"We're taking the train, Jake," she announced. "We'll head southwest until we find the tracks. And if you don't have enough money to buy our tickets, we'll sell the horses."
Crane Caldwell waited at the inn until it became apparent that Marigold was not going to be stopping there. Blast the girl, he thought, as he tried to decide what his next stop should be. He could not afford to let her get to Charleston before him. His one hope lay in getting there first, to intercept her before she had a chance to talk with her father.
Convinced he was wasting his time staying at the inn, Crane paid his bill and asked for his horse. He would ride all night to make sure he arrived before Marigold.
"But Mr. Caldwell, aren't you going to use the bed for the night?"
"I've changed my mind. I shan't be staying. Kindly have my horse brought from the stables at once."
"Yes, sir," the innkeeper answered, still puzzled at the man's sudden change of plans.
"I am sorry, ma'am, but I have to abide by the rules. No Negroes riding on the train except those that have their master's children in their care."
Marigold glared at the ticket agent. "It's unfair," she countered. "Can't you make an exception for my driver? We have to get to Charleston tonight."
"I can sell you a ticket for yourself, ma'am—but not for your driver." The man was noticeably uncomfortable, and he coughed several times while Marigold stood waiting. "Perhaps the man could get your carriage repaired and bring it on later," he suggested.
Marigold finally realized there was no dissuading him. And after talking it over with Jake, she purchased her ticket and left the horses with Jake.
Now alone, she was subjected to the curious stares of the other passengers who sat waiting for the train to leave. She had tried to clean her face and smooth her black traveling dress, but it was hopeless. And with no comb to control her unruly golden hair, she looked like a hoyden instead of a lady. Yet, Marigold did not care what they thought of her. She was impatient for the train to start.
But she heard no familiar hiss of steam that would announce their departure. Everything was quiet except for a baby that alternately fretted and then went back to sleep.
"Why don't we leave?" Marigold asked the stout woman sitting next to her on the hard bench.
"Can't—until the stagecoach comes in from Columbia."
"When will that be?" Marigold's voice questioned again.
"Don't rightly know. Maybe one hour—maybe as long as four."
Marigold sighed and settled down for the long wait. Already the darkness had consumed the light in the sky and partially obliterated the rails in front of the engine.
When Marigold had almost given up hope that the train would ever leave, workmen appeared and poured fresh sand on the platform car in front of the locomotive and placed pine knots in the urn-shaped rods. She strained to see if Shaun might be with them, but there was no giant with auburn hair and green eyes.
Steam began to hiss in the engine, and the pine knots outside were ignited to be used as flares in the darkness. The bell clanged and the passengers from the coach and everyone else with a ticket scrambled into one of the three pleasure cars. Soon the train was on its way to Charleston, the engine hopping over creeks, scattering sparks on both sides and making noises like a rocket in a Chinese fireworks display.
They stopped at Midway and again at Summerville, and as the sun came up, the train finally slid into the little station on Line Street.
The sight of the familiar wooden station where she had last seen Shaun Banagher brought pain to Marigold. But it was mixed with anger, too. . . not only at herself, but at the man who had deceived her and brought her to such a point that she had been forced to flee an abusive husband.
It was too early in the morning for the street vendors to be out, singing about their fine wares. Along the deserted familiar streets she walked, from Spring to Radcliffe, Vanderhorst and Calhoun, on her way to the Tabor townhouse situated on the battery.
The malaria season had started at Midgard, so the family would be in residence here at the townhouse.
Marigold, her appearance even worse because of the smoke and soot of the train journey, knew it would be hard to explain her disheveled state to her mother and father. If she could slip into the house before they awoke. . .
The Palladian-design house loomed before her at the end of the street, and the strong, salty odor of the ocean invaded her senses. Sea gulls flew along the battery and Marigold, tired and hungry, quickened her steps toward the white house and hurried through the side gate and up the back stairs to her old room—hers and Maranta's.
The room was not the same. The twin beds had been replaced by a larger mahogany bed, with the mosquito netting pushed back at each side. And the twin bowls and pitchers of water were now on the opposite side of the room, away from the window.
Marigold quickly shed the dirty black dress. She poured water into the basin and leaned over, splashing the cool water on her travel-grimed face. With no further thought except that she was safe at last, she climbed into the mahogany bed, pulled the mosquito netting around her, and promptly fell asleep.
17
The man walking along the hall was engrossed in his thoughts. He walked past the open door of the guest bedroom, but it was not until he had reached the stairs that the crumpled heap of dark material on the bedroom floor registered in his mind.
He stopped abruptly and retraced his steps to investigate. From the doorway he stared at the black dress on the floor and then to the bed. His eyes narrowed as he saw a slight movement behind the mosquito netting. And with a quick, angry stride, the man crossed the room, jerked back the netting and pulled the girl from the mahogany bed.
"Just what do you think you are doing?" he demanded.
Marigold stumbled at his rude treatment. "No, please," she cried and put up her hands as if to ward off a blow. Her tawny eyes flew open, expecting to see her husband Crane. But instead, there was another man glaring at her—one with green eyes and sinewed muscles held in check under the fine linen coat.
