With those frigid words, Robert Tabor left the room, his limp more pronounced. And the frightened Maranta, kneeling by the bed, nervously twisted the fringe of the white canopy spread while her agitated voice prayed over and over again, "Help me, Blessed Lady."
5
Marigold uttered an epithet under her breath.
She sat at the crude dressing table in the bedroom of the inn and attempted to arrange her golden hair to hide the bruise on the right side of her face. She ignored the man watching her so insolently with his coal black eyes.
Finally he spoke and she could no longer ignore him. "It's a wasted effort, my dear," he said, "to try to conceal it. I will give you five more minutes to stare at yourself, and then we'll go downstairs. Mother is already waiting for us."
Marigold whirled from the dressing table bench and faced Crane, her husband, her snapping tawny eyes matching the golden flecks of her dress. "Won't it embarrass you for your mother to see what you have done to me?"
Crane laughed. "So you're going to blame it all on me, are you? If you had not been in such a hurry to escape me, it would not have happened."
"I. . . I hate you, Crane Caldwell," Marigold said and turned her back to him to take up the hairbrush again.
The man roused himself and came to stand behind her, his eyes seeking hers in the mirror. "At least you're beginning to feel something again," he conceded, "even if it's hate."
His fingers tightened on her shoulders. "But don't think you'll be able to shirk your duties, Marigold. I intend for you to become a meek and obedient wife. And to show your gratefulness to me for rescuing you from a disgraceful situation."
Marigold bit her lip to keep the retort from spilling out. She was seething at his harsh treatment of her. How could she have been such a fool as to marry him? There was something malicious about this cousin—no, no cousin of hers. They were not related by blood.
Marigold arose from the dressing table, and taking the lightweight evening shawl from the chair, she went toward the door and stood aside for Crane to open it.
Her mind was busy as she walked to the small private dining room that lay to the right of the larger, main dining room of the inn. She hated all men, Marigold decided—especially Shaun Banagher and Crane Caldwell.
Cousin Julie's dark eyes lit up when she saw her adopted son and his wife. Then noticing the swollen, discolored area of Marigold's face, she expressed her alarm. "My dear, what has happened to your face?" Julie asked, hastening to Marigold's side.
Her first thought, to denounce Crane, quickly died when she saw Julie's concern. She could not hurt the woman like that; for Marigold could not be absolutely sure that Crane had done it deliberately.
"A small bruise, Cousin Julie," Marigold explained. "You remember when the carriage almost turned over yesterday. I must have hit my cheek then."
"I believe they are ready for us, Mother," Crane said, indicating the innkeeper, who stood waiting to seat them.
Julie's concerned eyes returned to Marigold's face as soon as they were seated. Seeing this, Crane leaned close to his wife and gently touched her bruised cheek.
"Poor Marigold. Already I can see that I will have to take better care of you. I will tell Sesame to go slower tomorrow. We cannot risk marring such a beautiful face."
His hand lingered, caressing the smooth, silky skin just below the bruise, until Julie, noting the loving gesture, relaxed.
"Do that, Crane," Marigold whispered sarcastically under her breath. "I am sure that will help."
Julie looked up with a puzzled expression, but Crane smiled at his mother, and Julie returned the smile, although her troubled eyes retained some of their uneasiness.
Marigold barely remembered the man that her mother's cousin had married. He had been dead for such a long time, Desmond Caldwell had, but she knew from her own maman that he had loved Julie very much. So much so that he had brought home a dark-haired eight-year-old orphan for her to mother, since she was childless.
Now Crane was twenty-six years old, no longer an orphan, but a man of means, having inherited Cedar Hill Plantation and the gold mine adjacent to it. And this same man sat beside her as her unwanted husband.
"I plan to move into the cottage, Crane, when we get back home," Julie's quiet voice informed her son. "You and Marigold shall have the big house. . ."
"No," Marigold interrupted. "We cannot allow her to do that, can we, Crane?" she implored. When he did not respond, Marigold turned to Julie. "Cedar Hill is your home. We cannot push you out of your own house."
