"That's all right, Robbie." Marigold cut him off. "Now go to sleep."
She disappeared and Robbie sighed. She had not let him explain about the note. He was sorry that he had lost it that afternoon before giving it to her. But maybe it wasn't so important, after all. And he would tell her about it tomorrow. With that decision made, Robbie turned over on his side and went to sleep.
3
Shaun was not in the garden. Marigold waited in the gazebo, with her valise at her feet. In the darkness, she hugged her bombazine cloak closer to her body and listened for the slightest sound that would alert her to Shaun's coming.
But there was nothing, except the occasional bark of Mr. Gammon's dog down the street. Lucky for her that Jason's hunting dogs were at Midgard. It would not have done for her older brother's hounds to be in the garden with her. They would have given her away immediately.
While Marigold watched, the moon began its descent from high in the sky. It hovered near the treetops before finally plummeting out of sight. Gradually, Marigold's head drooped against her chest and her eyes closed.
The sea breeze, rising from the ocean, spread over the coastal battery and invaded the garden where Marigold rested. With a sudden flapping noise, the wind whipped the hem of her cloak against the valise. She sat up with a start. Had she gone to sleep? And if so, for how long?
Marigold rubbed her eyes impatiently and listened. Horses' hooves, clattering on the cobblestoned street, grew louder and then stopped.
It had to be Shaun coming for her. Eagerly, Marigold clutched the handle of her valise and listened for the gate to open and close. At its click, she felt relief. She had been so afraid that something would stop him from coming. But now, Shaun was here.
When the tall, dark figure started down the path, Marigold could wait no longer. Grabbing up her valise, she hurried from the gazebo to meet him.
"Shaun," she whispered, her mouth curving into a welcoming smile. But the voice that greeted her was not Shaun's voice. Marigold stiffened when she recognized the man standing before her.
"He's not coming for you, cousin," he said, taking the valise from her hand. "He never intended to elope with you tonight."
It was her cousin, Crane—not Shaun. And what was he saying? That Shaun was not coming?
"I. . . I don't believe you," Marigold responded in a faltering voice. "Something's happened to him. I know it. Tell me, Crane. What's happened?"
A harsh laugh escaped from Crane's lips. "What's happened?" he repeated. "Do you really want to know, Marigold?"
"Yes," she hissed with impatience. "Tell me."
"Then I suggest we go where we can't be seen. It is a long tale, and I don't relish being caught by your father in such a compromising situation. Even if your reputation is ruined, I still have mine to think about," he added in a pious tone.
Marigold, swallowing the lump in her throat, ignored his barb and walked back toward the gazebo. Crane followed, bringing her valise down the path with him.
When they were seated on the bench inside, Crane, speaking more gently to her, said, "Marigold, I wish there were some way I could tell you the truth without hurting you."
She clasped her hands tightly together and said nothing, waiting for Crane to continue. Her body shivered, and she drew her cloak closer around her.
"Are you cold?" he asked, suddenly solicitous.
"Yes—no," Marigold hedged, not wanting her cousin to know the effect his words had on her.
"Shaun Banagher is a bounder. He does not deserve anyone as beautiful as you. . ."
"For heaven's sake, Crane, spare me the sympathy and get on with it," she said, forgetting to keep her voice low.
"All right, Marigold. Even though it hurts me to tell you. It was all a joke—from the very beginning. A bet Shaun Banagher made at Keppie's Tavern last December, when he had had too much to drink."
"A bet? What kind of bet?"
"That he could get the proudest girl in all of Charleston to fall for him and agree to run away with him. He didn't even choose you, Marigold. The tavern keeper did. Shaun merely took up the challenge. And from the looks of things, he won the bet."
"I don't believe you, Crane." Marigold's voice was horrified at Crane's words.
"Would you believe me if I took you down to the tavern where he is now, and let you hear it for yourself?"
"You mean S-Shaun's discussing me—in a c-common bar?"
"Yes. And still drinking to his victory when I left."
