Chapter 1

SCARLETT O’HARA WAS not beautiful, but menseldom realizedit when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. In herfacewere too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, aCoastaristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her floridIrishfather. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw.

Her eyes were pale green without a touch ofhazel, starred with bristlyblack lashes and slightly tilted at the ends. Abovethem, her thickblack brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line inhermagnolia-white skin—that skin so prized by Southern women andsocarefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgiasuns.

Seated with Stuart and Brent Tarleton in thecool shade of theporch of Tara, her father’s plantation, that bright Aprilafternoonof 1861, she made a pretty picture. Her new green flowered-muslindressspread its twelve yards of billowing material over her hoops andexactly matchedthe flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father hadrecently brought her fromAtlanta. The dress set off to perfection theseventeen-inch waist, the smallestin three counties, and the tightlyfitting basque showed breasts well maturedfor her sixteen years. Butfor all the modesty of her spreading skirts, thedemureness of hairnetted smoothly into a chignon and the quietness of smallwhite handsfolded in her lap, her true self was poorly concealed. The greeneyesin the carefully sweet face were turbulent, willful, lusty withlife,distinctly at variance with her decorous demeanor. Her manners hadbeenimposed upon her by her mother’s gentle admonitions and thesternerdiscipline of her mammy; her eyes were her own. Chapter 1