“Of course.”
Madeline had no desire to remain by herself, but she could hardly deny George a few moments of privacy. She wanted to run from this place and never come back. How sad it was that all that remained of two vibrant, loving people were these gray stones with just their names and dates of death. If it wasn’t for her, it’d be as if they’d never lived at all. Her father had done something to shame his family, and even in death he remained unforgiven and unmourned.
“Daddy, I don’t know what you did to make your family despise you so, but I want you to know that I love you and miss you, and will continue to miss you for the rest of my days,” Madeline said to her father’s stone.
“And Mama, I feel the lack of you every single day. I’ve been really struggling since Daddy’s death, but I’m doing my best to conduct myself in a way that would have made you proud.” She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them first to her mother’s stone and then to her father’s. “Goodbye.”
Madeline turned away walked in the direction George had taken. She didn’t want to remain at the cemetery any longer. She saw George standing, head bent, in front of a grand mausoleum with the name Besson carved into the lintel above the door. He looked young and vulnerable and she felt a wave of affection for him. Her grandmother might be cold and unfeeling, but at least Cousin George cared for her, so perhaps that was enough.
George turned away from the tomb as Madeline approached. He smiled and his eyes lit up, the melancholy replaced by genuine warmth. “I’m starving. Have you ever been to Tujague’s?”
“No.”
“Then you are in for a treat. Their brisket with horseradish is not to be missed. I always have it when I’m in town. But today it will taste even better.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have such a lovely companion,” George replied, offering Madeline his arm. “Let’s go, Miss Besson.”
Madeline accepted George’s arm as they strolled out of the cemetery. She didn’t mention it to George, but she felt her cloud of melancholy lift as they stepped back out into the street. She was grateful to George for taking her to visit her parents’ resting place, but she had no desire to return. She’d carry them in her heart always, but the gray stone coffins were not how she wanted to remember her mother and father, or the little brother who would sleep with them for eternity.
Chapter 20
April 2014
New Orleans, Louisiana
Quinn left her hotel on St. Louis Street and walked toward the cemetery. It was another warm, sunny day, and her spirits were high despite the grim errand she was about to undertake. As an archeologist, she wasn’t put off by cemeteries. At least the people buried there had a name, unlike so many whose identities had been forgotten by history—like Petra and Edwin, whose remains Quinn had unearthed only a few months ago, or Elise and James who’d been buried alive, their very existence obliterated by a vengeful husband and father. She’d given their identities back to them, but there were countless others who had simply vanished into the sands of time, forgotten before the earth could even claim them.
Quinn always felt pity for the nameless skeletons she came across in her profession. Those people hadn’t been so different from modern-day people. They had loved, hated, worried about the future, and strove for whatever it was that was important to them. How fleeting all those feelings and needs were in the face of time. Human beings ended up being dead a lot longer than they enjoyed being alive, and she used the term ‘enjoyed’ loosely. Life, especially in centuries past, was all about survival, not enjoyment. Quinn was grateful to have been born in the twentieth century, and more grateful still that she got to pursue what she loved. Had she been born in a previous era, her life would have been very different, being a woman, and a bastard to boot. Her fate would have been sealed the day of her birth, her choices limited to only a few unpleasant options.
During the short walk to the cemetery, Quinn enjoyed the bohemian atmosphere of the French Quarter. A part of her wished she’d come in early March for Mardi Gras, which had been ‘legendary,’ according to Brett. He’d used a few other terms that Quinn wouldn’t have associated with a parade or a bar crawl, but she had some catching up to do on American slang and traditions. She smiled to herself when she thought of Brett. He hadn’t seemed upset at all to find out he had a sister; in fact, he’d seemed pleased, and instantly turned the situation to his advantage.
