Page 19 of The Unforgiven
“Good. I’m famished,” George said and offered Amelia his hand. She grasped it and lifted herself off the settee. Her pregnancy looked to be further along than Madeline had first thought, her belly like a watermelon beneath her cream-colored dress. George regarded his wife with undisguised pride and patted her hand when she slipped her arm through his.
Mr. Larson escorted Madeline into the dining room and held out a chair for her before taking a seat himself. The room was very grand, with butter-yellow walls and intricate white moldings. A huge gilded mirror hung over the sideboard, and a portrait of a handsome, if somewhat heavy-featured, middle-aged gentleman wearing a wig, an embroidered velvet coat in midnight blue, and white breeches adorned the space between two tall widows.
“That’s Grandfather Jean,” George explained as he took a seat beneath the portrait. “He died before I was born.”
Madeline gazed up at the portrait. If Jean Besson was George’s grandfather, then he was her grandfather as well, and must have been Sybil Besson’s husband. Madeline studied the man’s features. She saw something of her father, especially about the eyes, but Charles had never looked as arrogant or imposing as the man in the painting.
“And who is that?” Madeline asked, pointing to the painting directly across from Jean’s. It was of a beautiful young woman, dressed in a frothy gown of dusky pink silk that accentuated her alabaster skin and luminous dark eyes. Her powdered hair was adorned with camellias and a long curl draped over one creamy shoulder.
“Oh, that’s Grandmamma,” George replied, as if it should be obvious. “She was the shining jewel of Crescent City society in her day.”
Madeline turned to compliment her grandmother but was surprised to note that Sybil Besson wasn’t there. “Is Mrs. Besson not joining us for supper?” she asked.
“I’m afraid Grandmamma is rather tired. She’ll have a tray in her room,” George replied as the first course was brought out.
Madeline was relieved that the forbidding old lady wasn’t there; she was nervous enough without her presence. George Besson and Mr. Larson chatted amiably about politics, escalating tensions with the North, and the price of cotton and sugar while Amelia tried to engage Madeline in small talk about the latest fashions. Amelia mentioned a few people she thought Madeline might know, but the names meant nothing to her, so Amelia moved on, searching for something they might have in common. Conversation flowed easily enough, but Madeline couldn’t help noticing that no one made any mention of her father nor offered an explanation as to why they’d never met before. No one from Arabella Plantation had attended the funeral or sent a note ofcondolence. Madeline couldn’t ask outright if George and Amelia had known of her existence before last week, but she was sure her father had never mentioned his mother, brother, or nephew within her hearing.
Madeline felt a moment of agitation when the meal finally came to an end and Mr. Larson thanked his hosts and prepared to return to New Orleans. It felt strange to know that she wouldn’t be going back with the lawyer but would remain here in this magnificent house, which was to be her new home.
“Don’t hesitate to write to me if you need anything, but I think you’re in good hands,” Mr. Larson said and kissed Madeline’s cheek in a gesture of farewell. He said nothing of inviting Madeline to his upcoming wedding, which made her feel even more displaced. Mr. Larson no longer saw her as a personal connection, but rather as a business obligation he’d seen to its conclusion.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Larson. We’ll take excellent care of Madeline. Won’t we, Amelia?” George asked. He didn’t seem to expect an answer and Amelia didn’t bother to respond. Instead, she wished Mr. Larson a good evening and turned to Madeline, who stood in the foyer, uncertain of what to do next.
“Cissy, show Madeline to her room,” Amelia said once Mr. Larson took his leave. A young Negro woman stood at the foot of the stairs, curiosity about Madeline evident in her almond-shaped eyes. She smiled in welcome and Madeline smiled back, reminded of Tess.
“Your trunk has been brought up, and you should have everything you need. I gave you the Rose Room,” Amelia added with a smile. “It’s not the biggest, but it’s beautifully decorated and has a view of the garden. You don’t want to be looking at the slave quarters, do you?” she added, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Summon Cissy if you require anything.” She turned to her husband. “George, I’m tired. I think I shall go to bed.”
“Sleep well, darling. I’ll read for a while after I check on Grandmamma,” George replied. “Good night, my love. Good night, Madeline.”
Madeline and Cissy followed Amelia up the grand staircase with George trailing behind. They parted ways on the second-floor landing, each heading in a different direction. Cissy led Madeline to a bedroom at the end of the long corridor and threw open the door. Amelia had been right; it was a room of untold loveliness, the type of boudoir Madeline had never dreamed of having. Her own room at home had been pretty but not nearly as opulent as her new bedroom. The walls were of cream-colored damask, and the bed hangings, drapes, and rug were all in shades of rose pink and gold. Madeline spotted her trunk at the foot of the bed. It appeared to have been unpacked and her belongings were already put away, her plain cotton nightdress laid out on the bed.
“Is there anything you be needing, Miss?” Cissy asked.
“Where is Mammy? Will she be coming up to see me?” Madeline’s voice sounded small and frightened, and she saw sympathy in Cissy’s dark gaze.
Cissy shook her head. “I’m sho I don’t know. I ain’t met your Mammy yet.”
“Good night then, Cissy.”
“Good night, miss.”
Cissy let herself out, leaving Madeline alone. Worn out by the emotional turmoil of the past few days, she was more than ready for bed, but she belatedly realized she’d forgotten to ask Cissy where the water closet was located. At home in New Orleans, they’d still used an outhouse, but Arabella Plantation was very modern, with several water closets installed throughout the house, or so George had told Mr. Larson over supper. Unfortunately, Madeline had no idea where they were on this floor.
She let herself out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar in case she forgot which one was hers, and wandered down thecorridor. It would be terribly rude to just open every door, so she would have to find a servant and ask. She was just about to head downstairs when she heard voices from the room at the end of the long hallway.
“I don’t want her here, George,” Sybil Besson said, her voice gravelly and brusque.
“Come, Grandmamma, I’ve never known you to be uncharitable. You are always the first one to support a worthy cause. And she is your granddaughter, after all.”
“She’s no granddaughter of mine,” Sybil snapped.
“Do you not mourn Uncle Charles in the least?” George asked, clearly shocked by his grandmother’s attitude toward Madeline.
“I mourned for him years ago when he betrayed me and this family. Charles was dead to me long before last week.”
“Grandmamma, what on earth did he do to hurt you so?” George’s tone was indulgent and kind, the sort of tone one would use to tease a petulant child out of a bad mood.
“Don’t ask me that, Georgie,” Sybil replied, her voice softening. “I can’t bear to speak of it.”
