Page 83 of The Unforgiven
“For offering me an out. I appreciate it,” Quinn said.
“I owe you, Quinn.”
“Not anymore.”
FORTY-TWO
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?”
