The Unforgiven

by Irina Shapiro

  Seth nodded and looked ahead at the heavy traffic. “Of course. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.” He made a sharp turn into a less congested street. “I’ve actually prepared a few things for you,” he added shyly. “Some photo albums and mementoes. I thought you’d like to see them. You must have a lot of questions. You can ask me anything, you know. Anything at all.”

  Quinn stole a sideways peek at Seth. Now was as good a time as any, but she dreaded bringing up the topic. He didn’t strike her as a spiritual person, so he would probably laugh at her and think her a kook.

  “Seth, is anyone in your family gifted with psychic ability?”

  “What?” He turned to gape at her and nearly ran a stop sign. “No. No psychics. Sorry. Why would you ask that?” He looked at her again, one hand casually on the wheel. “Are you psychic?” His expression fell somewhere between horror and amusement, much as she’d expected.

  Quinn shook her head “No, just curious. I heard there was lots of black magic in Louisiana. Voodoo and all that,” she added, feeling foolish in the extreme.

  “Sorry, not a witch doctor among us. That kind of stuff came over with the slaves from Africa and the Caribbean. Is that something you’re interested in?”

  “History is something I’m always interested in, but today, I want to know more about yours.”

  “I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know.” Seth pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. He turned and gave Quinn a goofy grin. “I know what the lab report says, but deep inside, I still can’t quite believe you are my girl. My God, what a shock to the system! Wait till I tell Brett. I hope Kathy hasn’t spilled the beans yet. She’ll probably take extreme pleasure in making it all sound as sordid as possible.”

  “I thought you said you were on good terms.”

  “We are, for the most part. We keep things civil for Brett, but she’s still angry and bitter. Can’t say I blame her. If I had to do it over again, I would have appreciated her more. She’s a good woman, Kathy. Solid. I was the one who screwed up.”

  “How do you think Brett will take the news?” Quinn asked, recalling Jude’s resentful expression when he’d met her. Brett seemed a lot more easygoing, but then again, he hadn’t expected to ever see her again, especially not in the role of long-lost sister.

  “Oh, he’ll be thrilled. Brett always wanted us to have more children, but Kathy just wasn’t on board. Never wanted to have kids. I begged her not to have an abortion when she got pregnant with Brett. Took some convincing. She’s a pediatric oncologist. Did I tell you that? Her career always came first. Brett said that other people’s children were her first priority, and he wasn’t all wrong.”

  Quinn followed Seth up the steps to the house. Dolores opened the door and invited them to follow her into the dining room.

  “I asked Dolores to make us some breakfast. It’s always easier to talk over food. Don’t you find? I didn’t know what you might like,” Seth added when Quinn gaped at the abundance of food. There was some sort of egg casserole, hash browns, pancakes, spicy-smelling sausage, and something that looked like fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar. “Those are beignets. They are my particular weakness. Delicious, but not so good for the old waistline.”

  Quinn sensed Seth’s nervousness and was glad he felt anxious too. This was awkward for them both, and he was trying to make it easier. “They look wonderful.”

  “I made you a pot of English Breakfast, Miss Quinn,” Dolores said as she placed a lovely flowered teapot with a matching cup and saucer in front of Quinn. “Mr. Seth got the tea specially, and the teapot,” she added with a smile.

  “Thank you. There was no need to trouble yourself,” Quinn said as she took a seat. She was touched by the gesture and wondered if Seth had bought the china himself or sent Dolores to the shops.

  “He buy it himself,” Dolores said, her tone confidential, as if Quinn had asked the question aloud.

  “That was very kind, Seth.”

  Seth blushed and smiled. “It was nothing.”

  “I serve you?” Dolores asked.

  Quinn couldn’t refuse, so Dolores piled her plate with eggs, hash browns and several links of sausage.

  “You eat savory first, then sweet,” she explained. “That’s how Mr. Seth like it.”

