The Unforgiven

by Irina Shapiro

  Madeline wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just remained silent and allowed George to talk.

  He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he had a terrible headache. He likely did. “Amelia is asleep. Dr. Holbrook gave her something to sedate her. She was devastated, poor thing. She thinks it’s her fault.”

  “How can it be her fault?”

  “It isn’t, but she lost two babies before this one. The other miscarriages were early on in the pregnancy, so she thought this time she’d carry to term. Dr. Holbrook advised bed rest for the last six months of the pregnancy, but Amelia refused. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of lying down for six months, especially when she was feeling so well. Now she blames herself.” George sighed and shook his head in disbelief. “The child will have to be interred. And named.”

  George covered his face with his hands as a sob tore from his chest. His shoulders shook and Madeline went to him and wrapped her arms around him. He didn’t push her away. Instead, he turned around and buried his face in her middle, his arms going around her waist.

  “He’s so perfect, Madeline,” he muttered. “So beautiful. It’s like he’s sleeping. Oh, how I wish he was. And now I have to put him in a box and shut him away in the Besson tomb, next to my parents. It’s so unfair,” George sobbed.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Just be there for Amelia. She’ll need understanding and support.”

  And she won’t get it from Sybil, Madeline added silently.

  George pulled away and used the back of his hand to dry his eyes. “I better clean up and change. I have a plantation to run.” He walked from the room without a second glance.

  Chapter 23

  Madeline was coming out of the library when she saw the undertaker’s carriage through the open door. He had several tiny coffins in the back, ready to show his wares to the grieving parents. George came out to greet him, pointed to a highly polished dark-brown box, and walked away, his shoulders slumped in misery. The undertaker took the coffin George had selected and headed into the house, walking past Madeline toward the door to the cellar. Madeline hadn’t thought about it until that moment, but she supposed they had taken the baby’s corpse to the coolest place in the house to keep it fresh until the funeral, and to keep Amelia from coming across it should she get it into her head to get up and wander around the house in search of her baby.

  Sybil swept past Madeline and followed the undertaker down into the cellar. In her hands was a tiny embroidered gown, the one Amelia had been working on when Madeline had first arrived at the plantation. Sybil glared at Madeline before shutting the door.

  “Amelia is awake. Go to her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Madeline climbed the stairs with a heavy heart. What could she say to a young woman who’d just lost her baby?

  Amelia was sitting up in bed, propped up by several pillows. She looked wan and listless and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but her hair had been brushed and plaited and she wore a clean nightdress. The room showed no trace of last night’s tragedy. The sheets looked clean, and someone had taken away the soiled towels and linens. Madeline hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to enter, but Amelia held out her hand.

  “Come in, Madeline,” she said. Her voice was almost a whisper, hoarse from hours of screaming.

  “I’m so sorry, Amelia,” Madeline said as she sat in a chair someone had left by the bed.

  Amelia nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Are you in pain?”

  Amelia began to cry quietly, as if her grief were something to be ashamed of. She covered her face and hunched over, rocking back and forth in her despair.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” Madeline asked. She hated feeling so helpless in the face of Amelia’s suffering.

  Amelia shook her head. She removed her hands from her puffy, tear-stained face and turned to face Madeline, her eyes full of anguish and fear. “The physical pain will go away, but not the pain in my heart. This is the third baby I’ve lost, Madeline. And now I’ve lost George as well.”

  “You haven’t lost George. He loves you.”

  “A man rarely loves a woman who can’t give him what he wants, and what he wants is a child.”

  “You’ll have another baby, a living baby,” Madeline insisted.

  Amelia shook her head as tears slowly slid down her pale cheeks once again. “Madeline, you are too young to understand, and I probably shouldn’t be using my pain as an excuse to disillusion you, but girls like you and I are only good for one thing. We are bred for only one purpose. We are a bridge to the next generation. None of this is worth anything,” Amelia made a sweeping gesture, “if there’s no one to leave it to. George is the last Besson descendant. If he dies without an heir, everything dies with him.”

