Page 78 of The Unforgiven
“He’ll come for me, Mammy. You’ll see,” Madeline said over and over again, trying to convince herself as much as Mammy.
Mammy nodded, her expression glum. She was always glum these days, going about her daily chores with a permanent scowl on her face. She was kind to Madeline, but Madeline could see anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Perhaps Mammy was upset about being separated from her family again, Madelinereasoned, as she spent her days moping aimlessly, desperate for something to occupy her time besides waiting for George.
“If you says so, child,” Mammy would reply. “If you says so.”
There was little to do at the cabin, so Madeline spent hours sitting on the tiny porch and reliving the happy moments she’d shared with George, her mind conjuring bittersweet images of that golden time. In her mind’s eye, she saw George laughing and spraying water on her when he shook his hair after swimming in the lake. George in her bed, tender and passionate, whispering that he loved her while he moved deep inside her. George promising to take care of her always, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t just discard her as if she meant nothing to him and go back on everything he’d said. It might take him some time to smooth things over with Amelia and extricate himself long enough to come to Madeline, but he would come; she was sure of it. Even if he no longer cared for her—a thought that left Madeline feeling hollow and hopeless—he’d never forsake his child, and as long as the child lived within her, they were one and the same.
Madeline placed a hand on her belly. It had changed over the past month, growing firmer and rounder, as had her breasts. Her skin felt unusually sensitive, even the smooth fabric of the linen shift she wore as irritating as the rough surface of the pumice stone Mammy used to remove callouses from her feet. The barely noticeable movement deep inside her womb reminded Madeline of the rippling in the water after an alligator slithered by. Mammy said it was the baby moving. Madeline’s baby. Hers and George’s.
The child hadn’t seemed real before, but now it was as real as the loneliness that gnawed at her insides day and night, and the fear that gripped her heart as she lay in bed, sleepless, wondering what would become of her if she refused to comply with Sybil’s wishes. She dutifully wrote to Gilbert every week, not because she cared what he thought or wanted to keep him interested, but because it was a way to stave off the loneliness for a short time. She made up amusing stories about her pretend family and described events that never took place, unwittingly replaying heroutings with George. The restaurant her aunt and uncle took her to was just like the restaurant where George had taken her for lunch, and the carriage ride along the river was as picturesque and dreamy as the one she had shared with George the night of the dinner party.
Gilbert wasn’t much of a correspondent. All his letters were similar. He missed her. He looked forward to her return. He went to New Orleans with his father, or paid a social call with his mother. He was learning about the running of the plantation and taking on more responsibility. At times, Gilbert mentioned the growing unrest between the North and the South, but the sentiments he expressed were taken directly from his father’s mouth, the views harsh and unyielding. Gilbert wasn’t man enough to think for himself, or even man enough to choose his own bride. His mother and Sybil Besson had decided to pair them up, and Gilbert simply went along with their wishes. He wasn’t passionate enough to care either way. He’d marry Madeline, but if she turned him down, he’d probably wed someone else just as happily, given enough time. He would be a good husband and a caring father, but he would never know true desire or feel life-shattering loss. He didn’t have it in him to feel such extremes of emotion.
Madeline gave up on watching for the canoe and headed back inside the cabin. She needed to use the chamber pot again, and she was thirsty. Mammy was out back, hanging out the washing, so Madeline drank a cup of water, then squatted over the pot, sighing with relief. She was just about finished when she noticed something shiny beneath Mammy’s cot. Curious, she used the handle of the broom to reach for the object. It was nothing but an old button, but it looked to be from a fine garment, not from something worn by a slave. Madeline picked up the button and held it up to examine it more closely. A strange feeling came over her as she was transported to another time, the experience just like the one she’d had in the nursery several weeks ago.
Madeline saw a handsome white man lying on the cot, his arms folded behind his head and a lazy smile tugging at his sensual lips. He was ten to fifteen years older than George, and a littledarker in his coloring, but the family resemblance was unmistakable. The man’s well-toned body glistened with sweat, and a damp forelock fell into his eyes as he gazed upon a woman pouring a cup of beer from an earthenware jug. She stood with her back to him, her mocha skin glowing in the light from the open door. She wasn’t thin, but she was shapely, with long legs, rounded buttocks and full breasts that strained against the thin linen of her shift.
“You’re so beautiful, Clara. Take off that silly shift. I want to look at you.”
“You ain’t so bad yourself,” the woman replied, and turned to smile at him.
Madeline sucked in her breath. The woman was Mammy, she was sure of it. She looked to be only a few years older than Madeline was now, but she couldn’t mistake the features, or the familiar timber of her voice.
“Come back to bed,” the man drawled. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Mammy handed him the cup and watched him drink. “You’s the lustiest man I’ve ever known.”
“And have you known many men?” he asked, his tone playful rather than angry.
“Enough to know you’s a fine one, and I’m lucky to have you.”
“You don’t have me, my African queen. My wife has me, by the balls most of the time, but you have my love, which is something she’ll never get.”
Mammy raised her brow in a way that made the man laugh. “I can’t buy my freedom with your love.” She said the words with a smile, but there was steel in her voice.
“I will grant you your freedom, but only once I’ve tired of you. You’ll leave me before the ink is dry on your papers, and I will perish without you.”
“You’ll find another ‘African queen’ to warm your bed,” Mammy replied, not without bitterness.
“Don’t say such things. I only want you.”
“And you has me,” Mammy replied with a sigh. “You has me, and you owns me.”
“I like your spirit. Now, come here. I’m ready for you.” The man threw aside the sheet that covered his middle to expose a stiff cock that rose proudly from a thicket of dark curls. “In your mouth this time,” he said, closing his eyes in anticipation.
Mammy climbed onto the bed and crouched between the man’s legs, taking him obediently into her mouth. It was obvious from the revulsion in her eyes that she didn’t want to perform this unsavory task, but she did it just the same, as much a slave in bed as out of it. The man moaned with pleasure, oblivious to Mammy’s distaste.
Madeline dropped the button, appalled by what she’d seen. Who was the man, and why had Mammy allowed him to treat her that way? He’d seemed playful and relaxed, but would he have forced her or had her whipped if she refused?
“What you doing?” Mammy asked as she came back in the cabin, an empty basket on her hip.
“Clara. Your name is Clara,” Madeline said. “I never knew that.”
“You never asked.” Mammy tilted her head and gazed at Madeline, a look of profound sadness transforming her face. “You saw me, didn’t you?”
Madeline nodded. “Mammy, am I going mad? I keep seeing things. Things from the past. What’s happening to me?”
“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” Mammy replied as she set her basket down and poured herself a drink.
