“What do you make of young Gilbert?” he asked with an amused smile.
“He’s nice,” Madeline replied. In truth, she didn’t think anything at all, but George seemed to expect an answer.
“He’s a fine chap, and an only son,” George added, his meaning clear. “And he seems very taken with you.”
“Is that why you brought me here?” Madeline watched George’s face carefully. She knew she’d be paraded in front of potential suitors eventually, but she hadn’t expected it this soon.
George leaned in and kissed Madeline’s cheek. “My darling cousin, I brought you here as my dinner companion. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware Gilbert would be joining us. I’m devastated that you’d think I had ulterior motives for inviting you tonight.”
“I’m sorry, George,” she muttered, chastised. “I just thought…”
“Not to worry. Would you like another mint julep?”
Madeline nodded happily and George motioned for the maid to bring another drink. He raised his glass and clinked it with Madeline’s playfully. “To the most beautiful girl in the room,” he said and smiled.
She lowered her eyes as a tell-tale heat bloomed in her cheeks. No man had ever paid her a compliment before —well, no man besides Daddy—and she was overcome. George had called her beautiful. She caught Gilbert watching them from across the room, but pretended not to notice his wistful stare. He was nice, truth be told, but George was much nicer, and Madeline felt giddy with pride when he escorted her into dinner.
Talk around the dinner table centered mostly on politics, and the conversation became heated when the subject of abolition came up, as it inevitably did whenever men got together. Mr. Monroe, although amiable and charming, had some harsh views on slavery and believed that paying a man a fair wage for a day’s work was the way of the future. His wife, a pretty young woman with wide dark eyes and ebony curls, didn’t say much, but Madeline noted the look of panic in her eyes. No doubt this very conversation took place everywhere they went, and she knew exactly what to expect, and dreaded it.
“Ladies, why don’t we adjourn to the parlor for some coffee and allow the men to continue their fascinating discussion,” Mrs. Montlake suggested and led the ladies from the dining room.
Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. The end of the dinner party was in sight. She couldn’t wait to go home and climb into bed where she could stop smiling and nodding like an idiot in false support of issues she knew next to nothing about. She strongly suspected the rest of the female guests felt the same. They had contributed little to the conversation and seemed to be on hand only to grace the arms of their husbands, who paid them scant attention as they discussed business and politics.
Madeline followed the ladies into the parlor and accepted a cup of coffee from the same maid who’d served cocktails earlier. She wanted to thank the girl, but the servant never made eye contact with any of the guests, and retreated to the corner until someone required a refill, cream, or a clean serviette.
Mrs. Montlake settled on a settee in front of the low coffee table where several offerings of dessert were displayed. There was molasses cake, pineapple upside-down cake, and baked rice pudding, which Madeline would have liked to sample had her corset not been laced so tightly. She would probably be ill if she tried to eat anything more. Even a few sips of coffee made her feel as if she couldn’t breathe.
The ladies applied themselves to the dessert, but the tension from the earlier conversation lingered, particularly with Mrs. Monroe, the only Northerner in the room.
“Pardon me for saying,” Mrs. Clinton began as she pushed her plate away, “but I just don’t see any sense in the abolitionist point of view. Why, freeing the slaves would be an act of unspeakable cruelty. They are as helpless as children. What would they do with themselves if they didn’t have us to care for them? How would they feed themselves? We give them a home, plentiful food, clothes, and even days off from work. We’re generosity itself when it comes to those the good Lord made inferior.”
The rest of the ladies nodded in agreement, but Mrs. Monroe glanced toward a portrait hanging on the opposite wall, and remained resolutely silent.
“What do you think, Mrs. Monroe?” Mrs. Clinton asked, smiling at the poor woman like a cat who had a mouse by the tail.
“I wouldn’t know, Mrs. Clinton. I’ve never owned slaves.”
“But surely you must have an opinion on the subject,” Mrs. Clinton persisted.
