Quinn stretched out her arm and turned on the bedside lamp. She never needed a nightlight, but tonight she wanted to see every shadowy corner of the room to make sure she was quite alone and the threatening dark presence could not take her by surprise. She needed to feel safe, and she needed a distraction. Quinn reached for the fan.
Chapter 9
August 1858
River Road, Louisiana
Madeline trembled with apprehension as the carriage passed through tall wrought-iron gates and continued up the oak-lined drive toward the house. The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun shone through the leaves, the light diffusing when it filtered through the wings of moss that swayed from the ancient trees, giving the drive an almost magical appearance. Madeline imagined she had entered an enchanted kingdom where a fairy king and queen lived in the beautiful white mansion with a gabled roof supported by thick columns on all sides. A wraparound balcony with wrought-iron railings encircled the upper floor, and black wooden shutters flanked every window, the color adding contrast and character to the white walls and complementing the railing. According to Mr. Larson, Arabella Plantation was one of the grandest manor houses along the River Road, and that was saying a lot, since Madeline had never imagined the kind of splendor she’d witnessed as the carriage rolled passed one plantation after another.
Mr. Larson helped Madeline down from the carriage, but didn’t extend his hand to Mammy, who sat on the bench next to the driver, her carpet bag on her knees. “The driver will take you round the back to the servants’ entrance,” he said. Neither Mammy nor Tess had ever used anything but the front door at their house in New Orleans, so this was the first difference Madeline had encountered, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said to Mammy, who nodded calmly, as though she’d expected this.
The carriage drove off and Mr. Larson escorted Madeline up the steps toward the front door, which was opened by a Negro butler dressed almost entirely in white. The brass buttons of his coat glowed in the sunlight, as did the chain of his pocket watch that stretched from one button to the pocket. The butler wore white gloves, and looked very fastidious and dignified.
“Mr. Larson, Miss Besson, the master will see you in the parlor,” he said and led the way.
The parlor was bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon, its tall windows facing the front and side of the house open wide to catch any hint of a breeze. The room was beautifully decorated in shades of apple green and cream that gave an impression of freshness and coolth despite the August heat. Two women sat on settees facing each other, a low table with a pitcher of lemonade between them. The lemonade looked wonderfully refreshing, and Madeline nearly gasped in surprise when she noticed cubes of ice floating in the golden liquid. She’d heard that wealthy people imported ice from the North during the summer months, but had never actually met anyone who could afford such luxury.
“Mr. Larson, Madeline, do come in.” A handsome young man with wavy light hair and luminous blue eyes peeled himself away from the mantel and came forward to greet them. He held out his hands, leaving Madeline no choice but to take them. He clasped her hands lightly and gazed into her face, smiling warmly. “Dear cousin, I have so looked forward to meeting you. I’m very sorry for your loss, and you’re most welcome here.”
He released Madeline’s hands and turned to face the other two women. “Madeline, that great lady over there is your grandmother, Sybil Besson, and this fine lady,” he added with a wink at the young woman, “is my lovely wife, Amelia.” He never introduced himself, but it stood to reason that he was George Besson, the master of Arabella Plantation.
“Welcome, Madeline,” Amelia said. Dark curls spilled from beneath her lace cap trimmed with blue ribbon. The most striking feature of her delicate, aristocratic face was her wide, dark eyes, which were fixed on Madeline in a frank gaze of appraisal. Amelia remained seated, her pale hand resting on her rounded belly.
The older woman slowly rose to her feet and came to stand in front of Madeline, examining her as if she were a prize heifer. She didn’t say anything, just nodded in acknowledgement of some private thought and left the room, her posture haughty and unyielding.
“Don’t mind Grandmamma. She’s still in shock,” George said by way of explanation. “Mr. Larson, will you stay to supper?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Mr. Besson.”
“Amelia, dear, why don’t you pour Mr. Larson and Madeline some lemonade? They must be parched after the long drive from town.”