  “Amelia, you’re still young,” Madeline protested.

  “Do you know what Dr. Holbrook said to me?” she asked, the look of desolation in her eyes replaced by burning anger. “He said I should pray for forgiveness and acceptance. Forgiveness because I’m clearly to blame, and acceptance because he doesn’t believe I can carry a child to term. He said as much to Sybil. Sybil is obsessed with this place, and she’s very possessive of George. She will not allow her family’s legacy to crumble into ruins.”

  Madeline was about to disagree, but having overheard Sybil’s advice to George, she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She had thought Amelia was oblivious to the undercurrents around her, but now Madeline realized Amelia had been a lot more aware than she’d given her credit for.

  “You need to rest,” Madeline said as she got to her feet. Amelia did look exhausted, but that wasn’t the reason Madeline needed to leave. She’d rather be anywhere than in this room. Amelia was drowning in her desperation and Madeline felt as if Amelia would drag her down to the bottom with her. At fifteen, Madeline wasn’t equipped to deal with the depth of Amelia’s grief or her fears for the future. She could barely handle her own.

  “Yes, you’re right. Thank you for coming to see me.” Amelia’s voice sounded flat again, and all the emotion left her eyes. She leaned back deeper into the pillows and closed her eyes, giving Madeline an excuse to leave.

  Chapter 24

  May 2014

  Berwick-Upon-Tweed, England

  A churchlike hush settled over the hospital once visiting hours came to an end and the patients were settled in for the night. Only a few visitors remained, those whose loved ones might not make it through the night. A low light burned over the nurses’ station where two efficient-looking representatives of the caring profession held down the fort, mugs of tea in hand. Gabe could just see them through the partially open door of his father’s room.

  Graham Russell looked like a stone effigy—white, still, and lifeless—but his breathing was even and he appeared to be asleep rather than unconscious. Gabe reached over and took his mother’s hand. She never looked away from her husband, but the gesture seemed to bring her back to life.

  “You were born here, you know,” Phoebe said as she shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

  “I know.”

  “Never did like this place. Looks like a dungeon,” Phoebe added. “I haven’t been here in years. Not since your grandmother passed. It hasn’t changed much.”

  The Berwick Infirmary did have the appearance of a stronghold, or a Victorian lunatic asylum. Built of gray stone, it had a tower that must have at some point housed a bell. There was a strict no mobile phones policy on the ward, for which Gabe was grateful since it gave him an excuse not to call Quinn, who’d rung twice since he left London. He longed to talk to her and share his worry and fear, but didn’t want to upset her. It wasn’t as if she could do anything to help. He’d ring her in the morning, once he had something definite to say.

  “Mum, what exactly did the doctor say?” Gabe asked. He’d arrived in Berwick-upon-Tweed only an hour ago and spent most of it arguing with the night porter, wh
o had tried to turn him away and advised him to come back in the morning when visiting hours began.

  “He said your father had a cardiac event,” Phoebe replied. She didn’t elaborate, and Gabe didn’t press her. He could see for himself that things were dire, and making his mother reiterate the details would only upset her further.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, Mum?” Gabe felt an overwhelming need to get up and walk, having spent the past eight hours in the car. He’d dropped off Emma, then spent over an hour in rush-hour traffic, followed by the additional six hours it took to get to Berwick. Now that he was finally here, he felt like a caged animal who, despite its limitations, couldn’t sit still and paced its cage for hours on end.

  “Yes, tea would be lovely. Have you called Quinn?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t want to worry her.”

  Phoebe nodded, but didn’t reply. Gabe left the room and went in search of tea. He found a vending machine at the end of the corridor, but the tea would be weak and lukewarm at best, so he returned to the nurses’ station.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea for my mother?” he asked the nurses, hoping they’d take pity on him. The older nurse looked annoyed and was about to direct him back to the vending machine, but the younger one smiled and nodded. She was in her early twenties and seemed to have a sunny disposition.