  Quinn took a forkful of egg casserole. She had no idea what type of spices Dolores used, but she’d never tasted eggs quite like this before. She’d tried shakshuka in Jerusalem, but these flavors were unique to Louisiana. The sausage was spicy, and the hash browns soft on the inside but crunchy on the outside—fried to perfection.

  “Beats beans on toast, ha?” Seth asked happily. “Here, try one of these.” He slipped a beignet onto her plate.

  “My God, this is…” Quinn couldn’t find the right word.

  “Orgasmic is what it is. Sorry, can I say that to a daughter?” Seth blushed and she laughed at his unexpected prudishness.

  “I’m an adult, Seth. You can say anything to me.”

  “Tell me about yourself. Tell me everything, from the moment you were born until today. Do you have a picture of your mother?” he asked. He clearly had no recollection of Sylvia at all.

  “Seth, before I tell you anything, I need to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I know what you said in the car, and I want to believe you, but I need to know the truth. I promise I won’t judge you or refuse to have any dealings with you. I will give you a fair chance based on the man you are today.”

  Seth nodded. “Go on.”

  “Did you take advantage of my mother that night? I know she might have been drunk, or drugged, but I’m fairly certain the sex wasn’t consensual, not on her part.”

  Seth’s gaze slid away from Quinn, and he set down his fork. “Look, the honest truth is that I don’t know. I drank a lot in those days, and Robert wasn’t above slipping an E pill into the drinks. That was just the kind of underhanded thing he would do, which was why I never kept in touch with him after I went home. I didn’t consider him a friend. I recall waking up at Chatham Manor the next morning with a blinding headache and love bites on my neck. I clearly had unprotected sex with your mother, but I have no recollection of the act itself. If I did anything to hurt her then I’m genuinely sorry. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I would have been, had I known.”

  Quinn shook her head in dismay. After speaking to four men who’d slept with Sylvia around the time Quinn was conceived, she was no closer to the truth of what had happened that night. She supposed she’d never really know. The only thing she knew for sure was that Sylvia and Seth had made a baby, and it was her.

  “I had a good life, Seth, and wonderful adoptive parents who loved me like I was their own. I couldn’t have asked for a better mum and dad.”

  “I’m glad of it. At least we didn’t ruin your life, as we so easily could have. My son says at least once a week that I ruined his life,” Seth joked and reached for another beignet.

  “Seth, tell me about your family. As far back as you can.”

  Seth pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair. “I only know what I’ve been told, and I leafed through the documents when I retrieved them from the safe this morning. My grandfather was big on family history, but I didn’t much care, at least not while he was still alive. My father wasn’t interested either. He started the trucking company and built it up from two moving vans to a million-dollar concern. Don’t be fooled by the shabby office. We own more than two hundred trucks and make deliveries all over the country. Besson Trucking Limited is a very successful business.”

  Quinn nodded. She had no wish to talk about trucking, but the company was clearly Seth’s passion, so she rearranged her face into an expression of polite interest.

  “I more than doubled our fleet and brought in some lucrative contracts. Dad welcomed my ideas, and supported me bringing in new technology. Until then everything was recorded manually in the logbooks and everyon
e paid by check. Now it’s all electronic. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Brett wants to go into sports medicine. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass—pardon my French—about the business. He’ll probably sell the lot before the ink dries on my death certificate.”

  “I’m sorry. Kids rarely want to follow in their parents’ footsteps these days.”

  “Are your parents academics?” Seth asked.

  “No. My mum worked as a secretary before I came along, and dad was a civil engineer.”

  “And Sylvia?”

  “Sylvia was a teacher.”

  Seth nodded. “Well, I tell you, I never had much interest in history, ours or anyone else’s. I liked math and science, and majored in business and finance at school. Never even picked up a historical novel, besides the ones I had to read for school. A Tale of Two Cities,” he said, shaking his head. “What did I care about the French Revolution?”

  “Isn’t Besson a French name?” Quinn asked, hoping to redirect Seth to the subject of family history.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So your ancestors came from France?” Quinn prompted. Most likely, they would have been affected by the French Revolution, but Seth didn’t seem to see the connection.

