“What made the Bessons unlucky was the brevity of their lifespans. They had it all, but they never lived long enough to enjoy it. Maurice died in his forties, as did his son Jean, who caught swamp fever. Jean Besson’s sons, Albert and Charles, both died at an early age, leaving only one child behind between them, Albert’s son George. George was the one in residence at the plantation at the outbreak of the Civil War.”
“Are you quite certain that Charles Besson didn’t have any children?” Quinn asked.
“Charles never married, and was killed in New Orleans at the age of thirty-seven. He was run over by a carriage.”
“Maybe it was suicide, à la Anna Karenina,” Brett joked.
“Charles had a drinking problem, so it was ruled an accident. There are notes from the inquest in the library, if you’d like to see them,” Dina replied.
“Might he have been married?” Quinn asked, wondering why Charles’s marriage certificate had never surfaced among his papers.
“There’s no record of a marriage anywhere in the state of Louisiana. Charles left the plantation when he was twenty-one and took a house in New Orleans. Nothing more is known about his private life since no letters or diaries were left behind after his death. The house and all the assets were sold to pay off his gambling debts. He lived modestly, and had one slave girl named Tess, who looked after him.”
“And George. What happened to him?” Quinn asked. She knew she’d find out eventually from her visions, but she wanted to hear the official version of events.
“George joined the army as an officer at the beginning of the Civil War. As a plantation owner, he wasn’t obligated to, since it was important to keep the plantations producing, but George was a true patriot and wanted to prove his mettle. It was the poor folk who were expected to do the fighting, since the loss of them did little to hurt the economy and they were largely seen by the wealthy as cannon fodder. They were fed a lot of hogwash about the North threatening their way of life and planning to kill them all in their beds. Few foot soldiers truly understood the reasons for the conflict, and even fewer realized that freeing the slaves would benefit them in the long run. They would have more jobs available to them and would be able to demand higher wages, since they would no longer be competing with slave labor,” Dina explained.
“Did George survive?” Quinn asked, fearing the answer.
“I’m afraid not. He died of wounds sustained during the Battle of Gettysburg.”
“And what became of the plantation?” Quinn’s insides twisted with grief when she thought of young, beautiful George lying bloody and mangled on the battlefield, but she couldn’t allow Dina or Brett to see her distress. As far as they were concerned, Quinn was hearing about George for the first time, so his untimely death would mean nothing more to her than an unfortunate slice of family history.
By this time, they had reached Madeline’s bedroom and Quinn sucked in her breath in wonder as she gingerly touched the bed where Madeline had slept, and ran her fingers over the lovely rosewood dressing table. She’d seen Madeline sitting at this table, her hair spilling over her shoulders and her eyes aglow with excitement. Quinn stepped aside, not wishing to draw attention to her emotional reaction to a piece of furniture.
“What happened to the slaves owned by the Bessons?” she asked. “Were they freed after the war?”
“The Civil War and the Reconstruction that followed hit the Bessons hard. It hit most plantation owners hard, but some managed to rebuild and reinvent themselves. However, many of the plantations, like the Arabella, didn’t survive. Once the system collapsed, the plantation owners no longer had the slaves to work the cotton and sugar cane fields, nor did they have the necessary funds to hire help. Some older slaves remained, fearful of a world they knew nothing about, but most of the younger people ran off as soon as they thought it safe. They had to find a way to support themselves and their families, which was unfamiliar territory for them. Some were actually worse off than they had been. The years after the war were chaotic and difficult for everyone, both black and white.”
“And Mrs. Besson?”
“Amelia Besson stayed for as long as she could, but she couldn’t manage and eventually left. She must have buried some silver and other valuables at the beginning of the war because as far as we know, she didn’t arrive in New Orleans destitute. She lived comfortably until she remarried at the age of thirty-three.”
“Did she have any more children?”
“No, just the one son she had with George. The boy became a doctor. A surgeon, actually. He was well known and respected in his day. He married in his late thirties and had one son. Neither father nor son lived to see fifty.”
“What became of the plantation?” Quinn asked as they circled back to the foyer.
“Amelia held on to the plantation, knowing that if she sold it, it would have to be for a song. The plantation continued to molder, the vegetation all but swallowing the house after a century of neglect. It was Seth Besson’s father who finally allowed the plantation to go out of the family. He dreamed of the house and grounds being restored to their former glory and put up a portion of the restoration costs himself. The house took years to restore and opened to the public in 1983, just over a hundred years after it was abandoned.”
Dina brought Quinn and Brett back to where they’d begun the tour. Her next group, about twenty school children, milled around the foyer with expressions of indescribable boredom on their privileged young faces.
“You can tour the slave quarters on your own, if you like. There’s also the cotton gin, the storehouses, and various other outbuildings. The kitchen house, which was quite modern by nineteenth-century standards, has been converted to a restaurant. It specializes in gourmet Creole cuisine and is open for lunch. I highly recommend the Cajun crawfish and shrimp etouffe. It’s my favorite. There’s also excellent jambalaya and chicken gumbo.”
“Thank you, Dina. The tour has been very informative,” Quinn said.
