Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  Marigold dismissed the twinge of pity for Arthur. Her mind went to Shaun instead—her Shaun now, if what she was planning worked out. For almost a year, Shaun had labored long hours, going without decent clothes and other necessities, saving every penny for the day when he and Marigold could be married.

  But she knew that time had run out. They could afford to wait no longer while Shaun accumulated more money. Her father's threat to find a husband for her—someone other than Shaun Banagher—was uppermost in her mind.

  Marigold's chin lifted in an unobserved challenge. For once, Robert Tabor would not have his way, she decided.

  ". . . Lyle Ravenal Tabor, child of the covenant. . ." the priest intoned, bringing Marigold's mind back to the ceremony taking place.

  Maranta, standing on the other side of the baby, looked happily into her new little brother's face. He had the same dark coloring that she and her mother had.

  When the ceremony was over, Robert Tabor stepped forward and claimed his son from Arthur's arms. His fierce, possessive look encompassed not only his youngest child, but Eulalie, his wife, as well. And Maranta, seeing it, remembered what Marigold had said on their way to the parlor.

  Unexpectedly, Maranta shivered. Although she loved her father, even he frightened her. She was glad that she would never have to submit to any man. In two days' time, she would be eighteen, and on her birthday, she planned to ask permission to enter the convent.

  2

  Eighteen summers, and the twins had never once set foot on the island where they had been born—Tabor Island, just off the coast of Charleston.

  The old tabby house, built of oyster shells and lime, was gone, Marigold knew, leveled by the hurricane that swept the island on the day of their birth. Feena had told her that much. But everything else remained a mystery. And any effort to get her mother to talk about that summer was met with defeat. Today, on their eighteenth birthday, she was sure it would be no different.

  Once, using her brother's telescope, Marigold had been able to see the ancient lighthouse rising out of the mist surrounding the island. But that was all. They had never been allowed to get close enough to see the remains of the old house, or what the island actually looked like.

  Now, standing in the bedroom she shared with her twin, Marigold glanced at her mother, who waited for the two girls to finish dressing for their party. Eulalie sat in the window seat and stared out the panes of glass, miles away in thought. Marigold watched her mother for a moment. Was she, too, thinking of the island and what had happened that day so long ago?

  At the rustling of the dresses, Eulalie turned from the window and gazed at her daughters. For the first time since they were babies, the twins were dressed exactly alike, in the elegant dresses that Mrs. Windom had made for them—white moiré silk, with yards of matching lace around the hems. The sleeves were billowing puffs, flaring out from the shoulders almost to the elbows, and by their enormous size, dwarfing the tiny waists, before the skirts expanded in a cone shape of voluptuous proportions.

  "How beautiful you both are," Eulalie said with pride in her serene dark eyes. She opened the two small velvet boxes that lay in her lap and summoned the girls to her side. "Before we go to the salon, I would like to give you your first present—from your father and me."

  She held out the exquisitely shaped gold lockets on thin, delicate chains, and with a kiss for each daughter, she fastened the intricate golden clasps around their necks. "Happy Birthday, mes petites."

  Excitedly, Maranta and Marigold dashed to the mirror to examine their gifts.

  "It's beautiful," Maranta said, turning back to her mother. "Thank you, Maman. I shall always treasure it." Her serious dark eyes moistened with tears as she fingered the delicate gold chain.

  "You silly goose," Marigold said, nudging her sister. "You always cry at the wrong time. As your elder sister, I command you to smile as a proper thank-you to Maman."

  Maranta brushed her hand across her eyes. "Don't be overbearing, Marigold," she replied. "Just because you're a few minutes older doesn't mean you can boss me all the time."

  A teasing glint came into Marigold's eyes. "You are not only younger, Maranta, but you stopped growing too soon, too."

  As Maranta drew herself up to her full height, she said, "Two inches means nothing."

  "Souci! Maranta!" Eulalie said, laughing. "Don't get into an argument now. It's time to go and greet your guests. And Marigold, please try to curb your tongue and be nicer to Crane. He seems to be quite taken with you."

