"Oh, but you are going with me, Marigold."
"No, Crane. I've left you for good, and nothing you say will make me change my mind."
An ugly glint invaded his coal black eyes. "Not even to save Jake?"
Marigold's face turned pale. "Leave Jake out of this, Crane. He has nothing to do with us."
"You forget easily, Marigold. You see, Jake not only helped my wife run away from me, he stole my horses and carriage, too. A horse thief is always hanged. And when Jake is apprehended, that's what will happen to him."
"No," she cried. "I was the one who took the horses and carriage. Jake had nothing to do with it."
"It would look a bit ridiculous, would it not, if I went to the sheriff and accused my own wife of stealing my horses? No, I think I prefer to have Jake hanged instead."
"Crane, please. . ."
"Shall we take a carriage back to the hotel and discuss this in privacy? Your distress seems to be disturbing the dock workers."
Marigold looked in the direction of the men who had stopped their loading to stand and watch. With a sinking heart, she allowed Crane to help her into the waiting carriage. Her mind was in turmoil, trying to think of what to do.
It had not occurred to Marigold that Crane could be so vindictive as to accuse Jake. Unless she could persuade Crane to drop the charges against him, the black man would be hanged for helping her escape. Whatever sacrifice she had to make, Marigold knew that she could not allow Jake to be hanged.
18
Through the streets of Charleston, Marigold and Crane rode in the carriage from the wharf to the hotel. Marigold made no attempt to converse with her husband but stared from the window at the turkey buzzards cleaning the wharf and streets of the garbage left by the street vendors and fishermen. And Crane, appraising Marigold's appearance, did not like what he saw. She should have purchased a black dress, not this sinfully revealing green one. It was an affront to his mother for Marigold to be dressed so frivolously.
The carriage stopped in front of the hotel, and Crane led Marigold inside, where he engaged a suite of rooms for the night. After getting settled, it was soon time for lunch, and the two left the sitting room for the dining hall downstairs. Through the meal, Crane continued to stare at Marigold in her green dress and to look displeased. But he would not reprove her about her choice of costume until they returned to the suite. Recalling the scene she had made at the wharf, he was not eager to see it repeated in public, if she should lose her temper again.
As soon as lunch was over and they had returned upstairs, Crane closed the door to the sitting room and spoke. "Marigold, I don't like your green dress. It's not appropriate, and when we have purchased others for you, I hope you'll pack it away."
"What's wrong with it?" Marigold asked, knowing that it was far more becoming than any of her other clothes, especially the drab black dress she had left behind at the townhouse on the battery.
"It's not suitable for mourning. You should have thought of that when you purchased it. I shall have to buy you several black dresses this afternoon."
"Black?" Marigold repeated in horror. She hated black. It made her skin too white and her golden red hair far too brassy. And besides, the weather was too hot.
"You can save your money, Crane. I'll never wear another black dress."
"We are in mourning for at least a year, Marigold. I'll expect you to abide by tradition and dress appropriately."
Marigold's topaz eyes glittered and her chin lifted in defiance. After a moment of silence, she capitulated. "Then let's go, Crane, to purchase this. . . this mourning wardrobe. But I want to go to Madame Reynaud's shop instead of Mrs. Windom's."
Crane relaxed at her acquiescence. "You may go to any shop you wish, my dear, just so you make sure to select clothes suitable for mourning."
"Madame Reynaud is quite expensive," tshe warned.
"That does not bother me. I am well able to afford it."
It was a small shop on the second floor of a dilapidated building that needed repainting. When Crane saw its location, he gazed at it in distaste. "It doesn't look very elegant."
"Madame Reynaud's clients care only for the way her clothes look on them. They don't give a fig for the way her workroom looks."
Marigold stood aside to allow Crane to open the door. When the bell clanged, a little gray-haired woman came forward almost immediately. Crane, looking condescendingly toward the woman, said, "I am Crane Caldwell. My wife is in mourning. And she wishes four or five dresses suitable for the next few months, together with the proper accessories."
"Oui, monsieur." The woman smiled and launched into French at the sight of Marigold and then turned back to Crane. "What is your price limit, monsieur, for this wardrobe of mourning?"
"It is of no concern to me. I will leave that up to my wife."
"And what type of mourning dresses do you wish, ma petite?" Madame Reynaud asked.
"Why, the traditional French, of course," Marigold said in a sweet, demure voice. "And we must have them by tomorrow."
The woman threw up her hands in horror. "Then I suggest we begin right away. I will send for Natalie. And you, monsieur, may call for your wife in three hours."
Crane, irritated at the woman's dismissal, hesitated. But since Marigold seemed so amenable and the room so small, he left.
When Crane returned at the designated time, several boxes were packed and ready to be taken with them, with the promise that the others would be delivered the next morning. Madame Reynaud's girls would have to stay up all night, finishing the order, but she would personally see to their delivery at the hotel the next morning.
"Bon soir, monsieur," the gray-haired woman said, "et madame." And once again, Marigold and Madame Reynaud spoke in French, further irritating Crane, who could not follow the conversation between the two women.
They had dinner in their sitting room. Afterward Crane, curious that Marigold had made no effort to remove her new clothes from the boxes, said, "I want to see what your redoubtable Madame Reynaud has selected for you."
Marigold's hands tightened on the chair in which she was sitting. "Certainly, Crane. The boxes are on the bed."
