Page 18 of The Unforgiven
“No, you wouldn’t. And for your sake, I hope you never have to. Go to your family, Madeline, and make the most of this opportunity.”
Madeline watched Miss Cole walk from the room, her back straight and her head held high. She was damaged, but she wasn’t broken. She’d find her way. Perhaps she wasn’t as colorless as Madeline had once thought, or as uncomplicated.
EIGHT
APRIL 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was past midnight, but the streets of the French Quarter were thronged with revelers out in full force, laughing and talking as they spilled from the numerous bars on Bourbon Street and dispersed in various directions, some stumbling toward the next watering hole while others tried in vain to catch a cab. The doors of the balcony and the hum of the air conditioner drowned out most of the noise, but Quinn still couldn’t settle down. She tried reading and watching TV, but in the end she settled for a hot shower in the hope that it would relax her. She toweled her hair dry, pulled on one of Gabe’s T-shirts, and climbed into bed. Tomorrow morning her hair would resemble a bird’s nest, but she could always twist it into a bun to force it into submission. She sniffed at the T-shirt, wishing it smelled of Gabe, but of course, she’d taken a clean shirt instead of one he’d worn.
Quinn reached for the glass on the nightstand and took a sip of water, though she would have much preferred a glass of wine or even a shot of whisky to help her sleep, but water would have to do. She turned out the light and stared at the murky white ceiling. Why did she feel so unsettled? Why was every nerve ending in her body pulsating with anxiety? She’d spent the day alone, taking in the sights and sounds of New Orleans, or “Noo Awlins” as Seth pronounced it. Quinn would normally enjoy such a beautiful city with a rich history, but something about the place left her feeling like a little girl who feared the monsters under her bed.
It wasn’t the history that put her off. New Orleans had seen its share of upheaval, but so had every other city in the world. Quinn never flinched when unearthing the bones of soldiers who’d been slaughtered in battle or examining the remains of plague victims tossed into shallow pits and doused in lime to keep thepestilence from spreading. She was a historian, an archeologist, so this was her bread and butter. But this place unnerved her. She was in a room by herself, safe and secure, but she felt something in the room with her, something dark and shapeless—something she couldn’t name.
Was it fear? But what did she have to be frightened of? She’d finally found the father she’d been searching for, and given the circumstances of her conception, he wasn’t nearly as off-putting as she might have expected. Seth was overjoyed to have found her, and although she’d known him for a grand total of four days, he seemed like a nice enough man. She now had another brother to get to know, and she had a physical portal into the past in the form of Amelia’s fan. She might never find the answers about her psychic ability, because quite simply, Amelia Besson might not have been the one to have passed it on, but at least she would discover something of her family and its history.
Perhaps her ability had come out of nowhere as one of those strange things that showed up in families from time to time. Was there always a history of madness? Was there definitely a gene for creativity or an aptitude for mathematics? Did people like Nikola Tesla or Thomas Edison come from ancestors with a scientific background? She wasn’t sure of the answer. Perhaps Quinn was the first in her family to have the gift of sight and might be the last. What a relief it would be to know that her child would not be afflicted with the burden of seeing into the past. Human beings accumulated enough of their own baggage over the years, they didn’t need to sift through someone else’s dirty linen on top of that.
Quinn rarely saw anything happy or uplifting. Most of her visions inevitably led to misery, disappointment, and more often than not, death. At times, it came peacefully at an age when dying wasn’t unexpected, but it was usually a violent end that struck when the victim least expected it and had decades of living stolen from them by hate, jealousy, or greed. It was a terrible burden to “live” these memories, given the fact that Quinn could only watch, helpless to warn the victim or prevent whatever was about tohappen. She experienced what the person felt, suffered their fears and shared their worries, but most of all she understood the hopelessness of their situation and tasted the terror of those final moments before life was extinguished and their story came to an end.
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.
NINE
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 Negrobutler 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.