She was panic-stricken to think that she would be alone in the big house with Crane.
Julie merely smiled and brushed aside Marigold's objection. "When you are newly wed, you don't need an old woman in the house with you constantly."
"But—"
Marigold's objection was cut off. "Don't protest so much, Marigold," Crane said. "I think it's a good idea, Mother. And we are appreciative that you are so understanding. Aren't we, Marigold?"
Her hesitation prompted a hand on her arm. "If you do not agree, Mother will think that you are afraid to be alone with me, Souci," he purred, his soft, teasing voice at odds with the increasing pressure of his fingers on her arm.
"T-Thank you, Cousin Julie," Marigold managed to say. "You are very thoughtful."
The meal was set before them, and Crane released Marigold's arm.
For the next three days the pattern was the same. Stopping at an inn each night and arising early the next morning, they made their way up the Cherokee Trail. Then, at Nelson's Ferry, the carriage left the trail to proceed northward toward the land of the Waxhaws in upper Carolina.
To Marigold, looking out the window of the carriage, the frenzied, moving landscape echoed her own restless spirit. Frantic drifts of leaves, caught up by the wind, sailed through the air—colors of red and yellow and deep purple torn from their moorings, with no certain destination but downward, where they were crushed by carriage wheels and horses' hooves. And the farther north the carriage went, the more alien the land seemed to the golden-haired bride who stared out the window.
Gone were her sandy dunes, the black water verging the roadway. In their place were flamboyant red hills, catching the glare of the afternoon sun, and blood-red puddles of water, drained from the adjacent hills—treacherous patches spread over the road, waiting to imprison an unsuspecting carriage wheel in the gripping, grasping mud.
"Close the window curtain, Marigold," Crane ordered. "You're apt to get mud spattered inside the carriage."
The voice of her husband, who was seated across from her, brought Marigold out of her oblivion. Before she could respond, Julie's gentle voice pleaded, "This is Marigold's first trip to the up country. I am sure she is eager to see as much along the way as she can. Let her keep the curtain open, Crane."
"I was only thinking of you, Mother," Crane explained. "I did not imagine you would enjoy having mud ruin your dress."
"I am already travel-stained, son. It won't matter to have a little more dirt added to it."
But already, Marigold was closing the curtain. Julie turned to Marigold and said, "Keep the curtain open if you like, my dear."
"Thank you, Cousin Julie. But I. . . I have seen enough for now." Marigold yawned and leaned her head against the seat.
"I expect you are tired of traveling," Julie commiserated. "Sometimes I think the road will never end, and just when I despair of ever seeing Cedar Hill again, then the landscape becomes familiar and I'm home again."
Home again. Would Marigold ever feel that way about Cedar Hill? Could it ever take the place of Midgard Plantation where she had grown up?
The malaria season would be over soon, and her maman and papa would close up the townhouse and return down Biffers Road through Emma's Bog to the old plantation house that had been in the family for almost a hundred years—Robbie and baby Raven, and Maranta. And Jason, her older brother who would be returning home in another month from the Grand Tour, would join them, too.
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Marigold closed her eyes, the image of the plantation house impressed upon her memory—and the little river house, hidden in the maze of honeysuckles and yew, high up on the river bluff where she and Maranta had played with their dolls.
Shaun Banagher's face invaded her memories, and sadness was mixed with anger. Because of him, it would be years before she would feel free to go home again—to enjoy the St. Cecilia Balls, the race season in February, the theater, and the socials from house to house at Christmastime.
An exile—that's what Shaun Banagher had made her. But no. He would not get away with it. Who was he to cause her to spend the rest of her life on some godforsaken plantation in the up country?
She would show him. If she played her cards right, she would once again be the toast of Charleston. No one would ever believe she had been jilted by Shaun Banagher.