Marigold, now wide awake, stiffened. Staring at her, making her aware of the thin camisole and petticoat that barely covered her, was the man responsible for all her pain, all her disgrace.
"You!" she said, and pushed his hands from her arms as she took a step backward.
"Marigold?" His voice was incredulous. He reached out, to touch her, to make sure that she was not a mirage standing before him. But she again knocked his arm away.
"What are you doing in this house?" she asked, her voice rising in agitation. Without waiting for a reply, she ordered, "Get out at once, Shaun Banagher, or I'll have my father throw you out."
At the hostility in her voice, Shaun stood, rooted to the floor. He saw the flushed cheeks, the smoldering look that changed the girl's normally beautiful eyes into the glittery, spitting ones of a cat.
"That would be rather hard to do, Souci," he said, "since this house now belongs to me."
"I. . . I don't believe you. My father would never allow you to. . . to take anything of his."
He continued staring at her and said, "Put on your clothes, or I shall take something else that belongs to Robert Tabor. I won't be responsible for my actions if you continue to stand before me, displaying your obvious charms."
With heaving breasts, Marigold fled across the room to the wardrobe and opened the door. It was empty. Of course, if what Shaun said was true—that he owned the townhouse—then her clothes would no longer be in the room.
Marigold turned to see Shaun poking at her unfortunate black dress with the toe of his boot. He leaned over, picking the dress up, and then he dropped it to the floor as if it were too sullied for him to handle.
His action made her furious. "My dress, if you please," she said in her haughtiest manner.
Shaun made no effort to give it to her. "You do not have another dress with you, Marigold?"
"The carriage broke down. My. . . my luggage is still in it."
"Then, how did you get here?"
"I. . . took the train—from Blacksfield."
"Alone?"
"That is none of your business, Shaun. Now, please give me my dress."
"No, Marigold. It is not fit for anything but the garbage heap. Wait here until I bring you something to cover yourself. Then we'll decide what to do."
"Shaun," she called after him. But already he was out the door, taking her only dress with him.
Much later she sat at the breakfast table across from Shaun Banagher. Although her face was still sullen, her hair was clean and shining, with the golden curls in place.
The sleeves of the dark blue silk robe were rolled up, and the sash that held together the long, flowing robe was knotted twice about her waist.
Shaun watched while Marigold satisfied her hunger, buttering yet another hot biscuit and spreading the damson jelly over it.
"Where is my father?" she asked between bites. "If you own his house, you must know where he is."
For a second Shaun stared at her, lifting his brow in a quizzical expression. "He's on Tabor Island for the summer. You know it?"
Marigold nodded. "I was born there—in the middle of a hurricane."
Shaun suddenly grinned as if she had said something amusing, and she scowled at him.
A servant came into the dining room and handed a note to his master. After reading it, Shaun said, "Good. Take everything up to the guest bedroom." When the man had gone, Shaun said, "I hope everything I ordered will fit, Marigold. When you finish your breakfast, you will need to get dressed."
She stopped eating and glowered at Shaun. "You ordered clothes—for me?"
He nodded.
"But you had no right. If you had not been so. . . so contrary, taking my dress, I could have managed. I didn't need your help, Shaun Banagher."
The stubborn words brought a look of displeasure to Shaun's face. "You will always need help, Marigold—to protect you from your own impulsiveness."
Angry now, Shaun leaned forward, "Why did you marry Crane Caldwell? Was it because you knew you could do as you pleased with a husband like that?"
Marigold lifted her chin. "You know very well why I married. Crane."
"No, I don't. But perhaps you can explain it to me. I gather it was not completely your father's fault. No one could ever force you into something you didn't want to do."
"I married Crane because I. . . because I. . . loved him," she said, her eyes flashing with angry sparks.
He quickly masked the hurt that her words brought. "If you've finished your breakfast, then I think you'd better get dressed." His voice was suddenly cold and distant. "Are you planning to go to Tabor Island?"
"Yes."
"Do you need me to make the arrangements?"
"No—thank you. I. . . I have enough money to hire a boat," she lied, her eyes blinking back the tears.
"Then I will be on my way. I am already late for an appointment." Shaun got up from the table, and Marigold, with her back to him, heard the door close.
"Damn him," she said to herself, brushing the tears from her eyes. It had not mattered that almost a year had elapsed since she had seen him. The same overwhelming love for him was still there. It had only taken his touch for Marigold to realize that she would never be free of the burning passion that would keep her from ever loving another man.
But she would not let Shaun suspect it. Her pride would see to that.
Marigold was suddenly weary. The last frantic days had taken their toll. And she still ached. But she had to get out of the house and find some way to sail to Tabor Island before Shaun came back.
Up the stairs to her old room Marigold walked. And on the bed lay a number of boxes—the clothes that Shaun had purchased for her, as if she were some charity child. Dainty underwear—petticoats—and an Indian muslin dress of pale green with satin sash—and slippers, too. The man had forgotten nothing, even to the matching parasol to shade her face from the sun.
