Here is the little prologue to my contribution to the ficathon. My actual prompt doesn't come into it until chapter 2, so I'll leave my sentence for the author's note at the beginning of that chapter. Also, please suspend all disbelief while reading this story because it is not serious or realistic.
Since the prodigal son had returned to Charleston, Rhett Butler had done everything in his power to mend his tattered reputation. The good Charlestonian people were amazed at the lengths to which the formerly ostracized eldest Butler, who's poor mother snuck away during the war just to see him, was going to get back into the good graces of Charleston's people—from donating money to every charitable Southern institution, to championing the causes of Democrats in South Carolina. He seemed reformed when he brought his dear little daughter a year or two before (wasn't the news about her simply dreadful?), but his new bout of respectful behavior confirmed the long-held belief that a Charlestonian could never really help but be a Charlestonian. Butler wanted a place in their world, and the people were fully allowed to let him back in—provided he worked for it. They couldn't give something for nothing, it wasn't their way.
Of course, everyone did wonder about his wife—where she was. There were whispers that he might have left her. No one had dared to breech the subject with his mother, whom he was staying with indefinitely, but they had no qualms about discussing it in hushed voices in their own parlors.
Everything was going well for Captain Rhett Butler in his campaign to reclaim the position at the top echelons of Southern society, until one day, several months after he arrived in Charleston. It was right after he donated a large sum of money to St. Michael's Episcopal Church, for an expensive stain glass renovation project. News and Courier, the newly merged Charleston Courier and Charleston Daily News, printed a rather lengthy editorial praising Mr. Butler's exemplary donation to one of Charleston's finest and oldest parishes.
A little less than a week later, the following letter to the editor appeared:
To Whom It May Concern:
In response to the editorial of Tuesday, November the Eleventh, 1873, written by a Mr. Alfred Smith, I have only the deepest disgust to divulge. The editorial's sole purpose appeared to be pad Mr. Rhett Butler's enormous ego, and by the end of it I was certain he himself had facilitated the article with his large wallet, evidenced by the money donated to St. Michael's. To the church itself, I can only recommend a frank consideration of the man they received the funds for their project from—Mr. Butler has expressed a rather adamant disdain for organized religion of all kinds in the past, and the acceptance of his money may be harmful to the church's reputation. Mr. Butler has a habit of referring to the Episcopal Church to his friends and close acquaintances as 'The Catholic Church with worse music', I would hate any embarrassment to be caused to the party of the parish in this matter.
I hope in the future this fine publication dedicates itself to articles on subjects more worthy than Mr. Butler's attempts to buy the regard of Charleston's people.
With all my deepest, warmest regards,
Lars A. Cotheart
The editor of the News and Courier could smell a story from a mile away, and so, in spite of its rather unorthodox structure and its obvious criticism of the man Rhett Butler and not the article, he printed in the first morning edition after he received it.
The news of the letter spread like wildfire, gossip was so scarce these days and no one could provide it better than the exploits of Rhett Butler. Rhett read the morning edition just like every other man in Charleston and was equal parts flabbergasted and enraged by the inflammatory letter to the editor, coming after the last act that was supposed to cement his place in the city of his youth—just a hairs breadth away from social acceptance, and he was back where he started. He even went down to the editor's office himself, to demand an explanation.
He expressed his personal apologies to Mr. Butler, but directed him to the fledging paper's policy about letters to the editor not reflecting the personal opinions of the staff or the publication en large. Mr. Peabody (an old friend of his father's) asked Rhett—off the record, of course—if the allegations had any merit.
"You're as familiar with my past as everyone else in this town, Jim," he replied, testy after the trying day. "What do you think?"
He then asked the newsman if he had any idea of the letter's origin, to which Peabody truthfully claimed ignorance. He asked Rhett if he had any idea who wrote the letter. Not wanting to give the born snoop any more of a scoop, he begged off and left the office, somewhat cooled down.
In truth, Rhett had been trying to figure out who wrote it since he first read the dratted thing (and subsequently spat his coffee all over the paper). Truly, the text itself offered few clues. What was most annoying about being publicly and anonymously insulted in a city whose goodwill he was painstakingly trying to earn was that everything Lars A Cotheart accused him of was the truth. That in and of itself didn't prove anything about the identity of Cotheart, except that he wasn't creative enough to actually libel Rhett. Unlucky for Rhett, there were enough true story's of his bad behavior that no slander was needed to make him look bad—the truth was enough.
He often made his little quip about the Episcopalian church at parties, bars and social events—religion was a favorite incendiary topic of his—with his less than savory 'friends', especially during the War and immediately after his marriage. It was widely known in his former social circle his thoughts on that particular subject, so he could only narrow down who Lars was to people he had known before he began his campaign in Atlanta to improve Bonnie's social standing. Certainly the enemies he'd made over the years were vast in their numbers, but something about the tone of the letter suggested more personal wrongs than those he'd inflicted on the people he scammed on the rocky road to financial, if not personal, success.