  “We have a kettle set up in the breakroom. I’ll make you a fresh brew. Back in a tic.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Gabe said. His father would have said something like “Thanks, luv,” but having been a college administrator for years, Gabe had learned the art of political correctness. Some women wouldn’t mind being called luv, but others might find the endearment condescending or even sexist. Monica bloody Fielding had even filed a sexual harassment complaint against one of the older professors who called everyone luv, pet, or dear. Gabe had had to call the man in, read him the riot act, and extract the promise of an apology to Monica, who had gloated as if she’d won a million-dollar harassment suit.

  The young nurse returned with two plastic cups of strong tea and extracted a half-eaten package of biscuits from her pocket, which she held out to Gabe.

  “Your mum’s been here for hours. She must be starving.”

  “That’s very kind,” Gabe replied and took the biscuits. He was hungry himself, not having had time to grab anything before leaving London. He’d bought a cup of coffee at a petrol station, but hadn’t thought to grab a sandwich, which would have come in handy by dinnertime.

  Gabe returned to his father’s room and handed the cup of tea to Phoebe, who accepted it gratefully.

  “Would you like a chocolate biscuit?” He held the package out to her.

  Phoebe took one and bit into it, chasing it with a sip of tea. “I hadn’t realized I was hungry,” she said, as if surprised that such a thing were even possible in the face of the day’s events.

  “Mum, let me take you home. They’ll ring us if anything changes. You look exhausted,” Gabe suggested, though knew what she’d say.

  Phoebe shook her head. “No, I can’t leave. You go on if you want. I’ll wait for the doctor.”

  “I don’t think anyone will come till morning.”

  Phoebe didn’t reply. She drank her tea and set the cup on a low plastic table. Her gaze never shifted from Graham’s face, and her grim expression remained in place. She stayed that way for hours, until the patch of sky outside the window lightened to a deep gray and the stars began to fade in preparation for sunrise.

  Gabe’s eyelids felt heavy from lack of sleep and his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. He glanced at his watch and wondered if Emma was already up and running rings around Sylvia. He hoped Sylvia would make her a good breakfast. Emma didn’t like breakfast cereals or plain toast. Quinn always made her a hot breakfast before school, and Gabe had been trying to do the same, despite his very limited cooking abilities. He could manage a boiled egg and toast soldiers though, and instant porridge, which Emma liked with raisins and a spoonful of honey. Thinking about breakfast made Gabe even hungrier. He’d have to step out and get something soon.

  He forgot all about food when Phoebe shifted, her head swiveling toward the door as if on cue. A young doctor entered the room, followed by a male nurse.

  “Good morning. I’m Dr. Abigail Spencer,” the doctor said. “I’ll be Mr. Russell’s attending physician today.”

  “What happened to Dr. Lorde?” Phoebe asked, clearly annoyed by the switch.

  “Dr. Lorde is not on call today, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to do with me.”

  Gabe glanced at his mother. She was probably thinking that Dr. Spencer looked too young to be anyone’s attending physician, but Phoebe wore the look of stoic acceptance she’d perfected over the years. The nurse checked the IV drip and emptied the bag attached to the catheter, while Dr. Spencer looked at the chart and checked Graham Russell’s vital signs.

  “I’ve consulted with Mr. Russell’s cardiologist, Dr. Nixon. He would have spoken to you himself, but he’s been called away and he’s still not back. We’ve run a battery of tests, including an electrocardiogram, an echocardiogram, and a CT, as well as a full blood workup. Mrs. Russell, when was the last time your husband saw his GP?”

  “About two months ago, I’d say.”

  Dr. Spencer shook her head in amazement. “The tests show that Mr. Russell has suffered several minor cardiac events over the past year, usually a warning sign that a more severe attack is likely, which is what’s happened. Had Mr. Russell been experiencing any chest pains prior to this?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “He’s been more tired of late, and complained of a pain in his neck a few days ago, but no chest pains.”

