Page 73 of The Unforgiven
“If the situation calls for it,” Jason replied calmly.
“I’m ready, Jason. Let’s go,” Quinn said and turned away from Luke.
“Quinn!” he called after her, but she didn’t turn around.
“Are you all right?” Jason asked as he held the truck door open for her and then climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Perfectly. But thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said with a smile.
“Damsels in distress are my particular specialty. Look, all jokes aside, if you’re uncomfortable with that guy, just say the word.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said and put her hand on Jason’s arm. “I think he got the message loud and clear.”
Jason nodded and started the engine. “Off we go then. I hear the swamp calling.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
JANUARY 1859
Arabella Plantation, Louisiana
Madeline floated through the house like a ghost in the days following the Christmas ball. She was alive, but she no longer felt a part of the physical world. She was a shell, a husk of her former self, a gift box discarded after the present had been removed and enjoyed. George had forsaken her, and now she would be sent away, tucked away from prying eyes until her shame could be erased. George and Amelia would get a new beginning, while Madeline would be disposed of as soon as was decently possible. She supposed many girls would thank their lucky stars for a chance at a respectable marriage and a husband who cared for them, but the thought of marrying Gilbert left Madeline feeling even more desolate than the promise of exile.
Having experienced love with George, she couldn’t begin to imagine having that type of intimacy with Gilbert. The thought of sharing his bed made her feel sick, and the idea of carrying his children brought the bitter taste of revulsion to her mouth. She wouldn’t be the first woman to marry someone she didn’t love, but perhaps it was easier if you had never loved and had never known the kind of rapture she’d known with George. She supposed that deep down she had always known their liaison would end in disaster, but she was young and naïve, and most of all trusting. Had George truly cared for her, as he’d professed, or had he simply used her to fill a void left by the death of his child and the desertion of his wife? Perhaps he had wanted to get back at Amelia for leaving when he needed her more than ever. Madeline supposed that in time she’d know the answer. She would see George again sooner or later, and his behavior toward her would answer all her questions. But for now, she had to bide her time.
She had to endure a visit from the Montlakes the day before she was set to leave for the cabin, and having to pretend that everything was well took more out of her than she could have imagined. Sybil had informed Mrs. Montlake and Gilbert that Madeline would be leaving to visit her mother’s family in Charleston, and Madeline had to deliver her carefully prepared story to divert suspicion from her sudden departure.
“May I write to you?” Gilbert asked as she walked him to the door.
“You may send your letters here,” Sybil responded in Madeline’s stead. “We will include them with our own.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Montlake said.
“I hope you’ll not forget me and write back,” Gilbert said. He looked like a dejected puppy, a state that Madeline had come to associate with him.
“Of course she’ll write back,” Sybil replied with a tinkling laugh. “What girl wouldn’t wish to correspond with her young man?”
Gilbert’s eyes lit up, his expression hopeful. “There are things I’d like to talk to you about when you return,” he said softly. “But I will wait. Mother says there’s a time for everything, and today isn’t that time.”
“No, today is not the time,” Madeline agreed. It would never be the right time, but she could hardly say so in Sybil’s hearing. All she wanted was to go back to her room and ask Cissy to loosen her corset. She could hardly breathe. Already her body had begun to change, and the tiny belly that protruded when she stood in front of the mirror in her camisole needed to be contained to avoid any suspicion.
Gilbert leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on Madeline’s cheek. “I’ll miss you, Madeline. Come back soon.”
“Oh, she’ll be back before you know it. Won’t you, Madeline? By March, at the latest,” Sybil promised. Of course, Madeline wouldn’t be back by March, or even by April or May, but Sybil could hardly tell the Montlakes that Madeline wouldn’t be returning until after she delivered her bastard. Some excuse would be made, and lies would be told.
Madeline smiled brightly as she said goodbye to the Montlakes and accepted their good wishes. She breathed a sigh of relief when they’d finally climbed into their carriage and could no longer see her face.
Sybil turned on her heel, ready to walk away. She’d hardly spoken to Madeline since the morning after the ball, addressing her only when the story needed to be worked out for the sake of the neighbors.
“I suppose you’ll expect me to write to Gilbert,” Madeline said to Sybil’s back.
“You suppose correctly. Joe will pass on his letters, and you will respond. Your letters to him will be light and airy, full of trivial details and girlish observations. You must keep him on the hook, Madeline.”
“Or what?”
“Or your future will be a lot dimmer than even you can imagine,” Sybil replied and walked away, leaving Madeline standing alone in the foyer.
Madeline recalled the gaunt and pale face of Miss Cole when she last saw her a few months back. She’d become a shadow of her former self, a drudge who lived from payday to payday, dependent entirely on the whims and moods of her employer. Madeline sighed and trudged up the stairs to her bedroom. Some practical part of her brain told her it was never too late to become a seamstress or a governess, because once set on that path, there’d be no coming back, so despite her misgivings, she had to go along with Sybil’s plan—for the time being.