Madeline sat on the settee her grandmother had just vacated and gratefully accepted a glass of lemonade. It was cool to the touch and the drink was deliciously sweet-tart. She hoped that Mammy had been offered a cool drink and made to feel welcome.
“Supper is served,” the butler they’d met earlier announced.
“Good. I’m famished,” George said and offered Amelia his hand. She grasped it and lifted herself off the settee. Her pregnancy looked to be further along than Madeline had first thought, her belly like a watermelon beneath her cream-colored dress. George regarded his wife with undisguised pride and patted her hand when she slipped her arm through his.
Mr. Larson escorted Madeline into the dining room and held out a chair for her before taking a seat himself. The room was very grand, with butter-yellow walls and intricate white moldings. A huge gilded mirror hung over the sideboard, and a portrait of a handsome, if somewhat heavy-featured, middle-aged gentleman wearing a wig, an embroidered velvet coat in midnight blue, and white breeches adorned the space between two tall widows.
“That’s Grandfather Jean,” George explained as he took a seat beneath the portrait. “He died before I was born.”
Madeline gazed up at the portrait. If Jean Besson was George’s grandfather, then he was her grandfather as well, and must have been Sybil Besson’s husband. Madeline studied the man’s features. She saw something of her father, especially about the eyes, but Charles had never looked as arrogant or imposing as the man in the painting.
“And who is that?” Madeline asked, pointing to the painting directly across from Jean’s. It was of a beautiful young woman, dressed in a frothy gown of dusky pink silk that accentuated her alabaster skin and luminous dark eyes. Her powdered hair was adorned with camellias and a long curl draped over one creamy shoulder.
“Oh, that’s Grandmamma,” George replied, as if it should be obvious. “She was the shining jewel of Crescent City society in her day.”
Madeline turned to compliment her grandmother, but was surprised to note that Sybil Besson wasn’t there. “Is Mrs. Besson not joining us for supper?” she asked.
“I’m afraid Grandmamma is rather tired. She’ll have a tray in her room,” George replied as the first course was brought out.
Madeline was relieved that the forbidding old lady wasn’t there; she was nervous enough without her presence. George Besson and Mr. Larson chatted amiably about politics, escalating tensions with the North, and the price of cotton and sugar while Amelia tried to engage Madeline in small talk about the latest fashions. Amelia mentioned a few people she thought Madeline might know, but the names meant nothing to her, so Amelia moved on, searching for something they might have in common. Conversation flowed easily enough, but Madeline couldn’t help noticing that no one made any mention of her father nor offered an explanation as to why they’d never met before. No one from Arabella Plantation had attended the funeral or sent a note of condolence. Madeline couldn’t ask outright if George and Amelia had known of her existence before last week, but she was sure her father had never mentioned his mother, brother, or nephew within her hearing.
Madeline felt a moment of agitation when the meal finally came to an end and Mr. Larson thanked his hosts and prepared to return to New Orleans. It felt strange to know that she wouldn’t be going back with the lawyer, but would remain here in this magnificent house, which was to be her new home.
“Don’t hesitate to write to me if you nee
d anything, but I think you’re in good hands,” Mr. Larson said and kissed Madeline’s cheek in a gesture of farewell. He said nothing of inviting Madeline to his upcoming wedding, which made her feel even more displaced. Mr. Larson no longer saw her as a personal connection, but rather as a business obligation he’d seen to its conclusion.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Larson. We’ll take excellent care of Madeline. Won’t we, Amelia?” George asked. He didn’t seem to expect and answer and Amelia didn’t bother to respond. Instead she wished Mr. Larson a good evening and turned to Madeline, who stood in the foyer, uncertain of what to do next.
“Cissy, show Madeline to her room,” Amelia said once Mr. Larson took his leave. A young Negro woman stood at the foot of the stairs, curiosity about Madeline evident in her almond-shaped eyes. She smiled in welcome and Madeline smiled back, reminded of Tess.