  "Dear Crane," Marigold said, making a face. "If it weren't for nice Cousin Julie, I could easily tell her spoiled, adopted son to drop over the seawall."

  "But you won't do that, will you, Marigold?" Maranta teased. "Instead, you'll have to smile prettily when he gives you his present and then suffer his not-so-cousinly kiss."

  "And what about you, Maranta, with all the condessa's attentions these past two weeks—treating you like some pet puppy?" Marigold retaliated. "I wouldn't be surprised if she planned to put you in one of her wicker trunks to take you back to Brazil with her."

  Maranta stuck her tongue out at Marigold.

  Eulalie shook her head at her daughters. "If I did not know better, mes enfants, I would think you both about six years old! I trust you are now ready to act like young ladies?"

  "Oui, Maman," they chorused and followed her out of the bedroom and toward the family parlor.

  Marigold, her cheeks far too flushed, attempted to match Maranta's dainty steps down the hallway. Her thoughts were not on the party, but on her own plans and what was to take place later that night. And as she glanced at Maranta, she felt guilty that she had not confided in her sister. But the success of her venture had forced her to say nothing. She would make it up to her dark-haired twin later, she decided, when the family had forgiven her for her actions.

  The packed valise was already hidden in the garden gazebo, waiting for the appointed hour, late that same evening, when everyone would be asleep and Shaun would come for her. Marigold tugged at her lip as she remembered Shaun's objections to slipping away in the night. He had wanted to face Robert Tabor and ask properly for Marigold as his wife. But Marigold knew her father too well. He would never consent to such an alliance. No, this was the only way—to elope—and then it would be too late for Robert Tabor to stop their marriage.

  Maranta, still mulling over Marigold's teasing words concerning the condessa, did not notice Marigold's high color or unusual quietness. Instead, she followed her maman into the parlor, until the noise of well-wishers suddenly greeted her, banishing her troubled thoughts and turning the frown on Maranta's face into a smile.

  Hands reached out to propel the twins into the center of the room. They were surrounded by Arthur, Crane and his mother Julie, the Condessa Louisa, and their father Robert Tabor, with the family priest, Father Ambrose, standing beside him.

  Two important events were taking place within the space of two days—first the christening, and now the twins' birthday, with the same small group of people attending both.

  Outside the circle, a childish voice penetrated the noise. "The presents—'Ranta! Souci! Look at all your presents. Don't you want to open them? I'll help you."

  They looked toward their small brother Robbie, who stood beside the tea table where the presents rested. Already his chubby fingers were toying with the ribbon of one of the larger presents.

  "Not yet, Robbie," Eulalie said, her voice concealing her amusement at his eagerness to help. "We'll cut the cake first, and then your sisters will open their presents."

  Seeing the look of disappointment on his face, Maranta stepped toward him. "Will you help us blow out the candles on the cake, Robbie?" she asked.

  He nodded and with one lingering look at the presents, he went with his sisters into the dining room where twin cakes, one at each end of the table, blazed with their eighteen tapers.

  Later, with the birthday cakes nearly demolished, Maranta and Marigold moved back into the
drawing room. And again, Robbie ran to the tea table where the presents waited to be opened.

  "Open this one first. It's the biggest," Robbie urged, lifting a large box and taking it to the settee where Maranta and Marigold sat together.

  It was addressed to both girls, and with their little brother helping, the twins removed the ribbons and wrapping. Inside the box were two identical teakwood chests, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl.

  "To my godchild, Maranta—To my godchild, Marigold," the identical cards read, and the name, "Uncle Arthur."

  Immediately the two eighteen-year-olds laid aside the beautiful gifts and ran to where Arthur was sitting. He stood up to receive their kisses.

  "Thank you, Uncle Arthur. Thank you," they chorused, and his pale blue eyes showed his pleasure at their enthusiasm.

  Robbie continued to preside over the presents, choosing the ones to be opened next. But just as he reached for a long, slender package, the tall, dark-haired Crane stepped forward and took it from Robbie's hand.

  Crane walked toward Marigold, and leaning over, he kissed her on both cheeks. "Happy Birthday, Marigold," he said, handing her his gift.

