Page 21 of The Unforgiven
“We don’t have anything lined up for the finale,” Rhys said, terse again, automatically bouncing back to the persona of the demanding executive. “It has to be special and pack a ratings punch. Do you have anything in mind? Do you have any colleagues who have unearthed anything of interest lately?”
“Rhys, archeology is time-consuming and painstaking. People don’t just stumble onto royal burial chambers or theremains of dead monarchs buried beneath parking lots on a daily basis. Such finds are rare and special.”
“I’m desperate here, Quinn. We need an outline for the final episode or we’ll miss our deadline. The program has already been scheduled for a Sunday evening spot, just beforeDownton Abbey. That’s a very desirable timeslot.”
Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, momentarily frozen with indecision. She had an idea, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to share it with Rhys just yet. He would either hate it or latch on to it, and there’d be no going back if she changed her mind or failed to find out anything exciting enough to fill an entire episode.
“I can hear you thinking,” Rhys said, his tone impatient.
“And I can hear you chewing. You’re more stressed about this than you’re letting on. I don’t know how you manage to stay so slim with all the baked goods you consume.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Rhys replied, but the chewing stopped.
“Rhys, what if the final episode was about my own ancestors?” Quinn asked, hoping she wouldn’t regret telling Rhys about Madeline.
“Go on,” Rhys said, his tone lightening.
“Seth doesn’t know much about his family history, but he does have a few documents and a family tree that his grandfather drew up based on extensive research.”
“How does this make for good television?” Rhys asked, instantly critical. “My grandfather also dabbled in genealogy, but since I’m not descended from the kings of Gwynedd, my illustrious family is not exactly the stuff of legend.”
“You really are an infuriating man.” Quinn laughed. “Will you let me speak, or will you shoot down my idea before you even know what it is?”
“I’m sorry. I’m tired and grumpy.”
“Really? I would never have guessed. I found something. I don’t know exactly where this will lead, but there’s definitely a mystery here, one worth pursuing.”
“Tell me more,” Rhys asked, his voice now silky and coaxing.
“I don’t think I will,” Quinn replied, a smile on her face.
“Tease.”
“I need a few days, then we’ll talk. In the meantime, get some rest and give my regards to Sylvia.”
“How did you know I’d be seeing Sylvia?” Rhys asked.
“Because I know that you two have been spending time together and chocolate flourless torte is her favorite. Good night, boss,” Quinn said with a chuckle and hung up before Rhys could confirm or deny her suspicions.
ELEVEN
AUGUST 1858
Arabella Plantation, Louisiana
“Shall I help you dress, miss?” Cissy asked as she pulled open the curtains. The blazing white light of the August morning flooded the room, making Madeline squint and cover her eyes with her arm. She’d finally fallen asleep in the early hours and woken groggy and muddled, and her eyes had a grainy feeling from lack of sleep. Had she been at home in New Orleans, she would have sent Mammy away and stayed in bed till noon, but this was her first day at the plantation and she couldn’t be rude to her hosts.
Madeline stood like a dressmaker’s dummy while Cissy did her best to stuff Madeline’s unyielding limbs into the garments she’d prepared. The process took more than an hour, but Madeline couldn’t help but admire the hairstyle Cissy had managed to wrangle from her unruly curls. Cissy had plaited several thinner braids into one thick coil and pinned it into a neat chignon at the back of Madeline’s head. She had then used two side braids to crisscross at the back and snake around the chignon, and had secured her creation with several pins decorated with tiny artificial flowers in palest pink. The effect was pleasing and made Madeline look ladylike and grown-up.
“There now. How you like dem braids pinned like dat?” Cissy asked.
“It’s beautiful. Where did you learn to do that?”
“I make up my own styles,” Cissy answered with a shrug. “White folk’s hair is easy to work with.”
Madeline couldn’t see Cissy’s hair beneath her colorful turban, but she knew what the girl meant. Tess’s hair never grewmore than a few inches long, and looked like a spongy halo if left uncovered or unbraided. And she always began brushing it from the bottom rather than the top, and worked her way up. Mammy’s hair wasn’t as coarse as Tess’s and grew longer, its natural color more brown than black. And it was very curly, the strands wound into tight spirals that sprang right back when Madeline had tried to pull on them as a child.
“You have a talent for coiffure,” Madeline said.
