"So beautiful," he murmured, kissing her breasts, and then pulling at the tender nipples with his teeth, hurting her. Gratefully, she felt his mouth move lower, but then the real teasing began, and her body grew warm under his actions, in spite of herself.
"Is this the way he aroused you, Marigold? Made you desire him?"
Suddenly she felt his hardness on her thigh, before he found the vulnerable moist softness. At his insistence, she put her arms around his neck and finally whispered, "Shaun," for she was now beyond any turning back.
Succumbing to Shaun's name, she said it over and over, until she felt Crane begin the slow, rhythmic movement. Faster and faster it came—frenzied and passionate. At last, something exploded inside her, and she moaned at the fulfillment.
After his success, Crane kept her pressed to him as he taunted her. "You are a wanton and a slut, Marigold. A proper wife feels nothing. I don't know why I took pity on you and married you."
And Marigold, with tears in her eyes, was shoved aside, while her husband turned his back to her and went to sleep.
The next morning, Marigold hid her fresh bruises under a long-sleeved, high-necked velvet dress—a practice in which she had become adept since marrying Crane Caldwell. One day, he would not get away with it, she vowed.
"Is there something the matter, my dear?" Cousin Julie asked. "You seem so sad this morning."
Marigold turned to the woman, who sat in the rocker and embroidered the dainty, delicate baby bonnet by the warm fire in the parlor. She tried to smile, but tears came to her eyes instead.
"I'm afraid I miss my parents—and the rest of my family," she confided.
At once, Julie's dark eyes were sympathetic. "Perhaps Crane will take you for a visit when warm weather comes—unless of course, you are. . ."
Julie smiled and looked down at the tiny hat in her lap.
"Although I'm sewing this tiny garment for a friend, it may not be long before I can begin one for my own grandchild. It will be such a joy when you and Crane. . ."
"No," Marigold said, her face losing color. She jumped from the chair, and seeing her distress, Julie attempted to right her indiscretion.
"Forgive me, Marigold. I did not mean to upset you. You and Crane have been married such a short time. Please forgive an impatient old woman for dreaming aloud far too soon."
Marigold could not help it. She ran from the room, forgetting her manners, only aware of the repugnant thought that ran through her brain. She did not want Crane Caldwell's child. But already, his seed might be growing inside her.
She knew Feena had secretly concocted potions for some of the slave girls to keep them from becoming pregnant. Why had she not thought to ask Feena about it before leaving Charleston? There must be somebody at Cedar Hill who had the same knowledge as Feena. She would begin a subtle inquiry, starting with Juniper, the cook. Perhaps she would confide in Marigold the name of the mauma who made amulets and possets for the slaves. But she would be careful not to reveal the real reason for seeking the information.
The black woman stood in the middle of the kitchen, kneading bread on the rough table. She looked up as Marigold entered the kitchen.
"You want something, Miss Marigold?" the woman asked, still punching at the dough with her flour-covered hands.
"Not really," she answered, undecided now on how to approach the woman. "I just. . ."
"Oh, Juniper," the feminine voice sounded behind her, "I neglected to tell you that Mr. Crane wants syllabub for supper tonight. Will you have time to make it?"
"Yes'm. But the milk needs to be took out'n the. . ."
"I'll do it myself," Julie said, changing her mind. She reached for the apron hanging behind the door. "You just keep on with the bread-baking," she continued, tying the large white apron around her waist
Julie looked at Marigold and said, "It's Crane's favorite dessert, and I know you'll want to learn how it's done. It might be good for you to watch, my dear."
Disappointed, Marigold stayed in the kitchen and watched Julie as she prepared the congealed dessert. The opportunity of speaking privately with Juniper was lost.
Two days later, Marigold gave up trying to talk with Juniper alone. She had not realized how closely Cousin Julie supervised the kitchen. Marigold would just have to find someone else, outside the big house. And she could not wait any longer.
