Page 41 of The Unforgiven
“I’m a grown man, but that place gives me the creeps,” he said with a chuckle. “We used to dare each other to go there on Halloween when we were kids. That place at night is not for the faint of heart.”
“No, I would imagine not. It isn’t very pleasant during the day either.”
“Was that your old flame?” Seth asked conversationally as they entered the bustling market.
“Yes, that was Luke.”
“Came back crawling with his tail between his legs, huh?” Seth asked. “Any regrets?”
“None. Seeing him was actually very therapeutic.”
“Good, I’m glad. Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“Me too,” Quinn replied and realized she was.
TWENTY-TWO
SEPTEMBER 1858
Arabella Plantation, Louisiana
Rather than return from New Orleans by steamboat, George and Madeline traveled home by carriage, which had been sent from the plantation to meet them at the appointed time. It wasn’t as magical as the steamboat journey, but still very pleasant. The open carriage rolled along the River Road, a gentle breeze caressing their faces as slanted rays of afternoon sun dappled the road and twinkled through the intertwined branches of the trees. Madeline felt languid and content, having tasted champagne for the first time with lunch. She barely recalled what she ate, so excited had she been to dine in a restaurant and sit across from George, who was so charming that all the ladies stole glances at him over the rims of their glasses. Not only had Madeline felt grown-up, but surprisingly, she’d forgotten her misery for hours on end and had experienced a glimmer of hope for the future.
“George, thank you for a wonderful day,” Madeline said as the carriage left the city behind and entered a tranquil stretch of road. George sat across from her, with his back to the driver, who whistled under his breath as if they weren’t even there.
“Are you happy?” George asked, smiling at her.
“Yes. And tired.”
George came to sit next to Madeline, putting a protective arm about her shoulders. She rested her head on his shoulder, the way she used to when Daddy sat next to her on the settee at home. It felt companionable and natural.
“Enjoy the drive,” George said softly. “We’ll be home before dark. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Maddy. I was beginning to despair of ever seeing you smile.”
Madeline looked up at and smiled just for him. She was still floating on a cloud of happiness when they arrived at the plantation. The sky was a deep shade of lavender, and the sickle of the new moon seemed to be suspended directly above the house, the delicate crescent surrounded by stars. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass, and a chorus of insects filled the night with song. Madeline couldn’t ask for a more perfect evening. Still full from lunch, she asked to be excused from supper and went up to her room, where she threw open the windows and snuggled into the widow seat, her arms wrapped around her legs.
For the first time since her father’s death, Madeline saw a way forward for her. She would get used to life on the plantation, and in time, George would see to it that she was introduced to society and made a good match. Some girls married as young as fifteen, but there was no rush. Amelia had married George when she was eighteen and he twenty-one. That was the perfect age, Madeline decided as she finally left her perch by the window and prepared for bed. Cissy had helped her out of her hoops and corset when she first came in, so all she had to do was put on her nightdress and climb into bed. She stretched out on the cool white sheets, a small smile playing about her lips, and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she was jolted out of a deep sleep by anxious voices in the corridor and the sound of several pairs of feet treading up and down the stairs. Madeline got out of bed and went to the door, peering into the dim hallway. Sybil was standing at the top of the stairs, her expression stern, as Cissy and Bette—still in their nightclothes—brought up pitchers of steaming hot water and clean towels. A low moan came from Amelia and George’s bedroom. The door was closed, but Madeline could hear a man’s voice—not George’s—speaking softly.
“What’s happened?” Madeline asked Sybil. She rarely addressed her directly, but there was no one to ask except the servants and they looked harassed enough.
“Amelia’s pains have started,” Sybil replied brusquely.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can go back to your room and not get in the way.”
Sybil’s tone brooked no argument, so Madeline did as she was told and got back into bed, but sleep was impossible. After about an hour, she retreated to the window seat where she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and fitted herself deeper into the corner, making herself as small as possible as life went on just outside her room. Amelia’s moans turned to screams, and Madeline heard George’s voice several times, begging for news of his wife through the closed door of their bedroom.
“George, go downstairs and wait,” Sybil replied, as if addressing an errant boy. “Dr. Holbrook will speak to you as soon as he is able.”
Madeline heard George’s footsteps as he trudged down the stairs. She considered joining him but changed her mind, not wishing to intrude. Madeline found her dark corner comforting and remained in her hiding place, her ears attuned to whatever was happening down the hall.
The night dragged on. Amelia’s screams grew more desperate and hoarse, and Sybil’s commands to the servants more hostile. Madeline must have dozed off in the small hours because when she woke the house was silent. A faint strip of light rimmed the horizon as night finally gave way to morning, and a fresh wind moved through the trees, making the gauzy curtains billow like the sails of a ship. Madeline stretched her stiff muscles, fetched her dressing gown, and quietly stepped into the corridor. She couldn’t hear any sounds coming from Amelia’s room, so she made her way downstairs. Cissy or Bette might be up, although they would be exhausted after a night of boiling water and running up and down with kettles and towels.
The first floor was still dark, except for a faint light glowing beneath the parlor door. Perhaps George had fallen asleep and forgot to turn down the lamp. Madeline stopped on the stairs, unsure whether to return to her room or check on George, when she heard Sybil’s voice coming from the parlor. She was speaking very low, but Madeline could still make out her words in the tomb-like silence of the house.
“Pull yourself together, George. The child didn’t stand a chance. Surely you realized that as soon as Amelia went into labor. A few more weeks in the womb and it might have survived. I’ve known seven-month babies who suffered no ill effects, but this one came too early. Pity Amelia didn’t die in childbirth,” she added coldly.