  “Are you finished?” Seth asked, looking at Quinn’s still-full plate.

  “Yes. I actually had something at the hotel.”

  “Let’s go in the living room and I’ll show you all the information I have. It isn’t much. Granddad donated all the documents to the museum, including the family tree. It hangs in the foyer.”

  “The museum?” Quinn asked.

  “Oh, right, you wouldn’t know about that. My family used to own a plantation on the River Road before the Civil War. It’s been converted to a museum. Most of them were. The house and slave quarters have been restored, and now the whole enterprise brings in a pretty penny, except that we have no claim to the proceeds. Belongs to the Historical Society.”

  Quinn followed Seth into the living room where papers and photos were piled on the coffee table. Seth pushed aside most of the papers and unrolled a scroll on the table. “This is the draft of our family tree. Granddad put this together. I don’t know how accurate it is, or if everyone is on it, but this is the best I can do at the moment. There’s a very knowledgeable tour guide at the plantation. Dina Aptekar Hill is her name. You’d do well to speak to her. Her ancestors came to Louisiana when it was nothing more than woods and swampland, and she wrote a book about their journey. She’s a great resource.”

  “I’ll definitely look her up,” Quinn promised, making a mental note of the name. “Do you know anything about him?” she asked, pointing to the name at the very top of the chart.

  “Maurice Besson came over from France at the end of the eighteenth century. He was a farmer from Burgundy. No one knows what made him enlist. Perhaps the farm was failing, or maybe he had a thirst for adventure, but he joined the army and fought under Lafayette during the Revolutionary War. After the war, he settled somewhere near Quebec and became a trapper. He was only about eighteen at the time.”

  “Quebec?” Quinn asked, surprised. “That’s a long way from New Orleans.”

  “It sure is. I have no idea what brought Maurice to Louisiana, but he must have done well for himself because he bought a good-sized parcel of land on the shore of the Mississippi. There’s an original bill of sale at the museum. Take a look. This is a photocopy.”

  Quinn studied the copy of the certificate. The ink was faded to gray, but she could still make out the signature and date at the bottom. Maurice Besson, March 18th, 1787.

  “Maurice married his neighbor’s daughter, and the two properties were consolidated as soon as his father-in-law passed away, leaving Maurice with a sizeable plantation and over a hundred slaves. He and his bride, Arabella, had a son, Jean, and two daughters, both of whom died in infancy. Jean inherited the plantation.”

  Quinn traced the line on the paper. The tree didn’t have many branches, not even after several generations. The Bessons were not a fruitful family.

  “See here,” Seth pointed out. “Jean married Sybil and had two sons, Albert and Charles. Albert, being the eldest, inherited, and Charles moved to New Orleans, where he lived until his death in 1858. He didn’t have any children. I am descended from Albert Besson, who had one son, George, who also had one son, Brett. Brett became something of a family name. There were several.”

  “Yes, I see,” Quinn replied.

  “Actually, there hasn’t been a girl in the family since Maurice’s two daughters. Until now,” Seth added shyly. “You are the first Besson girl to be born in two hundred years.” He rifled through the papers and pulled out an ancient sepia photograph. “Check this out. This is a daguerreotype of George’s wedding to Amelia. This is the first-ever family photo. They had several copies made, so there’s another one at the museum. What’d you think?” he asked, handing the photo to Quinn.

  She stared at the photograph, drinking in every detail of the wedding party. There were about twenty people in the photograph, nine on each side of the bridal couple. George was a handsome young man with light-colored hair cut fashionably short at the back with longer locks in front. A forelock fell into his light eyes, which stared into the camera with an air of amusement. Everyone else wore solemn expressions. The bride had dark curls and wore a white gown that must have required yards of lace. Her hoop skirts almost completely blocked her new husband’s legs and her veil hung nearly to the ground, making her appear somewhat ghostly. She gazed up at George, a look of adoration on her young face.

