"I am tired, Patû," Vasco said suddenly. "I would like to go to my rooms." He turned to Maranta. "Sleep well, and I shall see you in the morning."
Visibly relieved, Maranta smiled at him. "Good night, Dom Vasco."
The Indian lifted the man from his chair, and Maranta watched as they left the dining room.
"Vasco," the Indian girl whispered, emerging from the hallway. Through the open door, Maranta saw her new husband reach for the girl's hand, and somehow, Maranta's relief was dulled by his action.
"If you will excuse me, Ruis, I think I shall retire, also." The condessa looked tired and strained. Ruis, with concern for his mother showing in his dark-tanned face, nodded and stood while the condessa departed with Dona Isobel behind her.
Now there were only the two of them left—Ruis and Maranta. Panicking at the sudden change, she hastily pushed back her chair to flee from the room. "If you will excuse me, also. . ."
"Sit down and finish your wine, Maranta," he ordered.
"But I. . ."
"There is no need for you to leave so abruptly—even though your husband has deserted you on your wedding night."
Reluctantly, Maranta sank to her chair. Tears came to her dark doe eyes. It was obvious to everyone that Vasco was not overjoyed to have her as his wife. But did Ruis have to be so cruel as to voice it aloud?
Maranta made a pretense at sipping her wine, but it remained at the same level. She could not swallow anything for the lump in her throat.
Noticing how upset she was, Ruis dismissed her. "You may go, Maranta, if you wish. I see that you will never succeed in finishing your wine."
When she was almost to the door, he asked, "Do you know which direction to take to your new rooms, menina?"
"New rooms?" She stopped. "Don't I have the. . . the same room as before?"
"No. You have been given the apartment next to the library—adjacent to the gallery of the chapel. I will ring for Sassia. She will show you."
The servant had evidently been expecting the summons, for it took her little time to reach the dining room.
"The senhora wishes to go to her rooms. Will you please show her the way, Sassia?"
Maranta felt at a disadvantage, with Dom Ruis giving orders. Once again, she felt insignificant, realizing how completely she was subject to the whim of the arrogant Count of Sorocaba, who had the power of life and death in his hands.
The candles of myrtle wax lit the way along the hall—taking her farther from the main part of the house.
"Is this the portion of the fazenda where Dom Vasco lives?" Maranta asked, retracing her earlier steps when Ruis had escorted her to the chapel.
"No, senhora. Dom Vasco sleeps in the guest chambers on the ground floor. He has a rolling chair that he can push onto the veranda when he pleases. He is carried upstairs only for meals."
"Then n-no one else is in this part of the house?"
"Dom Ruis spends much time in the library across from your apartment. That is where he works—and reads. He has many fine books, senhora."
"But at night. . ."
"Do not be afraid, senhora. The fazenda is well guarded at night."
Maranta, walking into the apartment, was so entranced at its beauty that she forgot her fear. The fine, heavily carved furniture gleamed in its waxed luster. And the silken draperies, of pale lilac, matched the sofa before the ornate fireplace that was now filled with greenery.
She opened the door to the bedroom and sank almost to her ankles in the luxurious white fur carpet. The massive bed of dark wood took up a major portion of one end of the room. Like a mammoth version of the palanquin, it was oriental in character, its fretwork reaching to the ceiling, where the thin white silk draperies hung, ready to be closed against the drafts, protecting the one who slept there.
The only contrast in color came from the clutter of pillows—mauve and aqua, pale lemon, and deep pink—that invited Maranta to lay her head against their exquisite softness.
"It is beautiful," Maranta whispered, awed by the magnificence of the room.
So different in design from the rest of the house. So different from the nun's meager cell that Maranta had thought to occupy in the Convent of Our Blessed Lady.
"Was this the Condessa Louisa's apartment, Sassia? Have I taken it from her?"
"No, Senhora Maranta. The young conde had it redone for his wife, Innocencia, but she never slept here. She preferred. . . another part of the house."
