Did every family have buried secrets? Did every family try to hide that which they thought shameful or unpleasant? She supposed they did, but it angered her that her father and brother had no idea they were descended from a slave woman captured in Trinidad. Madeline, their link to the past, had been erased, forgotten, discarded after her child had been taken from her. Quinn knew what had happened to the child, but she still had no clue what had happened to Madeline, who’d been only sixteen when the child was born. She’d had her whole life ahead of her. What had she done with it?
“I hope you found happiness, Maddy,” Quinn whispered into the night. But no one answered. No whisper on the wind told her what she longed to know and was afraid to find out.
Quinn glanced at her watch. She desperately needed to hear Gabe’s voice, to share what she’d learned with him, but she couldn’t possibly call him now. It was just past two in the morning in London, and her call would wake Emma, a light sleeper at the best of times.
Quinn imagined Emma curled up in her bed, Mr. Rabbit clutched in her arms. She still had frequent dreams about her mother and grandmother and often woke up crying. She loved Gabe, but when she missed her mother she turned to Quinn, the closest thing she had to a mother. It surprised Quinn to realize she missed Emma as much as she missed Gabe. A few months ago, she’d still secretly thought of Emma as Gabe’s daughter, but now she thought of Emma as her own child, and wanted to be her mother. Quinn knew that Gabe worried about how Emma would react to the new baby. She might be thrilled to have a brother or a sister, or she might feel resentful and displaced in the affections of her parents. That was normal, even with children who hadn’t lost a parent.
I’ll do something special with Emma when I get back, Quinn thought as she stepped back inside the room and locked the door to the balcony. We’ll have some mother/daughter time and do fun, girly things.
Imagining all the things they could do together made Quinn less lonely, but she still needed to talk to someone. What she’d learned in her last vision was too big and shocking to keep to herself even a moment longer. She couldn’t possibly share her discovery with Seth or Brett, and the only other person she could think of was Rhys. He might still be awake, but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t mind being woken for a good story. Rhys’s passion in life was to tell the best story he could, in the most eloquent way, and he would welcome the middle-of-the-night call, even if he pretended to be grumpy at first.
Funny, but being away from home made Quinn feel closer to Rhys. She’d blamed him for what had happened to Sylvia and held him to account, but somehow she couldn’t muster the same amount of resentment for the man who had fathered her. Perhaps it was time to let Rhys off the hook; Sylvia had, and Quinn had no desire to hold on to her anger.
Even after speaking to all three culprits who had been there the night she was conceived, Quinn was still no closer to the truth. Sylvia stood by her story. Rhys appeared to be contrite and was working hard to make amends. Robert Chatham was defiant, but there was a hint of truth to his account, despite his aggressive, bullying manner. And then there was Seth, who claimed to have no recollection of that night at all. Perhaps it was easier for him to pretend it had never happened, but Quinn knew him well enough now to believe he was telling the truth. So she still didn’t know with any certainty whether she’d been conceived during an act of violence or if she was simply the result of an alcohol-soaked orgy in which her mother had been a somewhat willing participant. Whichever it was, it was time to move forward and forgive the guilty parties, one of which was her boss.
“This better be good, Quinn,” Rhys growled when he answered his mobile.
“It is. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this simply couldn’t wait.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Rhys replied. “I just came back from Sylvia’s. She was upset.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Quinn demanded. Rhys sounded more annoyed than worried, so it couldn’t have been anything catastrophic.
“Jude buggered off. He had a run-in with Gabe and took off. Sylvia thinks he’s using again. Personally, I don’t think he ever stopped. Logan’s been trying to get him into rehab for months.”
“How do you know all this?” Quinn asked. She had no idea Rhys had grown so close to Sylvia’s family.
“Quinn, there’s something I have to tell you, and I hope you won’t take issue with it. Sylvia and I are seeing each other. I know it’s the last thing you might have expected, given our history, but there’s something there—a connection, if you will, and we both want to explore it further.”
“Rhys, the only thing I find shocking about your revelation is that you’re actually interested in a woman your own age,” Quinn joked.
Rhys laughed. “I know. I’m still recovering from the shock myself. I like her, Quinn. She understands me, and I can talk to her as an equal. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m happy for you both. Truly.” Quinn smiled as she pictured the two of them together, but her smile faded as Rhys’s words sank in. “Why did Jude have a run-in with Gabe? What could they possibly have to argue about?” She had a sinking feeling in her gut. Gabe didn’t get worked up often, but when he did, it was usually for a good reason, and the only thing connecting Gabe to Jude was Emma, since she’d stayed at Sylvia’s while Gabe was in Northumberland.
“It was nothing, Quinn. Just a misunderstanding.”
“It had to be more than that if Jude took off,” Quinn mused. “Did he leave because of Gabe?”
“Not really.”
“He either did or he didn’t.”
“Look, Quinn, young men his age often harbor a lot of anger and self-loathing. Jude is an artist. He’s very emotional and overly sensitive. Gabe was well within his rights in everything he said, but Jude is too angry to see reason. He’ll come round in his own good time.”
