Seth had invited Quinn out to dinner at his favorite restaurant tonight, and Brett would join them. Seth was excited about getting his son and daughter together in a formal setting, but Quinn thought it might have been best had they just met at Seth’s house where Brett was on familiar ground. She couldn’t imagine that he would be overly excited about her, not at this stage anyway. Logan had been curious about her and happy enough to meet her because he was older and settled into his own life. She was no threat to him. Jude, on the other hand, had seemed resentful and angry. Perhaps his moodiness had nothing to do with Quinn, but he was still young enough that he might not wish to share his mother with a daughter she was clearly excited about. Brett might feel the same about Seth. He was an only child who wasn’t used to sharing the love of his parents with a sibling. She’d have to reassure him that she was in no way interested in taking his father away from him.
Quinn glanced at her watch. What was taking room service so long? She was famished. She checked her mobile while she waited, and discovered a message from her parents, a missed call from Sylvia, a text from Jill, and a voicemail from Rhys. Quinn took a deep breath and pressed ‘play.’
“Please tell me I misheard your message and you didn’t say you’re in Louisiana.” Rhys had every right to be annoyed. They still had to find a suitable subject for the season finale of Echoes from the Past, and his team was hard at work, since he’d pronounced that the last episode had to be mind-blowing. “What in the name of God are you doing in New Orleans?” There was a slight pause, just long enough for the penny to drop. “You’re there to see Seth, aren’t you? Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, Quinn. In the meantime, please allow me to remind you that you are under contract with the BBC, and we have to complete the series before October thirty-first. I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you. Ring me!”
Quinn was about to call Rhys when there was a knock on the door. She tossed aside her mobile and went to answer. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Rhys’s peevishness, not before breakfast. She’d call him later, after spending the day in the way she found most productive, doing research. She’d hit the archives, the libraries, and the museums. The more she knew of the time period, the better she could understand the context of Madeline’s story. And if she were really lucky, maybe she’d find some mention of her somewhere.
**
Quinn dressed for dinner with Seth and Brett, applied a little make-up, and ran her fingers through her newly styled hair, nodding with approval. She still had at least a half-hour till Seth came to collect her, so she might as well deal with Rhys. She selected his number on her mobile and smiled to herself when he answered, his voice gruff and unfriendly. This was vintage Rhys, but his bark was worse than his bite.
“And what time do you call this?” Rhys demanded. It was 6:00 p.m. in New Orleans, so midnight in London.
“You weren’t in bed. In fact, if I know you, you’re probably baking something sinfully delicious because you’re stressing about the program.”
“You’re right, as it happens. I’m making a flourless torte, but it’s not because I’m stressed,” Rhys replied with a smile in his voice. “I’ve been invited to dinner tomorrow, and I said I’d bring the pudding.”
“Must be someone special. You don’t make homemade dessert for just anyone,” Quinn joked. Rhys loved to bake, especially when he felt anxious or upset, but now that she knew him better, she also knew that he baked something special only for those he really cared about and wished to impress.
“Never you mind,” Rhys retorted, but she could almost hear him blushing over the line. He was definitely baking for a woman.
“What did you want to discuss with me?” Quinn asked. “I’ll be back in London next week. Can it wait till then?”
“We don’t have anything lined up for the finale,” Rhys said, terse again, automatically bouncing back to the persona of the demanding executive. “It has to be special and pack a ratings punch. Do you have anything in mind? Do you have any colleagues who have unearthed anything of interest lately?”
“Rhys, archeology is time consuming and painstaking. People don’t just stumble onto royal burial chambers or the remains of dead monarchs buried beneath parking lots on a daily basis. Such finds are rare and special.”
“I’m desperate here, Quinn. We need an outline for the final episode or we’ll miss our deadline. The program has already been scheduled for a Sunday evening spot, just before Downton Abbey. That’s a very desirable timeslot.”
Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, momentarily frozen with indecision. She had an idea, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to share it with Rhys just yet. He would either hate it or latch onto it and there’d be no going back if she changed her mind or failed to find out anything exciting enough to fill an entire episode.
“I can hear you thinking,” Rhys said, his tone impatient.
“And I can hear you chewing. You’re more stressed about this than you’re letting on. I don’t know how you manage to stay so slim with all the baked goods you consume.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Rhys replied, but the chewing stopped.
“Rhys, what if the final episode was about my own ancestors?” Quinn asked, hoping she wouldn’t regret telling Rhys about Madeline.
“Go on,” Rhys said, his tone lightening.
“Seth doesn’t know much about his family history, but he does have a few documents and a family tree that his grandfather drew up based on extensive research.”
“How does this make for good television?” Rhys asked, instantly critical. “My grandfather also dabbled in genealogy, but since I’m not descended from the kings of Gwynedd, my illustrious family is not exactly the stuff of legend.”
“You really are an infuriating man.” Quinn laughed. “Will you let me speak, or will you shoot down my idea before you even know what it is?”
“I’m sorry. I’m tired and grumpy.”
“Really? I would never have guessed. I found something. I don’t know exactly where this will lead, but there’s definitely a mystery here, one worth pursuing.”
“Tell me more,” Rhys asked, his voice now silky and coaxing.
“I don’t think I will,” Quinn replied, a smile on her face.
“Tease.”
“I need a few days, then we’ll talk. In the meantime, get some rest and give my regards to Sylvia.”
“How did you know I’d be seeing Sylvia?” Rhys asked.
“Because I know that you two have been spending time together and chocolate flourless torte is her favorite. Goodnight, boss,” Quinn said with a chuckle and hung up before Rhys could confirm or deny her suspicions.
Chapter 11
August 1858
Arabella Plantation, Louisiana
“Shall I help you dress, miss?” Cissy asked as she pulled open the curtains. The blazing white light of the August morning flooded the room, making Madeline squint and cover her eyes with her arm. She’d finally fallen asleep in the early hours and woken groggy and muddled, and her eyes had a grainy feeling from lack of sleep. Had she been at home in New Orleans, she would have sent Mammy away and stayed in bed till noon, but this was her first day at the plantation and she couldn’t be rude to her hosts.
Madeline stood like a dressmaker’s dummy while Cissy did her best to stuff Madeline’s unyielding limbs into the garments she’d prepared. The process took more than an hour, but Madeline couldn’t help but admire the hairstyle Cissy had managed to wrangle from her unruly curls. Cissy had plaited several thinner braids into one thick coil and pinned it into a neat chignon at the back of Madeline’s head. She had then used two side braids to crisscross at the back and snake around the chignon, and secured her creation with several pins decorated with tiny artificial flowers in palest pink. The effect was pleasing and made Madeline look ladylike and grown up.
“There now. How you like dem braids pinned like dat?” Cissy asked.
“It’s beautiful. Where did
you learn to do that?”
“I make up my own styles,” Cissy answered with a shrug. “White folk’s hair is easy to work with.”
Madeline couldn’t see Cissy’s hair beneath her colorful turban, but she knew what the girl meant. Tess’s hair never grew more than a few inches long, and looked like a spongy halo if left uncovered or unbraided. And she always began brushing it from the bottom rather than the top, and worked her way up. Mammy’s hair wasn’t as coarse as Tess’s and grew longer, its natural color more brown than black. And it was very curly, the strands wound into tight spirals that sprang right back when Madeline had tried to pull on them as a child.
“You have a talent for coiffure,” Madeline said.
Cissy shrugged again. “Don’t know what koifoor means, but it don’t take too much talent to twist braids into a bun.”