“Your trunk has been brought up, and you should have everything you need. I gave you the Rose Room,” Amelia added with a smile. “It’s not the biggest, but it’s beautifully decorated and has a view of the garden. You don’t want to be looking at the slave quarters, do you?” she added, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Summon Cissy if you require anything.” She turned to her husband. “George, I’m tired. I think I shall go to bed.”
“Sleep well, darling. I’ll read for a while after I check on Grandmamma,” George replied. “Goodnight, my love. Goodnight, Madeline.”
Madeline and Cissy followed Amelia up the grand staircase with George trailing behind. They parted ways on the second-floor landing, each heading in a different direction. Cissy led Madeline to a bedroom at the end of the long corridor and threw open the door. Amelia had been right, it was a room of untold loveliness, the type of boudoir Madeline had never dreamed of having. Her own room at home had been pretty, but not nearly as opulent as her new bedroom. The walls were of cream-colored damask, and the bed hangings, drapes, and rug were all in shades of rose pink and gold. Madeline spotted her trunk at the foot of the bed. It appeared to have been unpacked and her belongings were already put away, her plain cotton nightdress laid out on the bed.
“Is there anything you be needing, Miss?” Cissy asked.
“Where is Mammy? Will she be coming up to see me?” Madeline’s voice sounded small and frightened, and she saw sympathy in Cissy’s dark gaze.
Cissy shook her head. “I’m sho I don’t know. I ain’t met your Mammy yet.”
“Goodnight then, Cissy.”
“Goodnight, miss.”
Cissy let herself out, leaving Madeline alone. Worn out by the emotional turmoil of the past few days, she was more than ready for bed, but she belatedly realized she’d forgotten to ask Cissy where the water closet was located. At home in New Orleans, they’d still used an outhouse, but Arabella Plantation was very modern, with several water closets installed throughout the house, or so George had told Mr. Larson over supper. Unfortunately, Madeline had no idea where they were on this floor.
She let herself out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar in case she forgot which one was hers, and wandered down the corridor. It would be terribly rude to just open every door, so she would have to find a servant and ask. She was just about to head downstairs when she heard voices from the room at the end of the long hallway.
“I don’t want her here, George,” Sybil Besson said, her voice gravelly and brusque.
“Come, Grandmamma, I’ve never known you to be uncharitable. You are always the first one to support a worthy cause. And she is your granddaughter, after all.”
“She’s no granddaughter of mine,” Sybil snapped.
“Do you not mourn Uncle Charles in the least?” George asked, clearly shocked by his grandmother’s attitude toward Madeline.
“I mourned for him years ago when he betrayed me and this family. Charles was dead to me long before last week.”
“Grandmamma, what on earth did he do to hurt you so?” George’s tone was indulgent and kind, the sort of tone one would use to tease a petulant child out of a bad mood.
“Don’t ask me that, Georgie,” Sybil replied, her voice softening. “I can’t bear to speak of it.”
“Even after all these years?”
“Some things can never be forgotten or forgiven. Please don’t ask me to explain.”
Sybil might have no room in her heart for her granddaughter, but it was obvious that George and his grandmother shared a warm and loving relationship, and he knew exactly how to talk to her.
“Surely it’s important that I know, now that Madeline is here,” he cajoled.
“What Charles did was unspeakable, and I will never forgive him, not even in death. And that girl is nothing more than a reminder of the son I lost. Find a school for her, George. There are plenty of establishments for girls who have no family. They live in year-round. Once she comes of age, she’ll marry or find suitable employment, but she won’t be our problem any longer.”
“Grandmamma, I don’t know what Uncle Charles did to hurt you so deeply, but Madeline is a sweet, charming girl who is in no way responsible for her father’s actions. I am now the master of this house, and I say she stays. I don’t ask you to care for her, but I would ask you to be civil.”
“Hmm,” Sybil scoffed. “You always were headstrong, just like your father. And equally misguided. He begged me to forgive Charles. They were close, those two, despite everything. I forbade Albert to have any contact with his brother and he obeyed, afraid that I would cut him out of my will and pass the plantation directly to you, but it seems I can’t intimidate you as easily. I will honor your wishes, George. This is your house now, and you are master here. I’m nothing but an old woman whose opinion doesn’t interest anyone. Go now. I am ready for my bed.”