“Good, now Dad can pin all his hopes and dreams on you and stop ruining my life,” Brett said with a wink as Seth glowered at him. “How do you feel about inheriting a trucking business? It’s so much more glamorous than it sounds,” he added, oozing sarcasm. “Did I tell you how many different types of trucks there are, and which ones are used for which types of deliveries? Oh, and this is really exciting.” He clapped theatrically, royally annoying his father. “We are about to invest in refrigerated trucks. Imagine the possibilities! Dad is already wooing several distributors of seafood and produce. When he told me, I nearly wet myself.”
“You ungrateful little…” Seth hissed. “I should disinherit you and see how you like it.”
“Dad, I’m just joking.” Brett smiled and patted his father on the back. “I’m grateful for everything you do for me, and always will be, as long as you let me off the hook and allow me to pursue my own dreams. Quinn got to pursue hers. Did you always want to be an archeologist?” he asked, deftly changing the subject before his father could get any angrier.
Seth glared at Brett with annoyance, but didn’t say anything, allowing him to prattle on. They’d clearly had this conversation before, and would again. Quinn chose not to comment, but she could sympathize with Brett’s point of view. Few children chose to follow in their parents’ footsteps these days, especially when those footsteps led to the less-than-posh offices of a trucking concern. Seth’s business was clearly profitable, but the day-to-day operations held little interest for Brett, who had plans of his own.
“And your fiancé is an archeologist too. What fun you must have,” Brett mused, putting on a comical face and a phony British accent. “‘How was your day, darling? Dig up anything good today? ’ ‘Not really, sweetie, just some plague-ridden peasants of no historical account.’” Brett laughed at his own joke and blessed Quinn with a winsome smile. “Can I visit you at a dig one day? A cool dig, like if you find the missing Roman Ninth Legion. Man, what I wouldn’t give to see that. Or maybe a royal burial chamber in the Valley of the Kings. Now that would be something.”
“Are you interested in history, Brett?” Quinn asked, wondering if he was just taking the mickey. She couldn’t quite tell with him.
Brett’s expression grew serious and he nodded enthusiastically. “I am, but only in the really cool stuff. I’m not interested in pottery shards or ancient stone circles. I’ll leave those to you. I like reading about famous battles.”
“Any particular historical period?” she asked, hoping to find some common ground with her brother.
“Anything, really. Have you unearthed any ancient battlefields?” Brett asked, and previously stilted conversation began to flow, with Seth looking on happily as his children bonded.
**
As Quinn approached the cemetery, she reflected that she was actually glad of the time alone. Seth had something planned for her every evening, and although she was touched by his obvious desire to get to know her, she was a little tired and needed time to process what she had been seeing when she held the ivory fan. Daily texts and emails arrived from Rhys, demanding to know what she’d learned and whether Madeline’s story would make for a dramatic episode of Echoes from the Past. It was too soon to tell, so Rhys was hedging his bets and searching frantically for another viable story should Madeline’s prove not exciting enough. Quinn supposed that was what made Rhys so good at what he did, but it also bothered her that he didn’t see the subjects of the program as actual people. To him they were nothing more than a path to ratings, and their stories didn’t really touch him the way
they touched her. But Rhys trusted her instinct and was more than willing to come to New Orleans in person should Quinn find it necessary.
She had mixed feelings about Rhys at the best of times, but having him in New Orleans would prove a welcome distraction from getting to know her father. Had Quinn ever been asked to describe her perfect dad, Seth Besson would be last in line. She found him to be generous with his time and money, and emotionally open to getting to know the daughter he’d never known he had, but he was also garrulous, a little overbearing, and as different from Quinn as it was possible to be. Every time she returned to her hotel after spending several hours with Seth, she tried to see if she could pinpoint anything they had in common, but even after a week of dinners, strolls around the city, visits to jazz clubs, and companionable lunches on Seth’s patio, she still couldn’t name a single thing that tied them to each other in that biological way of parents and children.