Cissy turned her attention to making the bed and straightening the room while Madeline gingerly made her way downstairs. She wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. She was hungry, but no one had said anything about breakfast the night before. Did the family breakfast together at a certain time, or was this the type of household where one helped oneself from a sideboard whenever one came down? Madeline wasn’t sure which she’d prefer. It would be easier to eat by herself, but if she hoped to fit in she had to make an effort and begin building relationships with the Bessons. And she had to start from scratch, the most difficult part of all. They were complete strangers to each other in every way. How did one go from that to becoming a part of a family?
Madeline’s vision blurred and she grabbed onto the banister for support as she recalled having breakfast with her father only last week. She’d taken her time with him for granted, assuming he’d be there to watch her grow into a woman and have a family of her own. The sheer power of her longing for him nearly undid her and she had to stand still for a few moments to regain control of her emotions. Her new relatives didn’t grieve for Charles Besson, so she couldn’t count on them to offer any comfort or sympathy in her bereavement.
Madeline was pleased to find Amelia alone in the dining room. She dreaded having to breakfast with her grandmother or even George. George seemed welcoming and kind, but having had very little experience with young men, Madeline had no clue what to talk to him about or how to behave. And Sybil seemed to detest Madeline on sight, her obvious animosity not exactly a stepping stone toward a warm relationship.
Amelia smiled in welcome. She looked fresh as a daisy in a dress of blue and white gingham, unadorned except for a bit of lace at the sleeves and two strips of lace starting at the shoulders and meeting in a V at the waist. The style would have accentuated Amelia’s waist, but instead the lace was like an arrow pointing to her protruding belly.
“I was hoping you’d come down soon. I hate eating alone. If you don’t like bacon and eggs I can ask Cook to make you something different,” Amelia offered as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea from a beautiful china teapot.
“Anything is fine,” Madeline replied, not wishing to appear difficult. Mammy always baked fresh beignets and made hominy grits for breakfast, which she served with butter and a spoonful of molasses. Eggs and bacon were for Sunday mornings before church, but Madeline liked them just fine. She helped herself to some eggs from a covered dish and took two rashers of bacon.
“Have Cousin George and Mrs. Besson breakfasted already?” Madeline asked. She couldn’t bring herself to refer to Sybil as her grandmother, especially after the heated conversation she’d overheard last night.
“George gets up early and goes out to ride his acres every morning before it gets too hot, then meets with the overseer and attends to plantation business,” Amelia said. “It’s cotton-picking time now, so he’s gone for hours. And Grandmamma takes a breakfast tray in bed, so I eat alone every morning. I really am glad you are here. Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I did so long for a companion, and my prayers were answered through your misfortune.”
“It’s not as if you caused it to happen,” Madeline replied in an effort to cheer Amelia up. She looked so forlorn.
“No, but it doesn’t make it any less tragic, does it? I hope we can be of some comfort to each other over the coming months. You are in mourning for your father and I’m in my confinement, which is necessary but mind-numbingly dull.” Amelia placed her hand on her belly. “I do miss society so, Madeline. George and I attended the most wonderful parties before... Well, never mind that. Perhaps after the baby is born,” she added, her voice buoyant with hope. “It would be wonderful to have a Christmas ball to celebrate the holiday as well as the birth of our baby. My very own holy infant.” She giggled happily. “Is that blasphemous?”
“When is the baby due?”
“Mid-November, so I still have a whole three months to go. I feel him kicking though. It’s such an odd sensation. Like a fish on a hook thrashing to break free.”
“Do you fish?” Madeline asked, surprised by the comparison.
“My father took me fishing once when I was little, but I didn’t have the patience to sit there for hours quietly, so he never took me again. He said I disrupted his peace. I do remember what it was like to reel in a fish though. Father stood behind me and held the rod so I wouldn’t drop it in my excitement.”
“You said ‘he,’ referring to the baby,” Madeline said.
“George wants a son, so I hope it’s a boy for his sake. He needs someone to leave all this wealth to, or what is it all for? And Grandmamma will be pleased with me, if only for five whole minutes, if I deliver a boy.”