Madeline sprinted down the stairs when she heard George’s footsteps approaching the door. She slipped around the corner once she reached the first floor and waited until George passed before continuing to the water closet she’d been shown earlier when she asked to wash her hands. Madeline found the room and shut the door. Just enough moonlight filtered through the window to keep it from being pitch dark. She splashed some water on her face and patted it dry with a towel.
Her heart was beating fast and there was a sinking feeling in her stomach. No one had ever shown such dislike for her before. She’d been protected, loved, and spoiled her whole life. She was deeply grateful to Cousin George for coming to her defense, but her grandmother’s animosity shook her to the core. What had her father done that had caused his mother to banish him from her life? What would a beloved son have to do to cross the line so completely that he couldn’t be forgiven, even in death?
Madeline slipped out of the water closet, wishing she could find Mammy, but the house was quiet and lost in shadow. The servants had finished for the day and gone to their own lodgings, and the only room still in use downstairs was the parlor, where George had retreated. Madeline saw a light beneath the door, but had no wish to confront George with her questions. She tiptoed back up the stairs and went to her room, where she lay awake for hours, too anxious and lonely to sleep.
Chapter 10
April 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
Quinn set aside the fan and sighed with frustration. Her head hurt, and her brain felt as if it were wrapped in thick, fluffy cotton that prevented the firing of neurons and made her thoughts swirl in a lazy fog of sleeplessness. She’d finally fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning only to wake up promptly at six. No amount of trying to get back to sleep had worked, so she’d made a cup of coffee in the coffeemaker provided by the hotel in an effort to get a jump start on her day. It hadn’t worked.
Quinn laughed out loud when she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked like Medusa, her dark hair resembling writhing snakes that moved about her head in an uncoordinated dance of shiny coils. She cleaned her teeth, swallowed her antenatal vitamins, and decided to call for room service. She was too sluggish to go downstairs for breakfast, but her stoma
ch rumbled with hunger. She was always hungry first thing in the morning, probably because eating at night gave her horrible heartburn and indigestion, so she avoided eating after six. Room service wouldn’t get there for at least a half-hour and part of her longed to pick up the fan again, just for a few minutes, eager to learn more about Madeline.
Quinn’s heart went out to the orphaned girl, but her mind, now a bit more active thanks to the belated boost from the coffee, teemed with questions. Who was Madeline, and why was she not listed on the family tree Seth had shown her? Seth had said that Charles Besson never married or had any children, but he’d been married to Corinne, and Madeline was clearly his daughter. Perhaps the stillbirth of Charles’s son wouldn’t have been recorded, but Madeline had been very much alive and known to her Besson relatives.
Seth had also mentioned that no girls had been born into the Besson family in more than two hundred years, but Madeline was a Besson, and most definitely a girl. And why did Seth believe the fan belonged to Amelia when, in fact, it had belonged to Madeline? Quinn wished she could simply put her questions to Seth, but how could she explain her sudden knowledge without telling him about her gift? He’d scoffed at the notion of psychic ability, and might ridicule her if she told him the truth. Would that bother her? Quinn wondered. Yes, it would, she realized with a start.
Quinn stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, no longer seeing her wild hair. Without make-up, she looked younger and more vulnerable, her hazel eyes clouded with confusion. Deep down she was still the little girl who longed to know who her birth parents were and hoped they wouldn’t be disappointed in her if she ever met them. She and her biological father were as different as chalk and cheese, but she longed to establish a relationship with him now that she’d found him.
Quinn liked Seth well enough, but her mind still refused to cast him in a parental role. He was just a pleasant, friendly American man she’d met. She had to keep reminding herself that she carried his DNA, as did her unborn child. So far she hadn’t discovered anything they shared, not even something as minor as a love of certain foods or a common interest. They were complete strangers on every level, so they had to tread carefully. Sharing her deepest secret with him was probably not a good idea.
The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3) Page 7