It wasn’t easy with Brett either. Quinn had made an instant connection with Logan, but the younger boys were more difficult to reach. She wasn’t giving up on Jude just yet, but her time with Brett was limited, so she had tried to get to know him in a way he wouldn’t find intrusive. Too many questions came off like an interrogation, so Quinn allowed Brett to take the lead. He was more sarcastic and irreverent with Seth around, but more at ease on his own, and more willing to share. She had spent a pleasant morning with him the day before, when she finally visited the Arabella Plantation. She could have visited it sooner on her own, but decided to wait a few days and learn something more of life on the plantation before seeing it in person.
“Dad’s busy at the office today, so he asked me to take you on a plantation tour,” Brett said as he pulled up to the hotel in his sports car. He wore a baseball cap, and a faded T-shirt with some band’s logo on it hung loosely on his thin frame. Mirrored aviator shades hid his eyes, so Quinn couldn’t tell if he was pleased or annoyed at having to spend the morning with her. “He thought you’d like to see what your great-grandparents lived like. I’ll save Arabella for last. It’s not as grand as some of the others on the River Road, but still pretty impressive.”
Quinn had seen the plantation in her visions and couldn’t wait to see the real thing. Normally, she never got to see a place in person as it had actually looked in the past. It was like watching a film that took place at some point in history and then seeing the place for herself and finding it transformed into a bustling square or a busy street lined with shops and trendy restaurants. Many times, the original structure had been ground into dust, or all that remained of a building or a temple was a pile of rocks or broken columns. If the Arabella Plantation was frozen in time, she might actually get a glimpse of Madeline’s world and see the room she’d slept in or the veranda where she’d often sat with Amelia, a glass of lemonade in hand. Quinn was also curious to examine the slave quarters. Having seen them through Madeline’s eyes, she wanted to see them for herself and visit the place where Mammy had lived with her family.
“Do you mind if we skip the others and go directly to the Arabella Plantation? I’m feeling a little impatient,” Quinn confessed.
“Sure, whatever you want,” Brett replied, clearly relived to be spared a boring morning.
He turned off the air conditioning, opened the windows, and put down the top of the car. Quinn rested her arm on the car door as she took in the grandeur of the river that flowed lazily past and the lush landscape, so unique to Louisiana. A lovely breeze caressed her face and moved through her unbound hair. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine traveling down the River Road in a horse-drawn carriage. It had probably taken some time to get to the plantation houses, but it must have been a lovely drive. Today, the road wasn’t as picturesque as it had been at the height of the antebellum period. They drove past industrial sites, strip malls, and several run-down farms where rusted machinery sat idle among a jumble of items Quinn couldn’t quite identify. There were several seedy bars with peeling signs, some of them boasting go-go dancers, and a few discount stores where one could buy anything from household goods to small appliances. The drive became a little more pleasant once they neared the historical stretch where dozens of plantations reigned in all their restored glory.
The Arabella Plantation manor house looked just as Quinn had envisioned it--a wedding cake whimsy of a house: white, elegant, and frilly in its decoration. The black wrought-iron balcony and shutters were just the same as she’s seen in her visions, the paint fresh and glossy.
Brett parked the car and led Quinn into the foyer, where a small ticket counter stood unobtrusively in the corner. He purchased two tickets and helped himself to a map of the grounds.
“Is Ms. Aptekar Hill here?” Quinn asked the young woman manning the desk.
“Yes, she’s doing a tour at the moment. She should be finished in a few minutes, if you’d like to wait.”
“Yes, we would,” Quinn replied. Seth had said that Ms. Aptekar Hill was the most knowledgeable guide, so Quinn wanted to take a tour with her instead of the bored-looking young man who’d been about to approach them.
A few minutes later, a small group of tourists left by the front door after thanking their guide for an informative tour. The woman turned to Quinn and Brett with a bright smile.
“Well, good morning. Are you ready for the tour? I’m Dina Aptekar Hill. Please call me Dina.”
Quinn liked her on sight. She was one of those people who instantly made you feel at ease. She looked younger than Quinn had expected, with abundant blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and smiling blue eyes.
