The carriage convoy sped along the post road built by Louis XIV. Though it had been built more than a thousand years after the roads of the Roman era, it was far more badly damaged.
Yet strangely, Georgiana did not picture descriptions of the northern front during the French Revolution. Instead, she thought of Scarlett. After marrying Frank and becoming a female lumber merchant, Scarlett had quickly grown wealthy, escaping her former poverty. Then, she ran into Rhett Butler again on the street.
Whether or not she had once danced with Rhett Butler in mourning clothes, it was clearly inappropriate for a married woman to flirt with him in the street. Scarlett was in no mood to indulge Rhett Butler either. She drove her carriage away alone.
She chose a shortcut, a pitch-black little road. Though the war had brought good fortune to some, that road was filled with all kinds of people who had not been so lucky. Perhaps they thought Scarlett's carriage was beautiful, or perhaps they saw that Scarlett was alone, so they attacked her carriage.
Scarlett swung her whip with all her strength, making it crack through the air. Though it was not as loud as a gunshot, it could be repeated again and again. Guns of that era could only fire once—she was not some Victorian era woman who had to faint at any moment so passing gentlemen could revive her with smelling salts.
She had used so much force that she not only hurt others, but perhaps hurt herself as well. Yet her struggle was not useless. The attackers dodged aside, and Scarlett seized the chance to escape.
Perhaps, on that road home, the past surfaced in Scarlett's mind once more.
She did not want to go hungry again, nor did she want to