Page 22 of The Unforgiven
Cissy shrugged again. “Don’t know whatkoifoormeans, but it don’t take too much talent to twist braids into a bun.”
Cissy turned her attention to making the bed and straightening the room while Madeline gingerly made her way downstairs. She wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. She was hungry, but no one had said anything about breakfast the night before. Did the family breakfast together at a certain time, or was this the type of household where one helped oneself from a sideboard whenever one came down? Madeline wasn’t sure which she’d prefer. It would be easier to eat by herself, but if she hoped to fit in, she had to make an effort and begin building relationships with the Bessons. And she had to start from scratch, the most difficult part of all. They were complete strangers to each other in every way. How did one go from that to becoming a part of a family?
Madeline’s vision blurred and she grabbed onto the banister for support as she recalled having breakfast with her father only last week. She’d taken her time with him for granted, assuming he’d be there to watch her grow into a woman and have a family of her own. The sheer power of her longing for him nearly undid her, and she had to stand still for a few moments to regain control of her emotions. Her new relatives didn’t grieve for Charles Besson, so she couldn’t count on them to offer any comfort or sympathy in her bereavement.
Madeline was pleased to find Amelia alone in the dining room. She dreaded having to breakfast with her grandmother or even George. George seemed welcoming and kind, but having hadvery little experience with young men, Madeline had no clue what to talk to him about or how to behave. And Sybil seemed to detest Madeline on sight, her obvious animosity not exactly a stepping stone toward a warm relationship.
Amelia smiled in welcome. She looked fresh as a daisy in a dress of blue-and-white gingham, unadorned except for a bit of lace at the sleeves and two strips of lace starting at the shoulders and meeting in a V at the waist. The style would have accentuated Amelia’s waist, but instead the lace was like an arrow pointing to her protruding belly.
“I was hoping you’d come down soon. I hate eating alone. If you don’t like bacon and eggs ,I can ask Cook to make you something different,” Amelia offered as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea from a beautiful china teapot.
“Anything is fine,” Madeline replied, not wishing to appear difficult. Mammy always baked fresh beignets and made hominy grits for breakfast, which she served with butter and a spoonful of molasses. Eggs and bacon were for Sunday mornings before church, but Madeline liked them just fine. She helped herself to some eggs from a covered dish and took two rashers of bacon.
“Have Cousin George and Mrs. Besson breakfasted already?” Madeline asked. She couldn’t bring herself to refer to Sybil as her grandmother, especially after the heated conversation she’d overheard last night.
“George gets up early and goes out to ride his acres every morning before it gets too hot, then meets with the overseer and attends to plantation business,” Amelia said. “It’s cotton-picking time now, so he’s gone for hours. And Grandmamma takes a breakfast tray in bed, so I eat alone every morning. I really am glad you are here. Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I did so long for a companion, and my prayers were answered through your misfortune.”
“It’s not as if you caused it to happen,” Madeline replied in an effort to cheer Amelia up. She looked so forlorn.
“No, but it doesn’t make it any less tragic, does it? I hope we can be of some comfort to each other over the coming months. You are in mourning for your father and I’m in my confinement, which is necessary but mind-numbingly dull.” Amelia placed her hand on her belly. “I do miss society so, Madeline. George and I attended the most wonderful parties before… Well, never mind that. Perhaps after the baby is born,” she added, her voice buoyant with hope. “It would be wonderful to have a Christmas ball to celebrate the holiday as well as the birth of our baby. My very own holy infant.” She giggled happily. “Is that blasphemous?”
“When is the baby due?”
“Mid-November, so I still have a whole three months to go. I feel him kicking though. It’s such an odd sensation. Like a fish on a hook thrashing to break free.”
“Do you fish?” Madeline asked, surprised by the comparison.
“My father took me fishing once when I was little, but I didn’t have the patience to sit there for hours quietly, so he never took me again. He said I disrupted his peace. I do remember what it was like to reel in a fish though. Father stood behind me and held the rod so I wouldn’t drop it in my excitement.”
“You said ‘he,’ referring to the baby,” Madeline said.
“George wants a son, so I hope it’s a boy for his sake. He needs someone to leave all this wealth to, or what is it all for? And Grandmamma will be pleased with me, if only for five whole minutes, if I deliver a boy.”
“Do you displease her?” Madeline asked. Amelia seemed eager to talk, and any information Madeline could gather about George and Sybil could be helpful in her dealings with them. She felt completely out of her element, so perhaps Amelia could be her guide.
“She’s very possessive of George. His mother died when he was three, so Grandmamma stepped in and raised him. He is moreher son than her grandson, and even though I’m the lady of the house, she’s the one who rules the roost. Did you see the ring of keys at her waist? She will not relinquish those until she’s stone-cold, and even then I’ll probably have to pry them from her dead hand,” Amelia said but instantly backtracked, as though realizing she’d revealed too much. “She’s been a tremendous help to me, of course. I knew nothing of running a household when I married George, so she kept doing things her way until I learned. I have yet to change a single thing.”
Madeline nodded in sympathy. Her mother had never kept the keys at her waist, as though mistrustful of her servants and family, but for some ladies of great houses the keys were a symbol of power and a way to keep track of every ounce of food, every piece of silver, and every item of laundry touched by the hands of her slaves. Having the keys gave their owner the power to reward and the prerogative to punish. By keeping the keys, Sybil effectively usurped Amelia’s place, treating her like a child instead of the mistress of the house, and judging by Amelia’s baleful stare, she was fully aware of the insult.
“So, what would you like to do today?” Amelia asked.
“Can I see Mammy?”
Amelia pushed away her plate and busied herself with smoothing down the voluminous skirt of her dress. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the fields.”
“What? Why?” Madeline cried. “Surely she’s too old to be picking cotton.”
“That was one of Sybil’s conditions for allowing you to come,” Amelia said, her eyes sliding away from Madeline’s gaze.
“Why does she hate me so?”
“I don’t know, Madeline. I honestly don’t. All I know is that she was more upset about having you here than about the death of her son.”
“I’m going to speak to her.” Madeline pushed her chair from the table with a scape that made Amelia cringe.