The eyes, blue as a summer sky—and hair the color of moonbeams. Yes, Maranta could see how it would suit a woman of that coloring. The knowledge that it was originally intended for the conde's young wife caused Maranta to lose part of her pleasure in being given the beautiful apartment.
"But the room suits you much better, senhora," Sassia said, as if she could tell what Maranta was thinking. "For you are like the 'mother of waters'—with your skin made of pearl and your black hair."
But Maranta shook her head. Marigold—or Innocencia. The apartment was meant for a golden-haired woman, not for someone whose tresses were black like the night with no stars shining.
Maranta sighed. It had been a long day and she was tired.
"Shall I help you with your dress?"
"Yes, please."
Maranta started to protest when she saw the lace gown and peignoir that Sassia laid on the bed. The set had been designed for her trousseau—her wedding night—and purchased by her own maman.
She had no need to look beautiful tonight, for she would spend her wedding night by herself. But was that not what she had wanted? Why then this feeling of loneliness and isolation?
With her long hair loose and flowing down her back, Maranta walked to the jewel case where Sassia had placed the locket. Once again, Maranta pulled out the cross of pearls and diamonds and examined it. Why had the condessa been so lavish with her gift? Surely, even then, on her birthday, the senhora had known that she could never be a true wife to her son.
Carefully, Maranta returned the gift to its case and knelt by the bed for her evening prayers. She heard the steps past her apartment—once and then twice. Maranta lifted her head from her prayers and listened. But then a door opened and shut—the library, more than likely. Relieved, she closed her eyes again and continued with her prayers.
The candles burned low, and Maranta, ready for bed, stood up and removed the peignoir to place it across the chair near the bed.
A dark shadow in the doorway moved, and the startled Maranta recognized the tall, masculine figure of Dom Ruis staring at her with his strange dark sapphire eyes.
"R-Ruis, what is the matter? What are you doing—in my room?"
She drew her arms across the thin lace gown to hide the outline of her young, high breasts.
"Have you not guessed, Maranta," he said, his voice bitter and cold, "why the condessa brought you here?"
"To. . . to marry Dom Vasco," she replied, her face now the same color as the white silk draperies that lined the massive bed.
Ruis gave a harsh laugh. "Do you think Mãe risked her life for that? No, Maranta. It was for the sake of an heir to the Monteiro fortune—a child to be worthy of the proud Monteiro name. You were selected as the mother of her grandson."
"But Vasco. . ."
"Can never sire another child. He has only Tefe, the half-breed, the mameluco, by the Indian girl, Floresta."
"No," Maranta said, backing away from him.
"Yes, Maranta. The only reason you have been brought here is to bear my son."
"But you. . . you are already married, senhor."
"Do you think I do not know that? Do you think that it has not haunted me that I am tied for the rest of my life to a wife who is barren—and insane?"
"Please, Dom Ruis," Maranta said, her trembling hand pushing back her long, black hair from her cheek. "There has been some mistake."
"There is no mistake, Maranta. Did I not see with my own eyes the Cruzamento da Monteiro about your neck and hear your confession that it was the conde
ssa who gave it to you?"
His hand grasped her arm, and he stared fiercely into her frightened eyes. "The cross is always given to the mother who has borne the Monteiro heir. My father gave it to Mãe the day I was born. And I had hopes of presenting it to Innocencia—"
His voice was filled with pain and a rage that Maranta did not understand. "How do you think I felt that night in the chapel when I saw you with the cross on your breast and realized, for the first time, what the condessa had planned?"
His grip became tighter, and Maranta gave a tiny cry. "I shall. . . s-scream, senhor, if you dare to t-touch me."
"You are already in my arms, menina. And there is no one to come to your aid. Will it be more of an embarrassment for the servants to think you spent your wedding night alone? Or will it cause you even more grief for them to learn you have spent it with me?"
She was trapped. Maranta trembled as the conde lifted her into bed and closed the delicate silk curtains to shut out the rest of the world. . .
