they are! "

"That much is obvious! Calm down."

"How?" Screamed Peggy in hysterics. "Do you realize what could have happened! If those folders get into the wrong hands-" She was now crying so hard that she could not speak, and her face was as white as the sheets that hung forgotten out on the clothesline. Her book meant the world to her, so much that when she felt upset she would get out the folders, knowing that even in the hardest times, she had been able to find some consolation. But now they were gone, and she felt that the world had turned against her in a battle of mental will. Soon after, alone because John had left to go get groceries, she sat up and stopped crying. She would win, no matter what he thought.