  With a barely disguised sound of annoyance at Crane's uncousinly kisses, Marigold moved her head and quickly lifted the lid of the small box. Her amber eyes stared in disbelief at the gaudy brooch—chips of garnets encircled by mother-of-pearl and embedded in filigreed gold. Whatever Crane had paid for the brooch was far too much. She would never be caught wearing it.

  "Garnets. How generous of you, Crane."

  At Marigold's polite reply, Maranta stifled a giggle. She knew how much her twin detested garnets. Then her attention turned to the package that Robbie thrust in her lap.

  The old condessa, seated across the room with her companion, Dona Isobel, watched with interest while Maranta untied the ribbons.

  Suddenly, Maranta's fingers became clumsy and the ribbons knotted. A coldness swept over her, and for a moment, Maranta did not want to open the package. But the feeling passed, and she continued to work with the knotted ribbon until the package was open.

  She gasped as she stared down at the gift—a brilliant cross that rested on a blue velvet background, its diamonds and pearls, elegant and exquisite, overwhelming her.

  "Aren't you going to show us your present, Maranta?" Cousin Julie asked in an amused voice. "And tell us who has given it to you?"

  Maranta lifted the heavy chain, and her troubled eyes sought out her mother. "Maman?" she whispered, as if she needed guidance. With a reassuring nod from Eulalie, she said, "It is a very beautiful cross—from the condessa."

  With the murmurs of everyone echoing in her ears, Maranta walked hesitantly across the room and laid her cheek against the thin, wrinkled cheek of the aristocratic old woman.

  "Thank you, Condessa Louisa. The cross is very—beautiful. But you shouldn't have given me anything so grand," she added.

  "Nonsense, my dear," the woman said. "I wanted you to have it. It suits you well."

  The condessa and Dona Isobel exchanged a fleeting, satisfied glance as Maranta returned to the settee.

  Much later that night, Marigold sat on the high tester bed and licked the vanilla icing from her fingers, while Maranta carefully put her birthday presents away into the lowboy by the window.

  "What did I tell you," Marigold said, eyeing the cross of pearls and diamonds that the Portuguese woman had given to Maranta. "The condessa clearly prefers you to me, and her choice of gifts proves it. There's nothing extravagant about embroidered handkerchiefs," she added, touching the small box at the end of her bed with her toe.

  "I would rather have the handkerchiefs," Maranta said, her solemn dark eyes looking down at the cross in her hands. "I have a feeling that this is a family heirloom, and the condessa should not have given it to me."

  "But if you become a part of the Monteiro family, then it won't matter, will it? We all know the condessa is shopping for a suitable bride for her son."

  "But I don't plan to marry, Souci. You know that."

  "Is that why you didn't bring a piece of cake to put under your pillow—so you couldn't dream about the man you're to marry?"

  "That's only with wedding cake, Souci, not birthday cake. And anyway—you only have crumbs left. You didn't plan very well, did you, if you expected to dream of your future husband?"

  Marigold tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and replied, "I don't need to dream about him. I already know the one I'm going to marry."

  "Shaun? Or Crane?"

  Marigold made a face at the mention of Crane's name. "Why, Shaun, of course."

  "What if Papa won't let you marry him?"

  "That doesn't matter now. I'm. . ." Marigold stopped and in an impatient voice said, "Oh, do hurry and put on your gown, Maranta. I'm tired and want to go to sleep. And the candlelight is hurting my eyes."

  Surprised at her request, Maranta said, "Aren't you feeling well, Marigold? Usually you're the one who wants to keep the light burning half the night."

  Marigold pulled the sheet over her head without replying. And Maranta, sensing her sister's impatient mood, quickly slipped into her gown and blew out the candle beside her bed.

  With guests in the house, it had been impossible for Maranta to find time to be alone with her parents—to get permission to enter the convent. But Cousin Julie and Crane were leaving the next day, and things should quiet down. She would just have to wait for the right moment to approach her parents. Maranta knelt by the side of the bed and began her evening prayers.