15
Halfway across the world, the lamps burned bright in Mrs. Stark's boarding house on Chalmers Street.
Shaun Banagher was tired. He stretched his large frame and ran his hand through the thick auburn-colored hair, as the knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Shaun called out. "The door isn't locked."
Chad opened the door, and Shaun, recognizing his friend, stood up to greet him.
The man seemed ill at ease as he eyed the comfortable bed, the bright room that was in such contrast to the dark, cramped shanty car that he had once shared with Shaun.
"Sit down, Chad."
The man shook his head. "I'm on my way to Keppie's Tavern for a mug of beer. Thought you might like to come."
Shaun smiled. "Not tonight, Chad. I still have work to do."
Chad glanced at the books and papers on the table and frowned. "You can't work every minute of the day and night. Everybody needs a little time off for some fun."
But Shaun refused, and as soon as the disappointed Chad left, he went back to his work.
He could not tell Chad of the important business meeting the next morning. But if all went well, and his prospective financial backers approved his plans, then he would be assured of success.
It was ironic, thought Shaun, that the moderate inheritance from his Cousin Edward had come too late to enable him to marry the beautiful golden-haired Marigold. Now, he could only seek redress against Robert Tabor by accumulating enough wealth and power to challenge him in the marketplace.
Shaun thought of the plans he had outlined—to buy cotton from the farmers all along the rail line; to sell it at a good profit; and then to purchase manufactured goods that the same farmers needed to buy. A double market could be quite profitable. And if that went well, he had a plan to expand the rail lines with the iron from local foundries. His backers would be pleased to hear what could be done using trains to carry goods from the backcountry to the port of Charleston.
For some time, there had been fewer and fewer ships in the harbor. The prosperous country above the fall line had preferred sending its cotton and other exports to Savannah, instead. But if Shaun had anything to do with it, Charleston would once again be a thriving port with ships waiting in the harbor—some that he himself would own one day. The building of rails would make the difference, covering the entire state and eventually running all the way from north to south, and east to west, leaving the waterways and wagon trails obsolete.
But his inheritance was too small to accomplish all this. He needed much more money at his fingertips. If the financial backers approved his plans the next morning, then he would be in a position to buy out the major stock in the same railroad that had once hired him as a worker.
Remembering his rough work clothes, Shaun glanced down at the clothes he was wearing, which were much more suitable for a man on the way to success. Beneath the close fit of his fine linen shirt, his powerful muscles rippled. And because of them, Shaun realized that he gave the appearance of being a little less civilized than the slender town dandies who spent their time gambling and horseracing. But he didn't mind; his studies and labor had paid off.
One afternoon, a month later, Shaun sat in the Exchange with his personal banker, Mr. Pettigrew, and two planters who had come to town for supplies. Shaun's meeting had gained him the backing he had desired, and now, important men were taking notice of him, accepting him as a business, if not social, equal. Conversation focused on the high tariff that had plagued the planters, ever since its passage three and a half years previously.
"Something will have to be done and soon," Mr. Pettigrew was complaining. "It's choking us economically, shutting off most of our trade with Europe."
"Never thought I'd see responsible men behaving like asses in Washington. Just hope John C. can do something about it this term," one of the planters responded and then in a cautious voice added, "It's a touchy situation, though, now that he and President Jackson don't see eye to eye. But 37 percent! I can't afford to pay such a high tariff, especially with the price I'm getting for my cotton."
He took a sip of brandy and then turned to Shaun. "How are you making such a good profit, Mr. Banagher?"
With a twinkle in his eye, Shaun replied, "Buying from the better New England factories and weeding out the items that fall apart at first use."
"Well then, you're doing better than John Henry here. He's spending all his money on glue, just trying to keep the parts together."
The men at the table laughed at the teasing banter.
"You may be joking, Malcolm," John Henry, the other planter said, "but it's about the truth. Even paying the high tariff on the imports, I'm actually coming out better in the long run. Domestic goods just can't touch the ones made in England."
"You think there's any chance of the tariff being lowered this session?" Malcolm asked Mr. Pettigrew.