“The Negroes I know are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves and are in no way mentally inferior,” Mrs. Monroe replied. “In fact, they’re a lot more intelligent than some white folk I know.” She clearly meant to slight Mrs. Clinton, but the woman didn’t even notice the insult, too scandalized by what Mrs. Monroe had just implied.
“You socialize with Negroes?” she squeaked.
“Yes, I do. Some of them are my friends.”
There was a collective gasp from the ladies in the room, but they instantly recovered from shock and tried to smooth things over.
“You are very generous of spirit, Mrs. Monroe,” Mrs. Montlake exclaimed. “That’s most Christian of you. We are all God’s children after all. Are we not?” She cast a warning look at Mrs. Clinton, who ignored her completely.
“This whole thing will be old news by Christmas,” Mrs. Clinton said, referring to talk of secession. “It’s absurd, is what it is. Imagine, breaking up the Union. I quite enjoy my summers in Saratoga. I wouldn’t care to give them up. Harold and I have many friends in the North, and they are perfectly agreeable people.”
“How do they feel about you owning slaves?” Mrs. Monroe asked. She gave Jane Clinton a sharp look, but Mrs. Clinton was only too happy to reply, as though thrilled to have finally goaded Mrs. Monroe into a confrontation.
“Oh, they don’t give a picayune, my dear. They enjoy our company and we enjoy theirs. We don’t spoil things with talk of slavery. Harold and I do not keep company with those holier-than-thou types; they do tend to go on and on about their views.”
“Perhaps their opinions are worth listening to,” Mrs. Monroe replied.
“Why? What do they know of our life?” Jane Clinton asked, looking around the room for support from her fellow Southerners. “They will not be affected by the abolition of slavery because they own none, but our whole way of life will fall apart if it comes to pass. Our God-given way of life, I should add. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but Harold and I would fully support seceding from the Union if abolition became inevitable.”
“What will happen to us if we leave the Union?” Mrs. Roberts asked. She was about eighteen, and newly married.
“Not much, I expect,” Jane Clinton retorted. “We don’t need them. It’s they who need us. Their tea will be very bitter without our sugar, and their gowns awfully threadbare without our cotton. They best learn to mind their own business and see to their own problems, of which they have many.”
“You seem very well informed, Mrs. Clinton,” Mrs. Roberts said, clearly impressed with the older woman’s vehemence.
“My Harold likes to discuss things with me,” Mrs. Clinton said proudly, as though to imply most women were kept ignorant of current events. “Does your husband discuss matters with you, Mrs. Monroe?” she asked sweetly, but Madeline could see she was gunning for the Northern woman once again.
“Yes, Clayton discusses things with me, and I discuss things with him, such as my involvement with the abolitionist movement. Clayton supports me in my beliefs, and has made a sizeable donation to a fund for runaway slaves.”
“That’s theft,” Jane Clinton fumed. “You are harboring someone’s property.”
“No human being should be anyone’s property, but I know you disagree, so perhaps we ought to talk of something you find easier to comprehend, such as fashion, or the weather, which is lovely, by the way. There’s autumn in the air in Upstate New York, but here, summer just goes on and on,” Mrs. Monroe replied airily, a small smile playing abou
t her lips. She’d retaliated skillfully with the insult to Mrs. Clinton’s intelligence, and seemed quite pleased with herself.
Madeline sank deeper into her wingchair, grateful that Mrs. Clinton hadn’t tried to draw her into the conversation. Were grownup gatherings always like this, all barbed comments and sly looks dressed in layers of floral silk and adorned with pearls? She had much to learn of adult society.
“Ladies, I bought the most darling bonnet the other day,” Mrs. Montlake chimed in desperately. Offending Mrs. Monroe could threaten her husband’s business arrangement with Clayton Monroe, and it was Mrs. Montlake’s duty as hostess to keep the peace, even if she wholeheartedly agreed with Jane Clinton. “It’s decorated with flowers that are so lifelike, a bee actually tried to pollinate one.” She smiled around the room, silently calling for a truce.
