Page 88 of The Unforgiven
I’m an abomination, Mama, Madeline thought,an affront to God.
“Nothing that comes out of love can ever be an affront to God, my love,” Corrine replied, still smiling.
It’s my fault Mammy is dead, Madeline tried to explain.
Her mother shook her head but didn’t reply. The image faded. Madeline could still see Corrine’s hand, beckoning to her, but she wasn’t ready to go, not as long as she heard her son crying for her. She didn’t see Sybil leave the porch, but she heard her voice as she boarded the canoe.
“Joe, take me back to the plantation,” Sybil barked.
“What about Miss Madeline?”
“You will come back for her later.”
“Shall I summon the doctor then?” Joe asked, his voice hopeful.
“She’ll be dead by the time you come back, you fool,” Sybil said. “Wait until dark, then wrap her body and take her to New Orleans. Lay her in my family tomb. I’m the last of the Talbots, so no one will go in there ever again. Her remains will never be found. And clean this place. No one must ever know what happened here.”
“Yes, missus.”
“Oh, and bring me her fan. It’s the only thing that can give me away.”
“As you wish. What do I tell Mr. George if he ask for Miss Madeline?” Joe asked.
“You tell him that Madeline refused to marry Mr. Montlake and decided to leave with her Mammy instead. I gave her a sum of money and wished her well,” Sybil replied calmly. “She mentioned her desire to visit Europe.”
“Yes, missus.”
Madeline heard the splash of paddles as the canoe glided away from the bank. A lusty wail pierced the air, baby George announcing that he was ready for a feeding. Sybil’s voice carried over the water as she cooed to the baby, sounding for all the world like a happy grandma.
Madeline’s fingers clawed at the rough boards of the porch as she gasped for air, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Her chest heaved and her legs convulsed like those of a hanged man. Terror overcame her, but after a few moments the pain receded, leaving a feeling of peace and calm. She was no longer suffering, but floating on a gossamer cloud, free as a bird. A choking sound escaped her chest as blood gurgled from her mouth.
Madeline’s hand went to the hole in her chest, but never quite made it. It fell to her side as the light went out, replaced by eternal darkness. She didn’t hear the hungry cry of her baby or the screech of a bird as it exploded from a nearby tree and shot into the sky, its wings flapping wildly. She was gone.
FORTY-FIVE
MAY 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
Quinn hurled the fan against the wall. The fragile accessory shattered with a satisfying crack as ivory met plaster. This time she didn’t weep. She was furious. Sybil Besson had gotten away with a double murder since it was obvious no one had ever wondered what became of Madeline and Clara or bothered to investigate their disappearance. They weren’t mentioned anywhere, least of all in the history of the plantation presented with such flair by the museum staff. George and Amelia got their baby, and Sybil had gone to her grave knowing that she had assured the continuation of the line. Very commendable!
“Well, that’s about to change,” Quinn told the empty room. There wasn’t much she could do about Clara, since she rested at the bottom of the swamp, but she would find Madeline’s remains and bring the crime to light. Madeline would get a proper burial, with her name etched into a gravestone that would be erected next to Charles Besson’s. Corinne’s gravestone would need to be restored as well, since whoever had destroyed it, likely Joe acting on Sybil’s orders, had done a thorough job. Quinn wondered if Corinne’s stone had been removed during Sybil’s lifetime or at some point after. She couldn’t see why someone would desecrate her grave after Sybil’s death, but anything was possible. Perhaps George had learned the truth of Madeline’s parentage from his grandmother and wished to erase all traces of the family’s shameful past.
It might be possible to trace Clara’s descendants, Quinn mused as she walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her flushed face. She didn’t know Clara’s surname; she probably hadn’t had one, but there was bound to be some sort of list ofslaves at the plantation, and since Quinn knew the names of Clara’s sons, she could follow the thread into the present.
As she plopped into a chair, she wondered if Clara’s descendants would appreciate learning the truth or resent the interference. What good would it do them to discover that Clara’s death had gone uninvestigated and unpunished? It would be yet another crime committed against their family, a crime they could do nothing about at this stage. It wasn’t as if they could hold Seth Besson accountable. Nor should they, since it wasn’t his fault his ancestors were slave owners and murderers. Seth would suffer needlessly, and so would Brett by association.
Or maybe Clara’s family already knows, Quinn thought as she sprang out of the chair and began to pace the room, too restless to sit. Zachary and Zane must have searched for their mother when she failed to return from the bayou. It was even possible they had learned the truth of what happened from Joe. He must have told someone what he’d witnessed that day, despite being threatened by Sybil. Or had he chosen to remain silent to shield himself from Sybil’s wrath and to save Zach and Zane from helpless fury?
She’d never know unless she spoke to the family, which she would have to do before the show aired in Britain. It wouldn’t be shown here in New Orleans, but information had a way of spreading, especially through the internet, and Clara’s descendants might get wind of the program. Besides, the BBC would probably need their consent to tell that part of the story, unless they changed Clara’s name in order to avoid getting mired in legal proceedings. Was there a precedent for this kind of situation? She’d need to run this by Rhys so he could clear the finished script with the Legal Department.
In the meantime, Quinn would focus on Madeline. She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was just past two in the afternoon. She had no plans with Seth tonight, since he had a meeting after work, but perhaps Brett was free. For some reason, she felt reluctant to do this alone.
Quinn called Brett and was happy when he answered in person. “Hey, sis.”
“Hey, yourself. Listen, I need a favor. It’s a bit gruesome actually, so I’ll understand if you say no.”
“Do tell. I’m all ears.” Brett sounded like an excited child.