Marigold turned to flee from Crane and his cruel words. She could not believe it of Shaun. Yet, how would Crane know that she had planned to elope that night with Shaun—unless Shaun himself had told it?
"Just a minute, Marigold," he said, putting his hand on her arm to stop her from escaping. "There is a solution, you know. You could marry me. That way, no one would believe that Shaun had jilted you. And he would have to return his winnings."
Crane's offer of marriage was the final insult. Marigold's temper overrode her caution, and she blurted out her refusal. "I would sooner be disgraced and in hell before I would consider marrying you, Crane."
His hand tightened on her arm. "Well then, you shall have your wish, cousin. For soon, all of Charleston will be laughing at you. You know how gossip spreads."
Marigold flung off Crane's hand from her arm, and with tears blurring her sight, she walked proudly down the path toward the house.
To get to her room before the weeping began—that was all she asked. And once inside her bedroom, she hurled herself onto the bed and smothered her sobs in the feather down pillow.
Maranta, still sleeping soundly in the other bed, was not aware that, for Marigold, the world had come to an end.
"Miss Marigold, wake up," Feena's voice urged her. "Your papa wants to see you right away."
Vaguely, the woman's voice penetrated her consciousness, but Marigold did not want to wake up. Something too painful was waiting for her, ready to break her heart. She groaned and turned over, hiding her face from the light.
"No use to pretend you're still asleep, Miss Marigold," Feena remonstrated. "I don't know what you did last night to make your papa so angry and your maman so sad. But you'd better get those dainty feet out of bed and on the way to the library."
The tawny yellow cat's eyes were dull and lifeless in Marigold's face as they surveyed the people in the library—the triumphant Crane Caldwell, standing beside the drapery of the French doors; her father Robert Tabor, scowling behind his mahogany desk; and her mother Eulalie, seated quietly on the divan.
"You wished to see me, Papa?" Marigold asked, hiding her nervousness at his summons.
The man stared at her with narrowed eyes while his hand opened and closed over the gold letter opener on his desk.
"Yes, Marigold," he answered finally. "Crane has informed me of what happened last night—that you were planning to run away with the man I had forbidden you to see again. Do you deny it, Marigold?" he asked.
"No, Papa," she replied and then was silent.
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Robert asked, his temper rising. "No apology—no word of explanation to your mother or me?"
"I. . . am sure that Crane has. . . told you everything."
"Oh, Souci," Eulalie said, her voice showing her sadness.
Marigold waited in the center of the room and stared ahead, looking neither at her mother or father. She would not beg for forgiveness in front of Crane. Instead, she stood as some prisoner in the dock, waiting for her sentence—the punishment to be meted out for her behavior—for her sin of misjudging Shaun Banagher, thinking he truly loved her as she had loved him.
"Then, Crane's solution seems to be the only possible one," Robert Tabor pronounced, "to keep you from being utterly disgraced. No decent low country family would ever welcome you as a daughter-in-law, when word gets out of last night's escapade."
Her father's voice was heavy to match her own heavy heart. "Is that all, Papa?" Marigold asked, still standing be
fore him.
"For now. You may go to your room, Marigold, until I can make the proper arrangements for your marriage to Crane."
Her father's words barely registered. Dismissed, she turned and walked slowly out the door without looking in Crane's direction and up the stairs to her room.
And Robert Tabor, still seated at the desk, watched as Eulalie, with tears in her eyes, excused herself from the room.
Marigold's submissiveness was something new—something that Robert did not know how to deal with. If she had complained or refused Crane's offer, as he had expected her to do. . . But Marigold was like a ghost, with no life left in her—a fact that chilled Robert much more than Marigold's wayward behavior.
Huddled in the window seat, Marigold stared out the window into the garden. No sun was visible. The sky was overcast, with clouds hovering in the distance. It was a suitable day for what had taken place—the burial of all her dreams, the complete destruction of her considerable pride. How could Shaun do this to her—jilt her and then laugh about it, broadcast it to the world? Marigold put her hands over her ears to drown out the imagined laughter. And it was in this position that Eulalie found her, after knocking at her door and getting no answer.