  "Now, what are you doing, Maranta?" Marigold's voice cut through the darkness of the room.

  There was a pause, and then Maranta answered, "I'm saying my prayers as I usually do each evening."

  Marigold started to reply and then changed her mind. She merely sighed. There was no need to try to rush Maranta, even though Shaun might already be waiting in the garden.

  Waiting. The waiting had made the day seem interminable. Through breakfast, luncheon, the party, and then the dinner later that night—having to thank everyone for the birthday gifts—having to smile and pretend to be enjoying the day, and all the time wondering if her valise might be discovered by a servant and brought back into the house—wondering if Shaun might have trouble hiring a carriage at the last minute—and now, more waiting—for Maranta to go to sleep and the household to settle down for the night.

  Marigold could hear Maranta climbing into bed. Soon, now—

  She listened as the old clock in the downstairs hall wheezed its message, each chime seemingly slower than the previous one. Marigold counted until the twelfth chime sounded and died away. And then, there was total silence, except for Maranta's even breathing that indicated she was asleep. Good. Now she could get up without fear of disturbing her sister.

  "Shaun, I'm coming," Marigold whispered, willing the message to reach him while she climbed out of bed and groped toward the wardrobe to rescue her petticoats and dress.

  Marigold's hand stopped in midair in its search; for in the distance, a baby began to cry. Marigold remained frozen, listening to the sudden stirring down the hall toward the nursery. Raven's cries grew louder, and Marigold knew he would not go to sleep again until the wet nurse had satisfied his hunger. Just her luck for the baby to wake up, tonight of all nights. But she could still get dressed, Marigold decided. And when the house became quiet again, she would be ready to join Shaun in the garden.

  The small bit of moonlight seeped through the curtains, but she dared not look out the window toward the enclosed garden to see if Shaun were there. Somehow, she was superstitious about that. Instead, she removed the silk petticoats and dress from the wardrobe and tiptoed back to her bed with them.

  The petticoats rustled as Marigold slipped them over her head. She had never noticed how noisy it was to get dressed, especially by oneself. Each sound seemed magnified in the darkness.

  Marigold glanced toward her sister's bed before continuing with her dressing. But Maranta had not s
tirred. Quickly, Marigold loosened her hair from its confining plait and ran her hands through it. That would have to suffice. No time for an elaborate coiffure, even if she could see.

  At last, Marigold felt for her kid slippers under the bed. First one, and then the other—and her reticule, hidden under her pillow—

  The bedroom door creaked open, and Marigold, alarmed at the sound, hurriedly got back into bed, dropping her reticule on the floor and pulling up the spread to shield her fully clad body. Surely, Feena was not keeping watch at night, too. Could it be her father? Had he heard her and come to see what she was doing up so late at night?

  Hardly daring to breathe, Marigold watched the door. It opened all the way, and a small form stepped over the threshold.

  "'Ranta!" the voice called softly. "I'm thirsty."

  It was seven-year-old Robbie, intent on waking up Maranta.

  Marigold leaped from her bed and whispered, "Robbie, what are you doing up?"

  "Raven woke me," he complained. "And I want some water. I'm thirsty."

  "Ssh—Don't talk so loud. Come, and I'll give you some water from my pitcher," Marigold promised. She took her brother by the hand, and with only the moonlight to guide her, she led him across the room to the stand where the pitcher rested.

  "That's enough, little piglet," Marigold scolded, taking the second cup from him. "And now, back to bed, before someone catches you."

  "Souci. . ."

  "Hush, Robbie. Please go back to bed like a good little boy."

  He hesitated. "Will you walk partway with me? The hall is awful dark."

  Reconciled to seeing him down the hall to his door, Marigold put her arm around the little boy and walked with him to his own bedroom.

  "Can you make it from here?" Marigold asked at the door. "Oh, that's all right. I might as well tuck you in, now that I've come this far."

  Marigold leaned down and brushed the burnished gold hair from the child's forehead. "Good night, Robbie." She planted a kiss on his chubby face and then backed away from the bed.

  "Souci, I'm sorry that I. . ."