With her cloak sheltering her from the cold wind, she slipped out of the house and walked toward the barn. She passed the corncrib and continued in the direction of the slave cabins.
Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky was beginning to grow dark. Marigold glanced up at the gray, clabbered clouds that obscured the sun. A storm was in the making. And as if to give credence to her thought, a gust of icy wind whipped through the bare branches of the giant poplar tree behind the barn. Like some grotesque puppet, manipulated by an unseen hand, the tree danced in a cumbersome, menacing movement, bowing its branches toward the ground, and then lifting them awkwardly into the air.
Faster, Marigold walked, heading in the direction that Crane had forbidden her to go. And Sesame, standing at the door of the barn, followed her progress with dark, troubled eyes.
Billowing smoke drew Marigold toward the cabin at the end of the path. She hesitated at the door, painted blue to keep the evil spirits out.
"Hello," Marigold called. There was a surreptitious movement from within. Yet no one answered her or came to the door.
Marigold knocked this time as she called out. Still, no one came.
Shivering from the long walk through the icy wind, Marigold decided she would not wait. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
"So—you have come to spy on me."
Her husband, Crane, sat up in bed, a quilt gathered around his bare chest, while a naked black child hovered uncertainly in the corner.
A puzzled Marigold looked toward her husband and then back to the boy. And a wave of sick disgust suddenly swept over her.
Silently, she turned to walk out, but Crane jumped from the bed and grabbed her by the wrist. "You cannot go, yet."
Crane, looking at the boy, ordered, "Put on your clothes and get out."
And Marigold, her knees unsteady, sank into the chair by the fire and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, the door closed, and Crane, fully dressed, stood over her. She was now alone with her husband.
"You should not have opened the door, Marigold," Crane admonished.
"You are. . . despicable," she uttered, her voice unable to hide her disgust at her husband's actions.
"Did I not forbid you to come to the cabins?" he said, his voice displaying a growing rage at her disobedience.
Marigold, paying no attention to his rising anger, replied, "Yes—and now I see why."
"You saw nothing, Marigold. Nothing, at all."
"I saw. . . enough. You and that child—together—naked."
"And is that a blow to your pride, my aristocratic wife, to learn that I seek comfort in an earthier setting?"
"I don't care how many wenches you take to bed with you, Crane. But to. . . to molest an innocent little boy. You would be hanged if anyone found out."
"But no one's going to find out, Marigold. Simply because you're going to keep quiet."
"The blow to Cousin Julie when she learns. . ."
"You will never tell my mother what you have seen, Marigold!"
All at once, his voice rose and fear clouded his dark eyes. And Marigold, seeing it, recognized the weapon she now held in her hands.
"For a price, Crane. I will keep silent—for a price."
He hesitated. "And your. . . price?"
"You will stay out of my bed," she said. "You won't ever touch or taunt me again."
Suddenly, Crane laughed, and the fear disappeared from his eyes.
"And you think that will be such a harsh punishment for me? I hate to disillusion you, Marigold. Even though I have been more than satisfactory for you, you have never been able to give me much pleasur
e."
She flinched at the words that matched his cold, hard eyes.
"And remember one thing, Marigold. You are still my wife. If you are ever unfaithful, or if you ever try to leave me, I will kill you."
There was nothing else to say. Marigold, with a heavy heart, got up from the chair. And Crane, putting on his coat, walked out into the chilling wind with Marigold, his wife, unwillingly at his side.
In silence, they walked back to the big house. Marigold had made a devil's bargain. Now, it was no longer necessary to seek out the brewer of herbs and possets.
12
Maranta stood on the banks of the Tietê River and looked at the painted canoes loaded down with the trunks and supplies. The prows of the vessels rose out of the water, and the faces carved on them seemed to stare at her.
"How long is the river?" Maranta asked, her soft voice barely loud enough to be heard by Ruis, who stood beside her.
"Between seven and eight hundred miles," he answered.