"Souci," Eulalie called in her soft, gentle voice, waiting for Marigold to take her hands from her ears.
Marigold looked up, seeing her mother before her.
"You do not have to marry Crane, you know," Eulalie assured her daughter. "If you wish, I will talk with your father. Perhaps I can persuade him to let you wait, at least."
"I don't care about anything anymore," Marigold replied. "I only know I can't stay in Charleston." Marigold's voice broke, and she looked out into the garden again.
"Do you love Shaun Banagher that much—to leave your family and the life you know, just to avoid seeing him again?"
Feeling the intensity of her mother's question, Marigold stared at Eulalie. How could she know the feeling inside, unless. . .?
Eulalie's lip trembled. It seemed little more than yesterday that she was busy packing her own valise to escape Columbia, the state capital, and Robert Tabor. Her mind, skipping over the years, was brought back to the present by Marigold's words.
"I. . . love no one."
Despite her denial, Eulalie was not convinced. Yet, if Marigold wanted to leave Charleston, it might be best for her to marry her cousin.
"Crane loves you, Marigold. He would be kind to you, I am sure. And Julie is pleased to think she might have you as a daughter. I would miss you, of course. But daughters have a way of getting married and leaving their mothers. I knew it would happen some day, but not quite this soon." Eulalie's attempt at lightness belied the sadness in her eyes. "And even Maranta. There is a possibility that she will leave us, too."
"Then Papa has given her permission to enter the convent?" Marigold asked.
"The convent? No, Robert would never consent to that. . ." Troubled anew, Eulalie hesitated. "But we were speaking of you, Marigold. The other can wait—for the moment."
"Where is Maranta?" Marigold asked, realizing she had not seen her twin that morning.
"She went with Julie and the condessa to. . ."
"Souci," the voice interrupted, as her twin pushed open the door to their bedroom. "Is it true? Are you actually going to marry Crane? But what about Sh—?"
Maranta stopped, putting her hand up to her mouth when she saw her mother. "Oh, I'm sorry, Maman. Did I interrupt something?"
"I was just leaving," Eulalie replied. "But I wish you would come into the room in a more ladylike manner, Maranta."
"I am sorry, Maman," she apologized. "I shall try to remember."
Eulalie turned back to Marigold. "Then you have no objections?" she asked, finishing her conversation with Marigold.
Marigold shrugged her shoulders, indicating her lack of interest in the question. And her mother, forced to consider it as her final answer, left the room.
"What was that all about?" Maranta asked. "Is it true that you're really going to marry Cousin Crane?"
"It would seem so," Marigold answered.
"But what about Shaun? Aren't you in love with him?"
"It appears that Shaun does not love me. That puts a stop to any plans I might have had, doesn't it?" Marigold said, with no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.
"Souci," Maranta murmured, "I'm so sorry." She leaned over and kissed her sister on the cheek, seeking to comfort her.
"For heaven's sake, Maranta. Can't you be anything but sorry? That's all you've said from the minute you came into the room."
"I'm s—" She stopped herself from saying it again. Maranta, silent, moved to the wardrobe and took off her morning dress. She hung it up carefully and then removed the pins from her long, dark hair. Maranta began brushing the thick, black strands, while her troubled thoughts dwelled on her golden-haired twin, still huddled miserably in the window seat.
The hurried preparations for Marigold's wedding began, with invitations hand-delivered by the servants to the Tabor friends who were in residence in Charleston.
The choice of the Tabor garden was not a surprise. It was much healthier for friends to gather in the open air, because of the fever. To many, it was not even surprising that Marigold was marrying her cousin—only that the wedding was taking place in such a hurry—three days from the time the invitations were issued. Some speculated that the bridegroom was impatient to get home to upper Carolina, since a new lode had been discovered in the Caldwell gold mine during his absence.
The day before the ceremony, a small trunk was brought from the attic of the plantation house. It contained the fragile veil of Alençon lace that Eulalie had worn in her own wedding to Robert Tabor.