“Yes, I saw you wearing it, Constance. It’s absolutely charming,” Mrs. Roberts said, clearly relieved by the change of subject.
“That’s a lovely fan, Madeline,” Jane Clinton said as she held out her coffee cup for a refill.
“It was my mother’s,” Madeline replied, belatedly realizing that Jane Clinton was stirring up controversy once again. She must have overheard Madeline mentioning the fan to Daisy Roberts when she complimented her on it earlier.
“Really? Isn’t it strange how we never met your mother, or your father for that matter. What caused the great family rift? Do tell us, my dear.”
All eyes turned to Madeline, who wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. She opened her mouth to reply, closed it again when the door opened. The gentlemen came into the parlor, smiling at their wives as if they hadn’t seen them in days. They seemed in good spirits, having likely downed a considerable amount of brandy, and their clothes gave off the repellent smell of cigars.
“George, please, can we go?” Madeline whispered, close to tears, as he came to stand behind her chair.
“Of course. Preston, Constance, we thank you for your hospitality. And Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, it was my pleasure to meet you. I hope we shall speak again soon, Clayton. Goodnight, all.” George bowed from the neck, and slipped his arm through Madeline’s. “Come, Maddy.”
“Goodnight,” Madeline said.
“We hope to see you again soon, Madeline. She’s charming. Isn’t she charming?” Jane Clinton exclaimed, loud enough for Madeline to hear, making her feel like a poodle that everyone wanted to pet.
“Pay her no mind,” George said as they waited for their carriage to be brought around. “Jane Clinton has a sharp tongue, and a dull mind.”
“She’s vicious,” Madeline said.
“She’s angry.”
“At what?”
“Her husband has a beautiful young mistress. The girl’s hardly more than eighteen. And everyone knows about the affair, which is the greatest insult of all.”
Madeline considered this information. Jane Clinton appeared to be in her late twenties. Despite her unpleasant personality, she was quite beautiful, with golden curls and wide blue eyes fringed with unnaturally dark lashes. Her husband had to be at least forty. He had a florid complexion that spoke of a fondness for drink, and was quite portly. His thinning dark hair made his forehead appear unusually large. What beautiful young girl would wish to be his mistress?
“She’s an actress,” George explained. “Harold has installed her in a fine house in New Orleans, and visits her often, sometimes for several days at a time. Jane is livid.”
The carriage drew up and George helped Madeline in. She drew her shawl closer as she settled in, glad they had taken the closed carriage since the outside air had become chilly and the carriage was cozy and warm. George got in across from her, and the conveyance pulled away from the house. As the carriage rolled down the avenue toward the front gates, the lanterns affixed to its sides illuminated the great oaks but did little to dispel the darkness inside.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight, Maddy. I know it wasn’t much fun for you,” George said. He took off his top hat and set it on the seat next to him, then leaned back, finally allowing himself to relax after an evening of having to put on a performance.
“I was happy to help,” Madeline replied, and meant it.
George sat up and looked at her across the dim confines of the carriage. “I’m sorry your father died, Maddy, but I’m not sorry that his death led you to me. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been until you came along.”
“How can you be lonely? You have your grandmother and Amelia. They love you.”
George gazed out the window for a moment, his eyes following the dark outline of the trees. “Grandmamma’s expectations are non-negotiable. She’s the most unyielding person I’ve ever met, but I suppose that’s what has kept her going all these years, through the loss of her husband and both sons. I think there were other children who died in infancy, but she never speaks of them.” George sighed. Child mortality was normal and expected, but speaking of it was difficult in view of his recent loss.
“She came to Arabella Plantation when she married my grandfather. She was fifteen. The plantation has been her life for fifty years, Maddy, and it’s the only thing that truly matters to her. It’s her legacy, and the only constant in her life. The thought of losing it is enough to drive her mad. She might have loved me once, but now she only sees me as a tool for keeping her dream alive.”