“Or he’ll go off the deep end,” Quinn replied. She didn’t know Jude well at all, but he was her brother and she worried about him.
“You can’t keep that from happening. He has to take responsibility for his own life. No one will be able to talk sense into him until he’s ready to listen.”
Quinn sighed. Rhys was right, of course, but it was easier said than done. Now that Quinn had Emma and another child on the way, she could understand Sylvia’s angst. Jude was a grown man, but to Sylvia he was still her son who needed saving, in this case, from himself.
“Now, what did you want to tell me?” Rhys asked, no longer interested in Jude’s problems.
Suddenly Quinn wasn’t sure she wanted to share her news with Rhys, but he’d find out soon enough anyway. Rhys was all about the program, and he wanted the series finale to be unforgettable. What Quinn learned would make it memorable, but it would also expose her family’s history to the world, and although she wanted to tell Madeline’s story, it all felt awfully personal.
“Rhys, I know where my ability comes from,” Quinn said, nervous and reluctant to speak the words out loud. Once she told Rhys there’d be no going back. He might use her story to get ratings.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Tell me, Quinn.”
And she did.
“Oh, Quinn, what a story. I couldn’t have asked for more compelling drama,” Rhys exclaimed. “No matter what ultimately happened to Madeline, this makes for excellent television.” Quinn could almost hear him gloating at future ratings. “But how do you feel about it?” he asked, transforming from producer to human being and friend.
“I feel too many conflicting emotions to actually put them into words,” Quinn replied truthfully. “I suppose it’s nice to finally know the truth, but it’s also painful and confusing, and utterly shocking. I worry about my baby. It’ll be years before I know if the child can see things, and even then, I won’t be able to do anything to stop the visions.”
“No, you won’t, but you’ll be able to understand what the kid is going through and explain what’s happening. Your parents had no idea you were seeing things and yo
u had to deal with it all on your own. At least your child will have someone to talk to and ask questions.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I just really wish I could keep this gift from being passed on. I don’t want to burden my baby.”
“It can be wonderful,” Rhys argued. “I wouldn’t say no to possessing your gift.”
“You say that now, but you’d feel differently if you had to actually ‘live’ these people’s lives. It’s never pretty, Rhys. I’ve never come across anyone who’s had a normal, peaceful life. Some stories are dramatic, but some bring me to my knees.”
“Like Elise and James’s?” Rhys asked softly.
“Yes, and Petra and Edwin’s. I still have nightmares about that child being stoned to death.”
“I know, Quinn, and I’m sorry to have to put you through this. We don’t have to use Madeline’s story if you don’t want to. As your boss, I would give my right arm to bring this to the screen, but as your friend, I will respect whatever you decide. We can find another skeleton, another murder, and another cover-up. God knows there’s no shortage of drama buried beneath our feet, just waiting to be dug up. If this is too traumatic, I will understand and forget everything you shared with me.”
Quinn found herself shaking her head, even though Rhys couldn’t see her. “Thank you, but no. I want this story told. It’s very personal, and I know that once the truth about my ability comes out people will never view me through the same lens, but I need to give Madeline her voice back. I need to tell her story, and the story of Corinne and Clara. These women were discarded by history, but they live on in me, and in the gift they’ve passed on through their blood.”
“Good girl,” Rhys replied gleefully. “I’ll assign someone to research Trinidad and the slave trade in the eighteenth century. And of course, voodoo. That ought to shake things up.”
“All right,” Quinn replied, with more resolve than she actually felt. “You have my permission.”
“Quinn, finish up and come back. Gabe looks like a lost puppy without you, and Sylvia needs her daughter to talk to. I have a feeling things are not about to calm down with Jude the Obscure.”
“Don’t call him that,” Quinn protested. She’d read the book in school and never forgot the dread and hopelessness the story had induced in her.
“That boy will get a lot worse before he gets better,” Rhys replied. “Sylvia will need your support.”
“And yours.”
“I’ll be there this time. I promise,” Rhys vowed.
“Goodnight, Rhys. And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For offering me an out. I appreciate it,” Quinn said.
“I owe you, Quinn.”
“Not anymore.”
Chapter 42
May 1859
Louisiana Bayou
Madeline picked at her bowl of gumbo, unable to eat. She’d been feeling unwell the past few days and the heavy food seemed to lie in her stomach like a stone. She’d have been happy with a glass of milk and buttered bread, but milk products didn’t keep in the heat, not even if submerged in a tightly covered crock deep in the cool water of the bayou to keep fresh. Everything they ate had to be well cooked or they would get sick. It had happened once already, so Mammy was extra careful what she prepared, refusing to allow Madeline to eat anything questionable in her delicate state.
Madeline’s ankles were swollen, and she felt so overheated most of the time that she thought she might burst into flames. She had fond memories of lemonade with bits of ice clinking in a tall glass and ice cream occasionally served for dessert at the plantation. Her large, round belly protruded from her thin frame, making her look deformed. Her back ached and her breasts felt tender to the touch, engorged in preparation for a nursing infant.