The plans began to formulate. Unconsciously, her hand went up to her cheek, and Marigold winced. It was still sore and discolored. What a fool she was to antagonize Crane at the very beginning of their marriage—to fight him. She would have to learn to handle him better than that if she wanted her plans to succeed.
The monotonous swaying of the carriage lulled her to sleep. Farther north the carriage moved, the horses straining in the uphill climb. Then the road leveled off, and the vehicle began its gradual descent to the rich bottomlands next to the long, winding Catawba River.
With a jerk, the carriage stopped, and Marigold was immediately awake. "Are we at Cedar Hill?" she asked. She remembered to smile at Crane, and the dark-haired man, surprised at her friendliness, returned her smile.
"Not yet," Crane answered. "But it won't be long now. Jake has only to take us across the river on the ferry, and then it's less than a mile.
"If you would like to get out and stretch your legs, Marigold—you and Mother—I'll go and signal Jake that we're here."
Crane stepped down from the carriage, and in a cavalier manner, he placed the footstool on the ground and helped Marigold and Julie to alight from the vehicle that had held them for so long.
At first, her legs were stiff from the constant sitting. So Marigold stamped her feet on the ground and brushed the dust from her green silk crepe dress. The dust rose up in a cloud and Marigold coughed.
Julie laughed at the surprised look on her daughter-in-law's face. "It will be nice, will it not, to soak in a soothing hot tub of water tonight?"
"I don't think I will ever get all the dust off," answered Marigold, who removed the matching silk-ribboned bonnet and shook her long, golden hair free of restraint. Despite herself, Marigold gazed over the land with interest.
The Catawba River, red and swollen from the recent rain, was no replica of her gray, civilized Ashley River that pulsed gently with the tides and only misbehaved occasionally when a coastal hurricane unleashed its strength to push the water out of bounds. This was raw power, impatiently hemmed in by the rugged banks, threatening to spill over into the bottomlands at any moment. Primitive, pagan and restless—
And guarding this angry red water was one lonely sentinel on its banks—a weathered gray post with a bell at the top.
Marigold watched as Crane walked toward it. His hands reached out to the bell rope, and Marigold jumped at the ominous clang that echoed up and down the deserted river.
In the nearby bottomlands, with the old cornstalks bent and bleached by the early autumn sun, a covey of brown and white quail flew off in a whirr of wings. And then, the landscape was silent again.
An excited shiver passed through Marigold's body, and Julie, beside her, mistaking the movement for one of fright, explained to her. "Crane is calling old Jake to let him know we want to cross the river. If you look hard, you can see the ferry."
Marigold, shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun, peered in the direction that Julie pointed. In fascination she watched the small, wooden, raft-like structure leave the opposite bank. Attached with a rope to the taut metal cable stretched from one bank to the other, the craft looked fragile and unstable. When it swung too far downstream, the man took his long pole and guided the raft back upstream. Each time it went too far downriver, the man used the pole to correct its course, digging the pole into the water and pushing, as if he were a Moses calling on the water to obey him.
The raft finally slammed into the riverbank, and a violent rattle filled the air as Jake flung the chains from the end of the raft and proceeded to jump onto the bank. He quickly attached the metal hooks at the end of the two chains into rings embedded in the wooden planks, securing the ferry to the bank.
When the man had finished, Sesame moved the carriage forward, and Marigold, standing to the side, held her breath. There was nothing to keep the horses from going too far—from pitching the carriage over into the river beyond the raft. Nothing except Sesame's steady hand.
Just when Marigold thought the carriage was lost, Sesame yelled and pulled on the reins. Finally the carriage stopped, and Marigold began to breathe easily again.
Crane stood on the bank, his hand out to help Julie and Marigold down the slippery planks onto the ferry.
"Is this. . . the only way to get to Cedar Hill?" Marigold asked, trying to keep the alarm from showing in her voice.
"No," Crane answered, "but it's the shorter way. And we're lucky to get here when we did. Old Jake doesn't cross the river after sundown. Would you like to get back into the carriage?" Crane asked.