“And Amelia?” Madeline asked.
“Amelia and I were happy when we were first married. We had such dreams. But grief and loss take a toll on a marriage, and love often turns to resentment.”
“Do you resent her?” she asked, shocked by George’s candor.
“She resents me, Maddy. She thinks that I see her as a failure, and a disappointment.”
“Do you?”
“I see a young woman who’s suffered. I don’t blame her for the loss of the children. How can it be her fault? I just wish she’d recover something of her spirit, but that isn’t easy with Grandmamma lording it over her and reminding her every blessed day that I’m the last of the line.”
“George, what will happen to the plantation if you die without leaving an heir?” Madeline asked. It was an indelicate question, but since he’d brought up the subject, she wanted to know.
“I suppose it’ll go to you.”
“Me?”
“You are the next in line. The family name will die out, but not the family. So, there’s hope.”
“There’s time, George. You and Amelia are still young.”
He shook his head. “There’ll be no more babies, Maddy. Dr. Holbrook said that Amelia is not strong enough to suffer another loss. Three miscarriages in four years have taken their toll. I won’t put her through that again.”
George went silent and stared out the window into the darkness beyond. They remained quiet for the remainder of the journey, each lost in their own thoughts.
Chapter 30
May 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
When her ringtone interrupted Quinn’s vision of the past, she reluctantly set aside the fan and reached for her mobile, her mind still on Madeline and George. The bitter atmosphere in the carriage permeated Quinn’s own mood, making her less than eager to speak to Seth, who had no doubt found another great place to take her to for dinner or a jazz performance that couldn’t be missed. She appreciated his zeal, but would be happy with a sandwich and an early night. And a phone call from Gabe.
“Hello, darling. How’s my girl today?” Seth asked. He was always pumped in the mornings. He said it was because he was a morning person, but Quinn strongly suspected it had something to do with the triple espressos Dolores brewed for him as soon as he got up.
“I’m well. And you?”
“Super. Listen, I hope you won’t be too upset with me, but I’ve planned a party for this Saturday. In your honor. I don’t have much family besides a few cousins, but I want to introduce you to my friends and business associates. I hope you don’t mind. It would mean a lot to
me.”
“No one’s ever thrown a party in my honor before,” Quinn replied. In truth, a party was the last thing she wanted, but she couldn’t bear to disappoint Seth. He seemed so excited, and so eager to make her happy.
“I’ve even invited Kathy. She’s eager to meet you, and I think we can put our differences aside for one night. She’s glad that Brett has a sibling. What say you? Will you attend and allow me to show you off?”
“Of course. But Seth, I must return home soon. I’m going to book a flight for next week.”
“Aww. Must you go? We’re just getting to know each other.”
“This time with you has been very…eh, special, but I have commitments at home. I’m getting married in a few weeks, and my fiancé seems to be missing in action.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s fine. Probably planning his bachelor party,” Seth joked.
“Probably,” Quinn agreed, impatient to get off the phone.
“Want to meet for lunch?”
“Actually, I already have plans for today. I’ll see you later, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. Have fun, whatever you’re doing. I’ll check in with you before I leave the office.”
Quinn rang off and called Gabe again. The automated voice informed her that his mailbox was full. “Damn you, Gabe. Where are you?”
She swung her legs off the bed and headed for the bathroom, hoping a cool shower would refresh her. She’d had a lingering headache for the past two days, and her normally trim ankles looked swollen. She’d missed her prenatal appointment at the clinic in London and would have to reschedule as soon as she returned home. And now she’d have to find a dress for the party. She hadn’t thought to bring anything smart to wear, assuming that her meeting with Seth Besson would be casual and brief, but since she’d stayed longer than expected she’d had to buy several new outfits to accommodate her busy social schedule as well as her expanding waistline.
The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3) Page 19