Maranta gasped. "You mean. . ."
Ruis laughed. "We will not be going the entire way. Only to the falls at Hitû. The fazenda is not far from there."
She looked again at the monsoon, the canoe fleet that was almost ready to start on its journey.
"And is there much danger?" Maranta asked.
"The pilots know the river. Don't be afraid, Maranta. They are familiar with all the shallows and rapids along the way. And you will have ample protection when we portage around them. The condessa has gotten you this far. She would never forgive me if I allowed some guaicurú to sweep you onto his horse and carry you off into the plains."
Maranta, undecided whether the conde was teasing her or not, refrained from asking any more questions.
Huddled under the poncho that the conde had forced her to wear on top of her clothes, Maranta stared miserably at the figure seated in front of her. The conde's back, so formidable, not only emphasized his aloofness, but cut off Maranta's view ahead. She could only gaze toward the banks as they passed by rapidly.
From the canoe, Maranta could not distinguish the jatai trees from any of the others. For they were all a blur of green viewed through the steady drizzle of rain.
It was such a small thing to be annoyed about. But all day Maranta had experienced the discomforts of traveling, without really seeing much of the countryside. Earlier in the journey, Dona Isobel had told her how the Indians made their canoes from the bark and even took the resinous substance from the roots of the jataí trees to burn in their lamps. How she wished she were in the same canoe with Dona Isobel. Then, she could talk with her along the way.
But Ruis had arranged their seating. And once again, Maranta was paired with the arrogant, silent conde.
Her leg grew numb, and she tried to change her position. Immediately, the conde turned his head. "Be still, Maranta. We are entering a dangerous section of the river. And I do not wish to fish you out of the water if the canoe should overturn."
Again, she stared at his back and sank to the same uncomfortable position, afraid to move because of his warning.
Tents, horses, carts, and all manner of supplies followed behind them in separate boats. And alongside them were additional canoes rigged with guns, manned by alert guards.
As the rain gradually subsided, Maranta kept her eyes on the nearer bank, certain that she saw lurking figures watching their progress. But she was mistaken. It was only a group of anthills in the distance. And recognizing them, she relaxed.
She remembered that Dona Isobel had told her that once a priest had excommunicated a group of ants because they had eaten up an altar cloth. Without realizing it, Maranta laughed aloud.
"You find the trip amusing, menina?" the conde asked. As he turned his head and waited for her answer, the cold water dripped from his hat onto his soaked poncho.
Maranta felt as if she had been reprimanded by Father Ambrose, his look was so stern.
"I was thinking of a story that Dona Isobel told this morning," she said, her smile no longer on her lips.
"So?"
Was that an invitation for her to relate it to him? Maranta grew visibly smaller under the heavy black cloak.
"I do not think it would amuse you," she apologized.
He shrugged his shoulders and turned around. Again, Maranta gazed at his broad, unbending back that obscured her view.
They made camp for the night not far from the riverbanks. The men strung their hammocks between trees, extending a circle around the two tents that they set up for the women.
Small and cramped, the tents were only large enough to cover two hammocks and no more. And so it was that Dona Isobel was alone in one tent, while Maranta shared the other with the condessa.
Maranta was glad that she did not have to be alone, like Dona Isobel. She was still frightened from seeing the huge snake swimming in the river that afternoon and overturning one of the canoes loaded with supplies.
What a terrible sight, seeing it thrash in the water when the guards turned their guns on it. She had felt the shakiness of their own canoe in the waves that the snake had generated. What if it had been their canoe instead that had overturned? Now, Maranta knew why the conde was so stern with her when she moved about. There was no telling what was lurking under the water.
But he was still overbearing—forcing the women to get ready for bed much earlier than usual and bringing the water into their tents for the nightly footwashing because of the chiguas that could burrow underneath the toenails and cause painful swelling of the feet.
It was not even dark yet—and Maranta could hear the men laughing and talking a short distance away, where the mules and horses were corralled.