It mattered little to Marigold. Being in the carriage seemed just as dangerous as standing by the railing, but at least it was a place to sit down, and Marigold's knees felt unsteady.
6
The carriage wound its way up the hill, leaving the riverbank behind. Jake had not wasted any time; for almost as soon as the carriage wheels left the ferry, the man cast off to return to the shack on the other bank for the night.
Marigold could feel the unspoken antagonism between her husband and the black man, Jake. And she wondered what had happened in the past for Crane to resent the old man so much.
Her curiosity overcame her reticence to question Crane about it. Impulsively, she said, "Why do you and Jake not like each other, Crane?"
The man's fingers gripped the strap hanging on the side of the carriage, and even though his voice was controlled, he could not keep the animosity completely out. "Jake is that oddity—a free black man. He is too proud—bad influence on the slaves. They might get the idea that they would like to be free, too."
"Slaves? You mean you have slaves at Cedar Hill?"
"Don't look so surprised, Marigold. What do you think Sesame is?"
"I n-never thought about it. But back when Maman and Jason visited Cedar Hill, there weren't any slaves."
"You'll find that many changes have been made since I became master," Crane emphasized. "It was a matter of expediency—because of the gold mine. As long as we did the placer mining—getting the gold from the top of the ground—the Indians didn't mind helping. But when we started underground blasting, they refused to work in the shafts and tunnels."
Repugnance was evident on Marigold's face, and seeing it, Crane lashed out. "You act as if you disapprove; yet, your father has many more slaves than I do."
Crane had misunderstood. It was the idea of being forced to work in such a dangerous situation—with the frightening possibility of being buried alive—that had caused the look on Marigold's face. But her husband's remark about her father acted as a goad, and she felt honor bound to defend him. For Robert Tabor would never deliberately place his slaves in such danger.
"Not through choice," she replied. "If my father could afford it, he would free all his slaves tomorrow."
Crane's laugh dispelled any desire for Marigold to be nice to her husband.
"And if I could afford it," Crane said, "I would import some of those out-of-work iron miners from Cornwall, as the owners have done just over the state line. I am like your father and have to use the cheapest means available. It matters little to me whether the slaves till the
soil or work in the bowels of the earth getting the gold out."
The look on Marigold's face made him angry. "And you can remove that snobbish look from your face, Marigold," he said, lowering his voice. "Do you think your sand hills are the only ones that matter? Take a good look at the red clay earth around you. For this raw Carolina up country produced both the President and Vice-President of these United States."
"Yet, even Vice-President Calhoun felt it necessary to secure his bride from the low country," Marigold countered, not content to let Crane boast too much at her expense.
Julie seemed oblivious to the whisperings of Crane and Marigold. It was as if she were reliving another time, with her gaze directed to the woodland area.
Even the horses were behaving differently, snorting impatiently as they plunged along the last stretch of road that separated them from Cedar Hill. And Sesame, pulling back on the reins, was hard put to control them.
"The horses are impatient to get to their feed bags," Crane said. "They sense it won't be long before they're home."
Marigold's mind came back to Jake and the words Crane uttered concerning the man. "Was that why Jake was in such a hurry to get across the river? To eat his dinner, too?"
"Jake has to obey the curfew," Crane said. "He is not allowed out after dark."
"Oh." The exclamation hung in the air for a while, until Marigold, still curious, asked, "What would happen if he didn't get home? Before dark, I mean."
"He could be arrested by the authorities."
"But you just said he was free. That doesn't sound free to me, if he has to be home by a certain time."
"It's the law, Marigold," Crane stated impatiently. "Just as it's the law that you no longer exist as a separate person. Now that we are married, you are my property and subject to me."
Marigold laughed at his words. "And will you shut me up in the barn tonight, along with your horses and your carriage?"
"Only if you're difficult, beautiful one, and keep bothering me with all these questions," he whispered in her ear, drawing her close to him. "As soon as we get the dust washed off of you, I have a better place for you to go—in my bed."
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 5