“Oh, it was my absolute pleasure. So few people are truly interested. They just rush through the rooms and head straight to the restaurant, which is what we are known for. I’m glad you enjoyed it, and hopefully, you have a clearer picture of your family history.”
Quinn would have liked more time to linger in the main house, but they had to follow Dina’s pace and had spent no more than a few minutes in each room. The house looked much as it had in Quinn’s visions, but she felt nothing of Madeline in its echoing silence. It was beautifully restored and decorated almost exactly as it had been during its heyday, but it felt devoid of personality. The rooms had been vacant for far too long, lacking the human habitation that gave a house its character.
Quinn and Brett took their leave and walked toward the slave quarters.
“I’ll have to look up the Battle of Gettysburg,” Quinn said apologetically. “American history is not my strong suit, I’m afraid.”
“I can tell you about it, if you’d like,” Brett replied. He looked a little embarrassed by his enthusiasm, but Quinn could see he was eager to talk about it.
“Did you learn about it at school?”
“Yes, of course, but I also researched it on my own. I told you, I like reading about famous battles. Anyway, it was the bloodiest battle of the Civil War, with as many as fifty-one thousand casualties from both sides. It was the turning point, really. Huge victory for the North and crushing defeat for the Confederates. I didn’t know that George Besson died there.”
“Did your father never mention it?”
Brett shrugged. “Believe it or not, we’ve never really spoken about family history. It took your unexpected appearance to rake all this stuff up. I don’t mind, though,” he added. “It’s actually pretty cool. I felt a connection when we walked through the house. That lady was knowledgeable, but honestly, I would have preferred to just wander around on our own for a while. You know, feel the place.”
“You should have said so. We could have taken the tour later, after
we’d had a chance to explore.”
“We can still go back. The tickets are good for the whole day. Personally, I’d like to explore the restaurant after we check out the slave quarters. That etouffe sounds good. What do you say?” Brett asked.
“I say, I like the way you think,” Quinn replied. “I’ve never tried etouffe, but it sounds lovely.”
As they continued toward the slave quarters, Brett talked of the war and the Reconstruction in great detail. Quinn was interested, since she knew very little of that chapter of American history and was embarrassed by her ignorance, especially about the Reconstruction.
“It was the period after the war when the Union Army came to the South to regulate the transition,” Brett explained. “It was difficult for everyone. The plantation owners were struggling to hold on to their land and way of life, but it was difficult for the freed slaves as well. People often assume that freeing the slaves was much like liberating prisoners from German concentration camps, but it wasn’t really like that at all. Most of the slaves knew nothing but life in captivity. They were worked hard, and were often treated badly, but they didn’t have to worry about earning a living. They were fed, clothed, and had a roof over their heads regardless of whether it was a good or a bad year, and they were not turned out once they got old. All that changed overnight.”
Quinn found him knowledgeable and animated, something she hadn’t expected from a teenage boy who made it a point to look bored and poke fun at those around him. She also noticed the hint of resentment when Brett mentioned the North, and the Northern do-gooders referred to as carpet-baggers who came to the South after the war as teachers, doctors, administrators, and clergy.
“They were nothing more than vultures picking over the bones of the Confederacy,” Brett stated with great aplomb.
“You seem to know a lot about the period,” Quinn said.
“The Civil War period is not a favorite of mine, but I’ve read a lot about it and seen tons of movies. It’s always interesting to see what your ancestors went through.”
“So, what’s your favorite time period then?” Quinn asked, genuinely curious. “I know you mentioned an interest in the Roman Empire, and the lost legion.”
“Yeah, I’ll read and see anything about that period. Ever seen Gladiator? Awesome movie. I love stuff about the Vikings and Saxons. I’ve read all of Bernard Cornwell’s books. Did you ever read those?”
“I have,” Quinn replied, thrilled to have found something else they had in common. “I think they might be making the books into a television series.”
“No shit? I hope we get that here. I love Uhtred.” Brett made a sword-swinging motion and lunged forward. “My favorite character from the novels.”
“I’m a fan of Uhtred myself,” Quinn replied. “I read the Warrior Chronicles when I was a teenager.”
“Neat. Have you ever excavated any Saxon burial mounds? I’d love to see the grave goods they buried with their dead.”
“Sure. I have some photos of the artefacts we found, if you’d like to see them.”
“Sweet. Show me over lunch.”
The tour of the slave quarters didn’t take long. There were several empty cabins clustered around an open space. Brett proclaimed that it wasn’t much to look at and turned toward the Kitchen House Restaurant they’d passed on the way. Quinn peeked into every cabin, but found little of value—no furniture, tools, or anything of historical interest. Just bare boards. All traces of the people who’d inhabited the cabins had been obliterated. Quinn wondered what had happened to Mammy’s descendants, but of course, there was no one to ask and she didn’t know their surname, if they’d even had one at the time.
“Do you watch Game of Thrones?” Brett asked as he tucked into his etouffe.
“No.”
“Too bad. Awesome show. Some of the storylines are off the hook.”
“Whatever that means.” Quinn laughed as she took a sip of water. The food really was delicious, if a bit spicy.
“It means like—you know—badass.”