“The Arabella Plantation once belonged to the Besson family,” Dina began.
“Yes, we know. We are the lucky descendants,” Brett quipped.
“Are you really? What a treat. I’ve met Seth, of course, and his father and grandfather, but it’s a pleasure to meet the younger generation. You must know something about the place then. Would you like me to do the tour, or would you like to just walk around and ask questions?”
“I’d prefer the tour,” Quinn said. “This is all new to me.”
Dina nodded. “You’ve come a long way to see it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I live in London,” Quinn replied. “I’ve only recently discovered a connection to the Bessons. I never expected to find my roots in Louisiana.”
“Very few people are familiar with their family history, beyond that of the most recent generations,” Dina said. “I always thought my family emigrated from France, which they had, but it turned out that my maiden name is of Polish origin. Aptekar means pharmacist, or apothecary. One of my ancestors wound up in France at some point in the seventeenth century. Many immigrants changed their names in order to fit in, but that particular Aptekar decided not to, for which I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t have been able to find him otherwise.”
“Was it very difficult to track him down?” Quinn asked, intrigued. She’d found very little useful information about the Bessons, and wondered if Dina had encountered the same roadblocks when researching her own family.
“It’s not difficult when you know where to look. I actually do this for a living,” Dina added. “I fell in love with genealogy when I was in my twenties. At first, I did it as a hobby, helping friends uncover their buried past, but then I started my own business. I only do the tour-guiding part time.”
“Do you have many clients?” Quinn asked.
“I do have some private clients, but my biggest clients are the estate attorneys who need to track down potential heirs. It’s cheaper for them to hire a freelance genealogist than to spend their own precious time digging through archives and surfing databases.”
“Do you get results every time?”
“Not every time, but most of the time. I make a lot of people very happy. Imagine suddenly getting a windfall you never expected."
"Must be nice,” Brett chimed in.
“It is, especially when the estate in question is sizeable.”
“Perhaps you can do
some research on the Bessons,” Quinn suggested. “I’d pay you, of course.”
“Oh, no need, doll. I’ve already found anything there is to find out. How could I not, working here?” she asked with a grin. “I will gladly tell you all I know. The Bessons were a fascinating family, by all accounts.”
“In what way?” Quinn asked, genuinely curious.
“Probably in the way that they were very unlucky. I’ll start at the beginning, if you don’t mind.”
“Please.”
“Maurice Besson built the original plantation house on this site at the end of the eighteenth century. He made a fortune trapping in Canada and brought his money to Louisiana, where prime land was going cheap. Maurice married Arabella Dupre, the only child of Andre Dupre, who owned the adjoining tract of land. It was probably a calculated move since Maurice consolidated his holdings as soon as the old man died. Maurice named the plantation after his wife.”
“Did he love her?” Brett asked. The question surprised Quinn, but she remained quiet, allowing Dina to answer.
“I can only speculate, but I would say the answer to your question is yes. He did name the plantation after her, and he never remarried after she died in childbirth in her late twenties. Maurice was still a young man and could have had his pick of local beauties. Instead, he concentrated on growing his profit. He bought as many as one hundred slaves during his lifetime, and left a very profitable plantation to his only surviving son, Jean. We do know from letters that were found at the house that Maurice handpicked a bride for his son. Her name was Sybil Talbot, and like Arabella, she was the only child of a wealthy family. Sybil, and in turn her husband, inherited everything and invested it in the plantation. Another hundred slaves were purchased and put to work in the cotton and sugar cane fields.”
“That doesn’t sound very unlucky to me,” Brett observed as he trailed after Dina from one opulent room to the next.
“What made the Bessons unlucky was the brevity of their lifespans. They had it all, but they never lived long enough to enjoy it. Maurice died in his forties, as did his son Jean, who caught swamp fever. Jean Besson’s sons, Albert and Charles, both died at an early age, leaving only one child behind between them, Albert’s son George. George was the one in residence at the plantation at the outbreak of the Civil War.”
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