  “Sometimes pain in the neck, back, or chest is indicative of a heart attack. Has he had any dizziness?”

  “Not that he told me. How bad is it, Dr. Spencer?”

  “Mrs. Russell, I don’t wish to frighten you, but yesterday’s event, coupled with previous undiagnosed attacks, inflicted considerable damage to the heart muscle. The next heart attack could be fatal.”

  “So, what do we do?” Phoebe looked ashen, and Gabe put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

  “Mr. Russell will remain under observation for the next few days. Once we feel it’s safe to release him, he will need to be on bed rest for at least a week, and then start to gradually resume his daily activities. Of course, modifications will need to be made to his medication and his diet, and physical activity will need to be restricted to short walks. If he has to climb stairs to get to the bedroom, perhaps it would be wise to set up a cot downstairs. Stress is to be avoided as much as possible. Do you have any questions?”

  “Will you tell him?” Phoebe asked, jutting out her chin toward her husband. “He won’t listen to me.”

  “Dr. Nixon will explain everything to Mr. Russell when he gets in this morning.”

  “Will Graham be alert when he wakes up?”

  “Mr. Russell might be a bit woozy and irritable as a side-effect of the medication, but that will pass. I will be back to check on him when he wakes.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Gabe said and watched Dr. Spencer walk away. “Mum, are you all right?”

  “I’m frightened, Gabe,” Phoebe replied. “Your father has always been so strong, so indestructible. Seeing him like this…”

  “I know. It’s very difficult.”

  Phoebe suddenly looked up at Gabe, her eyes pleading for understanding. “Oh Gabe, the wedding.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum. The wedding can be postponed. Quinn will understand. I’ll tell her today.”

  “Gabe, go to New Orleans. I’ll look after your father.”

  “And who will look after you?”

  “I don’t need looking after,” Phebe retorted.

  “Of course you don’t, but I’d like to all the same. I’ll stay here with you until Dad wakes and then I’ll take you home, where you will rest. While you’re sleeping, I’ll take apart t
he bed in the guest room and set up a bedroom for Dad downstairs, so he won’t have to climb stairs when he comes home.”

  “But Gabe,” Phoebe protested.

  “No buts, Mum. I’m staying.”

  Chapter 25

  Staying in his old bedroom always made Gabe feel like an adolescent, but his problems had come a long way from worrying about exams and not making a fool of himself in front of some girl. He was grateful that his father had survived the heart attack and would be coming home in a few days, but he felt a deep sense of unease at not being able to get to Quinn. He was being ridiculous, he knew that, but something about this whole situation continued to trouble him. He was desperate to speak to her, but it was still very early in New Orleans, so he’d have to wait several hours until he was sure she was up.

  Gabe sighed and folded his arms behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. The house needed major repairs, but his parents were in no condition to deal with contractors and workmen, and Gabe hadn’t been around enough to help as much as he should have. Just another thing for him to feel guilty about as his father remained in Urgent Care, hooked up to machines. He had been disoriented and woozy when he finally woke up, but Dr. Spencer had assured them that Graham was doing as well as could be expected.

  It had taken Gabe nearly an hour to persuade his mother to return home for some food and rest. She was currently napping in the library, huddled beneath her husband’s favorite blanket. Gabe had come up to his room for a kip, but despite the sleepless night, couldn’t fall asleep. He’d promised his mother that he’d wake her no later than one in the afternoon and take her back to the hospital. It was now half twelve, so Gabe decided to go downstairs and make some sandwiches for when Phoebe woke up. She’d be in a rush to get back to his father, and she needed to eat, since she’d fallen asleep before he could even offer to make her breakfast.

  Gabe found some bread, ham, cheese, and tomatoes. That would do. He popped a piece of ham in his mouth and reached for his mobile. It’d be after seven in New Orleans, so hopefully he wouldn’t wake Quinn. The call went straight to voicemail, so Gabe left a neutral message and returned to the task at hand.