Dona Isobel came into the condessa's tent to help her. Since there was not enough room for the three of them, Maranta slipped out to put water in Fado's cage, which hung in a tree immediately outside the tent. When that was done, Maranta forgot about the bucket on the ground and stumbled against it, spilling the rest of the water. In exasperation, she stared down at the ground, as she righted the empty bucket. Now, there was no water to wash in. And Maranta, afraid of what the conde would say if she requested more water, decided to go to the river herself. It would take only minutes. She would be back before anyone missed her.
Maranta walked carefully past the campfire where they had cooked their supper—black beans and rice, with fresh fish. Between empty hammocks she went, with the bucket over her arm. She could still hear the men laughing and talking and could smell the odor of tobacco that wafted through the air. Soon she was at the water's edge. Gathering up her skirts, Maranta knelt to fill the container with river water.
The sky, in that brief period between twilight and total darkness, was aflame with wisps of gold and purple, and as she stood up, she observed its beauty with her artist's eye, capturing the scene for some future painting.
Ruis had not mentioned the pigments or brushes again. Maranta hoped they were packed in one of the crates in the canoes. But what if they had been in the crate that was lost that afternoon on the river?
Maranta frowned as she walked back toward the camp. There was no sound from the men in the distance. And the shapes of the trees and shrubs—no longer highlighted by the last rays of the sun—loomed before her.
Maranta increased her pace. She had lingered far too long at the river. The landscape had lost its sense of peace and beauty and was now a colorless gray-black that was becoming increasingly darker—alive with dozens of moving winged creatures. And they looked as if they were heading straight for her. Maranta stopped and brushed her hair back to get a better view of them. In panic, she remained rooted to the same spot, not knowing which way to turn to escape this menace that had appeared so suddenly.
Ruis, taking Diabo to the water's edge, looked up as the sky blackened with winged creatures. Vampire bats—he might have known they would smell the scent of horses and mules and come out of the caves in search of fresh blood.
His one thought was to get Diabo out of dan
ger, but as he wheeled the horse around, his eyes spotted the small, vulnerable figure standing directly in the path of the bats.
Maranta? But she was supposed to be safe in her tent. A small hand went up, brushing the long, black hair from her face. It was Maranta.
Instantly Ruis spurred Diabo toward her and shouted, "Maranta! Cover your face! The bats!"
She screamed as the first creature attached itself to her arm, biting into her flesh with its vicious teeth. She hit at it with the bucket, spilling the water. But in a split second, the bat was gone and she was lifted from the ground.
Into the sheltered copse Ruis rode with Maranta in his arms, as the bats, their victim suddenly snatched from them, continued their flight toward the corral.
Hysterically, Maranta clung to the man who had rescued her. And the conde, forgetting to reprimand her for disobeying him, held her in his arms—quietly soothing her until her sobs subsided.
"I am s-sorry," she finally whispered. "I was seeing to Fado and I spilled the water. I didn't want you to know."
"Are you so afraid of me, menina, that you could not ask me to get more for you?" he asked in a sad voice.
"Y-Yes," she affirmed.
Ruis da Monteiro's jaw clenched at Maranta's apologetic confession. And in a voice harsh and cynical, he warned, "Someday, Maranta, that worthless little bird will be the death of you."
Dona Isobel, staring out of the tent, was relieved when Ruis brought Maranta back to camp. In the language that was foreign to her, Maranta vaguely heard the exchange between the conde and the woman.
But when Maranta was placed in the hammock in Dona Isobel's tent, Ruis explained, "Isobel will stay with Mãe tonight. Because of her heart, I do not want the condessa to know what has happened. . . You will remain here where I can attend to your arm."
"I am sorry. . ."
"It cannot be helped, menina. But soon, you will learn that I do not give orders for my own gratification."
Ruis sat beside the hammock until she went to sleep. And then, he left the tent to find his own hammock to rest for what remained of the night.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 10