  “She looks so in love,” Quinn said as she handed the photo back to Seth.

  “Yes. Granddad said it was a love match.”

  Quinn glanced at the dates beneath George and Amelia’s names and looked away. Amelia had outlived her husband by about ten years, but neither had enjoyed a long life.

  “Seth, do you have anything that belonged to any of them?” she asked carefully.

  “Such as? You mean letters or diaries?”

  “Yes, that would be very helpful, but perhaps an object of some sort, even a button.”

  “Believe it or not, my granddad actually had Maurice’s uniform, and it was intact.”

  “Where is it now?” Quinn asked, her voice catching with hope.

  “On display at the museum.”

  “Did your grandfather not keep any mementoes of his family?” She could hardly take an object from the museum without permission, and if she asked to borrow something, she’d have to explain why she needed it.

  “He did. Granddad kept everything and only gave the museum what he had in duplicate, but after his death, no one much cared. My dad cleared out his house and kept only this box.” Seth pointed to the cardboard box from which he’d taken the photograph and several other papers. “Anything larger than a book went to the museum.”

  “I see,” Quinn replied, wondering how to get her hands on something that had belonged to one of the Bessons. She needed a starting point for her investigation, but it seemed there wasn’t much left in Seth’s possession.

  “Wait, there is something,” Seth exclaimed. “I forgot all about it. It’s in the safety deposit box at the bank with my mother’s other valuables. She always admired it, so my grandmother gave it to her on her sixteenth birthday.”

  “What is it?” Quinn asked, hoping for a piece of jewelry.

  “It’s an ivory fan. It’s quite beautiful, really. It belonged to Amelia, and happens to be the only thing left of her. My grandfather gave the fan to my grandmother when they married. She liked to show it off and refused to part with it when the museum opened. It’ll be yours now since my mother no longer has any use for it.”

  “Is your mother still alive then?” Quinn asked, her breath catching in her throat. Seth’s mother would be her biological grandmother.

  “Yes. She’s in a nursing home. I visit her regularly, but at times she doesn’t remember who I a
m. She has Alzheimer’s and it’s gotten much worse these past two years.”

  “Could I possibly meet her?”

  “Sure, if you’d like. We can go tomorrow, and I’ll ask her about the fan. She’d want you to have it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly keep it, but I would very much like to see it.”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait,” Quinn replied, and meant it.

  Chapter 5

  Quinn was a little nervous when Seth picked her up next morning for a visit to the nursing home. He seemed fine at first, but grew agitated as they drew closer to the place. Palm Place Nursing Home was in an upscale part of town and looked like it cost a bomb. The front lawns were exquisitely tended and the building looked more like a resort than a home for the elderly. Seth asked if they might stop at a bakery first and came out with a small box tied with a red ribbon, clearly a gift for his mother.

  “Is everything all right?” Quinn asked. “Would you prefer that I remain in the car?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Seth sputtered. He gave Quinn a faltering smile. “If today is a bad day, none of this will matter, but it it’s a good day…” He trailed off, his expression contrite like a little boy who was about to be caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. “My mother will be disappointed in me. She always taught me to do the right thing, the honorable thing. I know it’s an old-fashioned concept, but she is an old-fashioned Southern lady. Some things still mean the world to her. But I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  Seth and Quinn walked into the lobby, which was cool and decorated in shades of gray and blue, with pictures of sailboats and scenic beaches on the walls. Potted palms and other plants gave the place a homey atmosphere, unlike some of the cold, utilitarian nursing homes Quinn had seen in England.

  “Mr. Besson,” a nurse called out from the nurses’ station. “Mrs. Besson is on the veranda. It’s too nice a day to be indoors. She’ll be so happy to see you. Just sign in for me, please. Both of you.”

  The nurse handed them visitor passes and they made their way toward the door to the veranda, which hugged the entire back wall of the building. It was shady and cool, and faced lush manicured gardens bursting with color. Several elderly people sat in rocking chairs, either alone or with visitors, and nurses hovered discreetly nearby.