“Right.”
“You are kind of badass,” Brett said shyly.
“Me?”
“Well, yeah. You’re an archeologist, and you get to go to all these exciting places. And you have your own show. God, I’ve never seen Dad so proud. He’s telling everyone about you, as if he’s had a hand in shaping the person you are. He might have lived his whole life and not known of your existence. And here you are.”
“It must be very strange for you to have me here,” Quinn said, sensing Brett’s bitterness. He was Seth’s only son. Surely Seth was proud of him.
“You could say that,” Brett replied. “Anyway, it was fun to visit the plantation. I’m glad we came. Seeing all that splendor kind of made me wish the Confederacy had prevailed.”
“Do you sympathize with the Confederate cause?” Quinn asked carefully. She knew there were many people in the South who still proudly displayed Confederate flags and memorabilia.
“I belong to a reenactment group,” Brett replied, “but that’s just for fun. It’s kind of cool to put on uniforms, wheel out the cannons, and run around with antique guns. And the girls dig it,” he added with a happy grin. “Got laid more than once while in my full Confederate get-up. The ladies look bitchin’ in their hoop skirts and bonnets. Takes a lot of fumbling to get beneath all that jazz, but so worth it.” Brett looked like he was about to reminisce some more, but then recalled the question. “I definitely don’t support slavery or oppression of any kind. I enjoy learning about that time in our history, but only from an academic point of view.” The statement sounded stiff and rehearsed, but he seemed to mean it.
Quinn smiled. She might have nothing in common with Seth, but Brett was a kindred spirit, even if he used history to shag. He wouldn’t be the first or the last person to enjoy a bit of role-playing, and there was always plenty of tent-hopping at any dig. After all, that was how she’d met Luke.
Chapter 21
Quinn stopped in front of the entrance to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the oldest cemetery in New Orleans, and it looked the part. The mausoleums and tombs looked weathered and neglected, the stone cracking and crumbling from centuries of inclement weather and the settling of the ground. Not a single headstone stood perfectly upright, and many of the more elaborate tombs looked like they might fold like a house of cards if a strong enough wind blew through the cemetery. But the cemetery had withstood Hurricane Katrina, so perhaps it wasn’t as derelict as it first appeared, Quinn mused as she strolled down the central avenue. It certainly looked different than it had in Madeline’s time, when most of the gravestones were still fairly recent. Several tourists milled around, but they remained mostly in the front part of the cemetery, taking photographs and reading the names on the tombs.
Quinn walked past the Besson vault, which had taken a beating over the years, and made her way toward the back wall, where Madeline’s parents were interred. This part of the cemetery was completely deserted, the silence almost eerie. It took time to find the right tombs, since most of the lettering had been obliterated by time and weather, but, at last, Quinn found what she was looking for.
Charles Besson
Died August 4, 1858
Aged 37
Quinn looked from side to side, but couldn’t see the headstone for Corinne Besson. She was sure Corinne’s headstone had been to the left of Charles’s, but there was nothing, save a crumbling stone coffin that had sunk into the earth and was barely visible. Quinn moved closer to see if the headstone might have fallen backward, but it wasn’t there at all. No headstone, no bits of broken masonry, and no indentation where the headstone might have once stood. Odd. Corinne had definitely been interred there. Quinn looked around to see if the stone might have been moved for some reason, but all the other tombs still had intact gravestones. Someone had removed Corinne’s headstone. But why?
Quinn took a photo of the tombs with her mobile and hurried toward the exit. She’d visited countless c
emeteries in her life, but this one set her teeth on edge. There was an atmosphere here, a presence almost, of something sinister and frightening that made her quicken her step. This was not a place of eternal rest, but a gateway to an eternity of torment and suffering. Quinn knew she was being fanciful and ridiculous, but she felt the hair at the nape of her neck stand on end, as if someone were walking just behind her, their footsteps crunching on the path as they drew closer.
She whipped around, her heart pounding with irrational fear, and drew up short, her eyes widening in surprise. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Luke, who appeared to have been following her down the narrow path leading back to the main avenue.
“Hello, Quinn.”
“Care to explain?” Quinn asked. “You scared me half to death.” With her heartrate slowly returning to normal, she was more annoyed now than frightened.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was walking toward your hotel when I saw you turning into the cemetery, so I followed. You seemed so intent on whatever you were doing that I thought it best to wait to speak to you after you had finished.”
Quinn gazed at Luke in confusion. “Why were you walking to my hotel, and how do you even know which hotel I’m staying at? And what are you doing in New Orleans? Are you not living in Boston these days?” She resumed walking toward the exit with Luke close on her heels. She really had no desire to talk to him. She just wanted to get back to her room and call Gabe.
“Can I take you to lunch?” Luke asked instead of answering her questions.
“Actually, I already have plans,” Quinn replied. She was due to meet Seth in half an hour in the lobby of her hotel. They had plans to visit the French Market and have lunch at Café de Monde. Seth had a light day at the office and wanted to spend a few hours with her.
“Quinn, please, wait,” Luke pleaded. “I want to talk to you.”
“Then you can talk while we walk.”
The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3) Page 14