He wondered if the writer was Henry Reid, a man he'd known since his gunrunning days in South America, and who had the curious combination of traits that made him lucky enough to always get out of life-threatening situations by the skin of his teeth, but stupid enough to never remember how he'd gotten into the messes in the first place. Consequently, he consistently made the same mistakes, one of which was trusting Rhett Butler in business transactions and poker. Rhett swindled Henry more times than even he could remember. He couldn't help it, being a creature of habit, and Mr. Reid was as odious as he was gullible, so he never felt any real remorse about it. He would still be cheating the man at cards if he hadn't thrown him and all other undesirables out of his social circle for the sake of his daughter.
He wouldn't put it past Reid to seek revenge this way. The main problem with this theory was that Henry lacked all the eloquence that was needed in a good writer and Rhett really couldn't see him penning something that coherent. It was the name Lars A. Cotheart that really pointed to Henry Reid because it was such an obvious fake name. Cotheart wasn't even a real last name, as far as he could tell. A nom du plume with so little finesse in its execution seemed like Henry's style.
He used his widespread connections to find out Reid's whereabouts, which proved his suspicions incorrect. Reid, according to a mutual acquaintance in a flippant letter responding to Rhett's telegram, had run into a bit of trouble South of the border. Said trouble, according to the missive, involved an illegal cockfighting ring, two hundred and fifty Mexican War era muskets, and the territorial governor's daughter. The last the contact had heard, he informed Rhett bemusedly, was that Reid was in a Tijuanan jail, trying desperately to learn Spanish in order to negotiate a release. Entertaining as this knowledge was, it left the embarrassing letter-writer a mystery.
And embarrassing it was, especially for Rhett Butler's poor, long-suffering mother, who explained to all their neighbors, friends, and most shamefully, the pastor of St. Michael's himself that no, Rhett had not converted to Catholicism in order to hear the famous bell choir at St. Mary's every Sunday. His brother was the only one in the family at all amused by the letter, delighting in any slight at Rhett, the more public, the better. He was pleased to tell anyone who would listen of his elder brother's screaming matches with their father about the existence of God—never mind that the fights occurred when Rhett was about twelve years old.
By the time January hit, Rhett was ready for any way to restart his campaign. Between dodging questions from old Mrs. Arnett about his thoughts on theology to dodging questions from his mother about his wife and stepchildren's whereabouts on Christmas, December was a trying month. Mrs. Butler was perfectly justified in asking Rhett why he did not invite Scarlett to Charleston for the holiday, but inviting her would be an added emotional entanglement that he simply did not have the stomach for. Explaining to his mother his endlessly complex relationship with his wife was the last thing he wanted to do after trying to explain his endlessly complex relationship with God to her friend.
Rhett was sure his marital foibles could fill a thousand-page tome, if someone got it in their head to write it.
He tried to look at the New Year as a fresh start, and approached the first major society function after St. Cecilia's with the renewed energy of someone simply ignoring the draining problems. The event in question was a charity art function his mother was sponsoring for the Daughters and Widows of the Confederacy—all amateur Southern painters and sculptors. Rhett thought it'd be best to make up for the last debacle by committing to his mother's pet project. He volunteered to procure and rent a space for her to hold the art showing—he even had the perfect building, an empty warehouse that he was fully prepared to furnish at his own expense. He spoke with his mother in confidence on the subject, and had a few preliminary talks with the owner of the building about renting the space—all very unofficial. He planned on making a formal announcement the next Tuesday in the paper, announcing both the location and tentative spring date of the event. He even began to convince himself that this was an exciting bit of culture and not the glorifying of paltry scribbling for a good cause. Everything was going exactly as planned.
The day before his announcement was supposed to take place, this letter was printed in the paper:
To Whom It May Concern:
Regarding the news of the First Annual Confederate Widows and Daughters Art Show's search for a gallery, those planning the event will find that 1458 S. Broad Street is currently being furnished and leased for their use for the next three months, completely free of charge.
Consider this the gift of a friend of the Confederacy and of your organization.
The letter was unsigned.
While everyone in the town was so awestruck they did not notice how strange such an anonymous donation was, Rhett Butler was livid. He was furious, he was irate beyond all comprehension. It was as though someone had read his mind, realized his intentions, and actually done what he wanted to do just so he couldn't do it. After his initial fury subsided, he marched down to 1458 South Broad Street and demanded the name of the man leasing the building. The contractor in charge of the renovations for the project was prepared for the question in more ways than one.
"We're under strict contract not to reveal the anonymous donor's name, Mr. Butler, you see this person is real shy and doesn't want any attention drawn to him," Mr. Hendrickson told him, conspiratorially. "It's funny though, we were given instructions that if you were to come down and ask us we were to give you this," he handed Rhett an envelope with his named neatly typed on the front. He bid Rhett good day and left to continue his work, and Mr. Butler pulled the note out of the envelope and unfolded it swiftly as he walked out the door.
I know what you are doing, and I am going to do everything in my power to stop you from succeeding.
It was typed, unsigned, unstamped. He crumpled it in his fist with fury. Someone—and that someone should have been glaringly obvious to him—was trying to ruin his attempts to make peace with his people. The rage he felt at having his goal blocked almost masked another feeling that was returning to him with a vengeance: his hot, burning competitive streak, dormant for such a long time because of tragic circumstance, was rekindled by the ball of paper in the palm of his hand.
This was war.
A/N: The information about the newspapers is actually true, funny story. Charleston's two big dailies merged in 1873. You also may have noticed a slight change in the story—let's just say that I fail at my own anagrams and leave it at that.