The trunk was carried into Marigold's room, and Eulalie, tenderly lifting the veil, for a short moment closed her dark eyes and held the lace against her breast. And Marigold, choosing not to watch her mother and her remembrance of joy on her wedding day, turned her head. For Marigold, there was no joy, no love. Shaun had jilted her, forcing her to save face by marrying her cousin, whom she disliked.
On the morning of the wedding, another carriage arrived from Midgard, loaded with magnolia leaves and jasmine to decorate the garden. Throughout the day and up until that afternoon when Feena came to help her get dressed, Marigold had hoped that Shaun would send her some message, some excuse for not appearing, or even come, himself, to stop the marriage. Each time the giant brass knocker on the front door sounded, she held her breath and waited for the sound of footsteps coming to her room.
Now, it was too late. Crane was waiting for her. Father Ambrose was waiting.
Marigold, thinking of the tragic ceremony that would link her forever with Crane Caldwell, pushed away the veil that Feena held for her.
"I cannot desecrate Maman's veil. I don't love Crane. Let Maman put the lace back into the trunk with her memories. I will do without it."
The old woman snorted. "The veil will soften your stubborn chin, petite, just as it did for your maman over twenty years ago."
Marigold looked at Feena in surprise. "Maman was reluctant to marry Papa?" she asked. "But how could that be? He adores her—and she loves him. Wasn't that true when they married?"
"Your maman had never set eyes on Monsieur Robert. How could she be expected to love him?"
"You mean—they met as strangers at the altar?"
"Worse than that, cherie. It was a proxy marriage. Another man stood in his place. And she didn't see Monsieur Robert for over a month after the ceremony."
While Feena talked, she pinned the veil in place. And Marigold, pondering Feena's information, said in a soft voice, "I. . . didn't know that."
"And I shouldn't have told you, petite, even now. But I wanted you to know that you are not the only woman who has protested the marriage bed."
Marigold stood before the mirror and stared at the white birthday dress, the veil of delicate lace covering her face. "Did Maman love someone else?" she asked.
&nbs
p; "How do I know?" Feena's voice was suddenly irritable. "You will have to ask her that yourself."
Eulalie came into the room, and Marigold rushed to her mother. "Oh, Maman, I don't want to go through with it. I'm afraid."
Eulalie's sympathetic, dark eyes took in the golden beauty of her daughter. No wonder Crane was in love with her. "Every young woman is afraid on her wedding day," Eulalie said in a soothing voice.
"Even you? Were you afraid, Maman?"
"Oui, ma petite. I trembled from head to toe." Eulalie smiled in a conspiratorial manner as she continued. "And I was even more frightened when I saw your papa for the first time. But Feena has probably already told you."
Marigold laughed. But a few minutes later, as she walked into the garden with her father, Marigold's topaz eyes became solemn, and her nervous hands almost crushed her bouquet; for standing beside Father Ambrose was Crane Caldwell—her future husband.
4
"Did you get the note to her, Chad?" the young man asked, painfully turning his body to face his friend.
"Aye, man. That I did. I gave it to her small brother, standing inside the gate. He promised to take it up to her right away."
Shaun dropped his head to the pillow again, and the pain in his face eased somewhat at Chad's reassuring words.
"Marigold—it's a beautiful name, isn't it, Chad? You know, they call her Souci at home. That's the French name for the flower—all golden, like her hair."
"Don't talk so much, Shaun," the man fussed. "You've got to save your strength to get well." He took the empty bowl from the bedside and placed it in the sink. "I'll be leaving you for a while now, so go to sleep, man."
Chad could not bear to listen to Shaun talk so lovingly about the bitch. He was in this condition because of her and still, she had run out on him, marrying her cousin.
But wasn't that the way the aristocracy lived? Marrying each other, not thinking an outsider's blood was good enough for them? But God! How was he going to tell Shaun Banagher that the girl he loved had married someone else and left Charleston?
And the final blow was to hear the Caldwell fellow brag that Marigold Tabor had played Shaun for a fool, as well. Chad just hoped that no one at Keppie's Tavern would ever make the mistake of mentioning it in front of Shaun.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 3