Madeline pushed her plate away and fled outside, where the air was a bit cooler, but the oppressive humidity made her skin glisten with sweat. She’d given up on wearing gowns and hoop skirts long ago and spent her days in her camisole and petticoat or just a linen shift, refusing to don extra layers of fabric when there was no one to see her anyway. A long braid snaked down her back, the hair no longer dressed and curled to satisfy fashion. Mammy wore a faded cotton skirt and a camisole, her hair covered with her ever-present turban. Joe was the only person who ever came to see them, so it seemed pointless to put on airs and create extra laundry.
“We’re living like savages,” Mammy remarked as she joined Madeline outside. She seemed to have lost her appetite as well.
“We are savages,” Madeline retorted.
Mammy didn’t reply. She’d been careful around Madeline’s feelings the past few months, trying to offer her comfort without lecturing her on how to feel, most likely because she was at a loss for words. Madeline’s emotions had gone from hope to simmering anger and disappointment. With every week that passed, she’d grown more resentful and frustrated, finally realizing that George wasn’t going to come. She might have accepted his decision not to help her, but the fact that he didn’t even have the courage to talk to her in person left Madeline eviscerated by his betrayal. She refused to answer Gilbert’s letters and wouldn’t talk about the future.
“I have no future,” she replied when Mammy tried to cajole her into making plans.
“I won’t listen to that kind of talk,” Mammy replied, hands on hips, her eyes glowing with anger. “You have been lied to and betrayed, but George is not the only one to blame.”
“Isn’t he?” Madeline snapped, annoyed at being challenged.
“No, he ain’t. You might have been a child, but still a child old enough to know right from wrong. You knew he was married, and you didn’t say no to his advances.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Madeline cried, glaring at her belly.
“As much your fault as it is his.”
“Why are you being so cruel to me?” Madeline whined. She was moody at the best of times, and close to tears more often than not. And Mammy seemed to be baiting her on purpose.
“Because I won’t see you waste your life on one foolish mistake. When life knocks you down, you get up and keep going. A woman has to fight for her happiness in this world.”
“I am too tired to fight,” Madeline replied, but the anger had gone out of her.
“No, you ain’t. You have a way out, a chance. You not going to be alone, bringing up a bastard on whatever pittance you can earn taking in laundry or scrubbing floors. You can marry Gilbert what’s-‘is-name or you can go your own way. George Besson will pay—handsomely, if you makes him feel guilty enough.”
“Oh, Mammy. You make it all sound so simple.”
“Nothing is ever simple, girl, but you have to grab the opportunities life hands you.”
“Like you did?” Madeline asked, a trifle nastily.
“Yes, like I did. Now, stop sniveling and eat your dinner. You’ll need strength to bring that baby into the world.”
A tremor of fear went through Madeline. She tried not to think about the birth, but it was getting closer, and the day would come when this huge thing inside her would be ready to come out. Madeline hated being pregnant, but she feared the birth even more. The physical pain would end, if she survived the birthing, but her inner turmoil would not. What if the child came out black? Would George and Amelia still want it? What if they claimed it was a child of one of the slaves and denied it its freedom?
And what if she never saw her baby again? How could she get on with her life knowing she’d left a piece of herself behind? How could she think of marrying and having other children when in her heart she was married to George and already had a child? How did one set such feelings and fears aside and simply moved on? The answer was that it wasn’t simple, nor would anything she did be straightforward. Heck, her very existence wasn’t straightforward.
Madeline had spent the past few months mulling over Mammy’s revelations, but she was no closer to making peace with what she’d learned. She no longer had a sense of herself or her place in
the world. As someone with Negro blood she would be treated no better than a slave should anyone find out, and as a child of incest, she would be an abomination anywhere she went. No one had to know, of course, but she now knew, and that changed everything. No matter where she wound up, her secrets would remain with her, and eventually the truth would come out. It always did in the end. What kind of future could she hope for? What kind of man would want to marry her if he learned the truth?
“Where do I go, Mammy?” Madeline asked for the hundredth time. “Who’ll have me?”
Mammy’s answer had always been the same: “Any place is better than here.” But today her reply was different. “Go North, Madeline. You’ll be safer there. Freer.”
“Why do you think that?” Madeline asked, surprised by this new viewpoint.
“I seen some of them Northern ladies when they comes to visit. They’s different, Maddy. They’s learned, admired. They not like Southern ladies, dressed up to look like upside-down flowers and expected to do nothing but look pretty for their menfolk. They have choices up North.”
“Choices to do what?”
“To be more.”
Madeline pondered this new idea. To be more. The thought appealed to her. She’d never longed to be more, but perhaps she’d never realized such a thing was possible. The extent of her ambitions had been to marry well and have children. She would still like to marry someday, but maybe she could continue her education, or get involved with a cause. She’d heard of the abolitionist movement, of course, but in the South it was as good as saying you’d decided to worship the Devil. Madeline had agreed with that in the past, but she knew better now. She was no longer who she’d thought she was, and the world looked somewhat less back and white. They said a war was coming between the North and the South, and she didn’t want to be on the South side when it began. She had no wish to see men dying by the thousands, fighting for the right to oppress others and play God with their lives. She wanted to be on the side of justice, on the side of good.
The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3) Page 28