"If it isn't, I fear it's going to split apart the nation," the banker responded in a sober voice. "Congress can't keep favoring the North to the economic detriment of the South."
Robert Tabor and Arthur Metcalfe walked into the Exchange and joined a group at another table. Robert's tawny eyes narrowed at the sight of Shaun Banagher, but he gave no other indication that he recognized the man who had caused him such grief.
"Now there's a man who's hurting worse than I am," John Henry whispered. "Hear tell Robert Tabor even has his townhouse up for sale."
Shaun turned thoughtful when he heard that piece of information. He sat quietly, listening to the rest of the conversation, and occasionally lifted the snifter of brandy to his lips, until it was time for him to leave. But he thought only of what John Henry had said about Robert Tabor.
The winter months passed and at last, the first jonquils at Cedar Hill announced that it was spring in the Carolina up country.
Marigold looked out over the field of yellow, adjacent to the house, and she became suddenly homesick for the scent of jasmine at Midgard. But there was no possibility that Marigold could leave Cedar Hill for a visit to her parents; for Julie had become ill during the winter months and had gradually worsened. First, it was the mild but plaguing cough that refused to go away. But over the months it had turned into a debilitating illness, with a steady loss of weight and a feverish flush to the woman's face.
At Marigold's insistence, Julie had been moved back into the big house, and a large part of her day was spent in taking care of the woman. But regardless of her careful attention and regular visits from the doctor, Cousin Julie did not improve.
One afternoon, Marigold, as was her custom, sat with her mother-in-law.
"You are so good to me, Marigold," Julie said in her weak voice, as soon as she recovered from her coughing spell. "I hate to be so much trouble."
"Nonsense," Marigold replied. "I enjoy sitting with you. I'm only sorry that you're ill."
Julie closed her eyes and rested her head against the pillows. Her face, once beautiful, now showed the strain of her long illness. A s
ad-hearted Marigold tiptoed from the room to let the woman sleep.
"No hope." The words of the doctor echoed in her mind. "Only a matter of weeks. We'll just have to make her as comfortable as possible until the end."
Why did she have to die? Cousin Julie was the only person who made life bearable for her at Cedar Hill. . . besides old Jake at the ferry. And she had not been able to take any more food to him lately because of Julie's illness. She hoped he was now well enough to cook his own food. Marigold brushed the tears from her eyes as she made her way into the kitchen to supervise the supper.
For several more weeks, the sick woman lingered, becoming weaker each day. The telltale sign of bright red blood on her handkerchiefs could not be disguised, and Marigold dreaded the day when a massive hemorrhage would take her life.
On a late May afternoon, when the only sounds to be heard were the mules returning from the fields, Julie, in the downstairs bedroom, beckoned Marigold to her bed and in a weak voice whispered, "Marigold, be kind to Crane. He. . . he hides his emotions under his quick temper. But I'm sure he. . . loves you very much."
Marigold took the woman's hand. "I will try, Cousin Julie," she promised.
"He was such a dirty little urchin when Desmond brought him home. And the words he spoke." A faint smile formed on Julie's lips as she remembered earlier days. "I had to wash his mouth out with soap more than once."
The coughing started again, with a fresh spurt of blood, and Marigold, alarmed, called Juniper to sit with the woman while she hurried to find Sesame.
It was at that moment Crane came into the house. "What is wrong, Marigold?"
"Cousin Julie is much worse. She needs the doctor."
Crane's face turned pale, and rushing down the hallway to Julie's bedroom, he left Marigold to find Sesame and give him the message to go for Dr. Kellie.
Far into the night, Dr. Kellie and Crane kept watch by Julie's bedside. Lights remained on throughout the house, and the steady hum of the whistling teakettle belied the happy sound it had made earlier in the day.
Toward morning, Marigold, sleeping in a chair in the nearby parlor, stretched. Her arms and legs felt cramped, and the back of her neck was tense from the uncomfortable position in which she had slept.
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