“Do you displease her?” Madeline asked. Amelia seemed eager to talk, and any information Madeline could gather about George and Sybil could be helpful in her dealings with them. She felt completely out of her element, so perhaps Amelia could be her guide.
“She’s very possessive of George. His mother died when he was three, so Grandmamma stepped in and raised him. He is more her son than her grandson, and even though I’m the lady of the house, she’s the one who rules the roost. Did you see the ring of keys at her waist? She will not relinquish those until she’s stone cold, and even then I’ll probably have to pry them from her dead hand,” Amelia said, but instantly backtracked, as though realizing she’d revealed too much. “She’s been a tremendous help to me, of course. I knew nothing of running a household when I married George, so she kept doing things her way until I learned. I have yet to change a single thing.”
Madeline nodded in sympathy. Her mother had never kept the keys at her waist, as though mistrustful of her servants and family, but for some ladies of great houses the keys were a symbol of power and a way to keep track of every ounce of food, every piece of silver, and every item of laundry touched by the hands of her slaves. Having the keys gave their owner the power to reward and the prerogative to punish. By keeping the keys, Sybil effectively usurped Amelia’s place, treating her like a child instead of the mistress of the house, and judging by Amelia’s baleful stare, she was fully aware of the insult.
“So, what would you like to do today?” Amelia asked.
“Can I see Mammy?”
Amelia pushed away her plate and busied herself with smoothing down the voluminous skirt of her dress. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the fields.”
“What? Why?” Madeline cried. “Surely she’s too old to be picking cotton.”
“That was one of Sybil’s conditions for allowing you to come,” Amelia said, her eyes sliding away from Madeline’s gaze.
“Why does she hate me so?”
“I don’t know, Madeline. I honestly don’t. All I know is that she was more upset about having you here than about the death of her son.”
“I’m going to speak to her.” Madeline pushed her chair from the table with a scape that made Amelia cringe.
“Please don’t,” Amelia pleaded. “I don’t want her to send you away. And she can, you know. She can talk George into just about anything.
Don’t worry about your Mammy. She’ll be fine.” Amelia gestured with her hands as if what she was saying should be obvious to anyone. “The slaves are used to that kind of work. Anyway, Cissy is young and knows about fashion. She’ll take better care of you than some old, useless darkie.”
Madeline gaped at Amelia. Mammy had loved Madeline since birth and cared for her every day of her life. She knew that some plantation owners saw their slaves as interchangeable and not possessed of human emotions, but Charles Besson had taught her to be respectful and kind to all people, no matter their background.
“I love Mammy,” Madeline replied, her voice steely. “She’s not a useless darkie, she’s a person, and I won’t have her mistreated.”
“It’s no longer your call to make,” Amelia replied. “I’m sorry, Madeline, I really am, but Mammy belongs to the estate, and the estate belongs to Sybil. As long as she is alive, she will have a say in what goes on here, and George won’t go against her, not on this. He defies her when he has no choice, but he loves her too much to upset her over something as trivial as an old slave woman.”
Madeline blinked away tears of frustration. She was now at the mercy of these people, at least until she came of age. She had nothing of her own, nothing to fall back on, not even a good education that she might use to earn a living. No one would hire someone like her. Most people had slaves, and others hired poor white folk to work for a pittance. White laborers worked in awful conditions and died daily, but no one cared. Daddy had said that poor white folk were less valuable than slaves since a young male slave cost several hundred dollars and his death would be a financial setback to his owner, whereas a white man could be hired for as little as a quarter a day and if he died, the employer lost nothing at all. Plantation owners hired gangs of white men to cut cypress trees in the swamps, refusing to risk losing their slaves to swamp fever. Madeline had never understood the meaning of Daddy’s words until today. Even old Mammy was worth more to an employer than Madeline. Mammy could pick cotton, work in the kitchens, or raise babies, but Madeline was suited to nothing and no one would pay her to do what someone else could do for less.
The Unforgiven Page 8