Taking off the blue robe, Marigold dressed in her new finery and went to the mirror to survey herself. Only the shoes were a little large. Everything else fit.
She would pay him back, she promised herself—Shaun, as well as Jake.
Jake—she had forgotten that she had given him this address. He would be bringing the carriage and horses to this house, now owned by Shaun Banagher. Why had her mother and father not written to let her know the house had been sold? Now, the only thing she could do was to leave a message for Jake with one of the servants.
A half-hour later, Marigold walked down the front steps and started toward the wharf. She would have no trouble getting someone to take her across the sound. Her father would pay when they reached the island.
The main trouble would be in finding a boat that was not in use. She might have to wait for some time before one became available.
Marigold walked down the street, her parasol shading her face and golden curls from the sun. A group of children, watched over by their nursemaids, played games on the green. Emerald green, the grass—like Shaun Banagher's Irish eyes—darker than the dress he had purchased for her. Angry with herself for still thinking of him, she deliberately put the man out of her mind and thought instead of the trip to the island.
Crane was worried. Marigold should have shown up at the wharf long before now.
He sat looking out from his vantage point, surveying the entire length of the wharf and watching the dock workers with their rhythmic hoisting of the bales of cotton onto the boats.
Could Marigold have gone to Midgard first? But no, she knew better than that, with the malaria in full epidemic on the low country plantations—the miasma ready to lay low any white person who ventured into the bogs or swamps.
But even if she went to the townhouse, it should not have taken Marigold this long, since she had such a head start.
It must have been a shock to her, Crane decided, to find the house on the battery occupied by strangers. He smiled grimly to himself, glad now that he had not told her of the letter he had received from Robert Tabor, saying that the townhouse had been sold and they had gone to Tabor Island for the summer.
Crane's smile disappeared and a frown took its place. Could the people in the townhouse have taken Marigold in and given her shelter? He had not thought of that possibility.
If she did not show up within the next hour, he would go to the house and inquire. Since there were no boats to the island for another two hours, she could not slip past him if he left the wharf for a time.
It did not suit him, having to be in Charleston. The blasting in the gold mine would have to be delayed, just when he had discovered another rich vein. If it had not been for Jake—
His anger at the black man overwhelmed him. Not only to take Marigold across the river in spite of her husband's objections, but to disappear, leaving Crane to travel the much longer route, since the ferry was on the wrong side of the river. Crane felt sure it was Jake, too, who had paid for his wife's lodging on the way. Marigold had no money of her own. He had seen to that.
The knowledge that Jake would soon be apprehended calmed him. Crane determined that, once caught, the black man would never again be free to come and go as he wished. The penalty for horse thieving was hanging, and Jake would soon be swinging from the gallows.
The hour was almost up when Crane left the café and walked out onto the wharf. There was still no sight of Marigold. A coldness suddenly pervaded him. What if Marigold had never reached Charleston?
Suppose some man had seen her and desired her? It would have been so easy for someone to break the lock on the door at one of the inns—if indeed the door even had a lock. And Jake would have been too far away to hear her cry for help.
In agony, he saw the scene before him—a man slipping into her room, the muffling of her scream, and the struggle between them, before the man took his pleasure of her, caressing her soft young body and doing things that no man had a right to do with Crane Caldwell's wife. Even at this moment, he
might be taking his pleasure of her.
Crane broke into a cold sweat, and his hand gripped the wooden railing. He would kill him. No one would get away with taking Marigold from him. He would hunt the man down if it took the rest of his life. . .
The slender figure in the pale green dress walked down the steps that led to the wharf. With relief, Crane realized it was his wife Marigold.
He took his handkerchief from his coat and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Nothing had happened to her. She was safe. His imagination had run riot, as it had done so many times before.
Crane walked rapidly toward her, stepping out from behind the stack of cotton bales into full view. "Marigold," he said, "thank God you're safe."
Marigold gasped at the sudden appearance of her husband. "C-Crane," she said in dismay, backing away from him. But he did not seem to notice her aversion to him.
"I have been so worried about you. You should not have come all this way alone. If you had waited a day or so, I would have come with you."
Marigold could only gaze at him in disbelief. He acted as if nothing had happened between them to make her run away from him.
He drank in her elegant, stylish appearance—the new dress and parasol to match. And then he smiled. "So you have been shopping," he said. "That accounts for your delay in getting to the wharf."
"What are you doing here, Crane?" she croaked, determined not to let him get away with his innocent badinage.
"Why, waiting for my wife. Where is your luggage, my dear?" he asked in a solicitous tone. "A boat leaves for Tabor Island in another hour."
She stared at him and did not answer.
"Come now, you didn't leave it by the side of the road, did you? If that's the case, then we'll have to postpone our trip until we see about a new wardrobe for you. I cannot have your parents thinking that I do not provide properly for you."
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Crane. Not to Tabor Island. And certainly not shopping with you. Kindly remove your hand and let me pass."
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 14