He stared at her and she stared back. She was certainly not going to model the clothes for him. Finally, he moved into the bedroom, and Marigold, still sitting in the chair, waited and listened for the tirade that was sure to come. From inside the bedroom, Crane's voice called out, "Marigold, will you please come into the bedroom? I want to hear the explanation for your obvious disobedience to me."
Sighing, she pushed herself from the chair and slowly walked toward the bed where Crane stood, holding up the white evening dress and gazing at it in distaste.
"I don't understand, Crane, what you mean by my obvious disobedience."
"The dress is white—not black, as I requested."
"Oh, but I thought that was understood. You asked me to get something suitable for mourning, and I did."
"Marigold." His voice rose in anger.
"But Crane, you were in the room when Madame Reynaud and I discussed it."
Marigold managed to look hurt as she continued. "I am half French, Crane, and so was Cousin Julie. I have chosen to mourn her in the way she would have understood."
"What does that have to do with this dress?" he demanded.
"White is the French color for mourning," she explained. "I did as you asked, Crane, and chose a wardrobe suitable for mourning." Her eyes filled with tears, and Crane, seeing her reaction, was uncertain. Had his wife deliberately done this to irk him? Or was it because of her foreign ways? He remembered he had not always understood Julie, his foster mother, either.
Seeing Marigold looking at him with such innocent, wide, tearful eyes, Crane finally said, "Well, it's too late to do anything about it. But I'm not pleased, Marigold. Somehow, I have a feeling that you deliberately misled me."
He went back into the sitting room and took up the Courier to read. And Marigold, with nothing to do, paced up and dow
n the room like a caged cat.
"You're going to wear yourself out if you continue this nervous walking back and forth. Why don't you take a nice, relaxing bath?"
Marigold paused and glared at the man. "Not while you are in the room, Crane."
He smiled. "So modest. And yet there is not an inch of you that I would not recognize."
Marigold muffled her angry response, and Crane, pretending not to notice, turned a page of the newspaper. "I see where the widow of the late Bishop Nance is reported to have separated from her second husband. Do you know them, Marigold?"
"Yes. She is very beautiful."
"Then he must be a fool to allow her to disgrace him like this, with such notoriety in the newspaper."
Every word that Crane uttered made Marigold even more irritable. She picked at the threads of the drapery and gazed out the window.
"You might as well settle down, Marigold. We're here until tomorrow. And there is nothing you can do about it."
She continued standing at the window. Crane, still looking at the paper, said, "The new oriental drama of Mr. Hart and Mr. Young is playing tonight on Queen Street. Cataract of the Ganges. I think I'll go out to purchase tickets—and that will give my modest wife an opportunity to calm her nerves and get dressed in privacy."
"I thought we were in mourning," Marigold accused. "Surely you don't intend going to the theater. Aren't you afraid of what people will say?"
"Because of the way you have chosen to dress, no one will ever suspect that you are in mourning, Marigold. And since I prefer a pleasant evening to watching you pace back and forth, wearing out the carpet, I shall buy tickets for the performance. Besides, I'm not well known in Charleston, so I won't be censured for any impropriety."
Getting his coat, Crane remarked, "I'll send a maid with bath water, Marigold, and leave you for an hour."
She splashed the sponge over her body, not caring that the excess water dripped to the floor. She was so angry. Crane had her hands tied because of Jake. But once Jake was safe—
Marigold smiled, and in a better temper, she hurriedly finished her bath and put on the new dress. At least, Crane had not gotten the better of her in that.
It was a beautiful dress—of sheerest Indian muslin. And the shoulders were dangerously low cut. As Marigold moved before the mirror to look at the gown shimmering in the light, she remembered Shaun's disparaging look at her ruined black dress, her hair in tatters and tangles. She knew that was why she had vowed never to wear another black dress. If he could only see her now. What a different appearance she made from the hoyden Shaun had dragged from his bed.
But he was not apt to see her again. Shaun had washed his hands of her and left her to find her own way to the wharf. He was no gentleman, she fumed. A gentleman would have left a carriage at her disposal, rather than force her to walk all the way in the hot sun.
Marigold heard the steps along the hall, and Crane, coming into the room, held up the tickets in his hand. "We're lucky," he said. "These are the last two tickets for the performance tonight. The man behind me was turned away. If you're ready, Marigold, we will go. The carriage is on the street."
As Marigold walked through the lobby of the hotel and down the steps to the street, heads turned to look at the young woman dressed in white. Marigold did not notice the stares and approving looks, but Crane did.
She kept her silence as they traveled in the carriage to Queen Street. It did not take long to arrive at their destination. Marigold, stepping from the carriage in front of the theater, recognized many of the people waiting to go inside. In answer to their nods and tipping of hats, she inclined her head discreetly, keeping her proud bearing, for she remembered her near disgrace because of Shaun Banagher.
Despite the rumors of cholera that had swept from Europe to New York and Albany and that was reportedly on its way to Charleston, the theater was filled. Already late, Marigold and Crane had no more than found their seats before the lights lowered and the curtain went up. An excited murmur of approval moved through the audience at the opulent scene before them, and the roar of applause greeted the beginning drama.
At intermission she saw him—Shaun, dressed in elegant evening clothes, and with one of the insipid Henley sisters at his side, with her wispy hair, her childish figure disguised by the oversized sleeves, the ridiculously wide skirt, and her parents hovering approvingly in the background.
How dare he embarrass her this way! Marigold was furious. But then, her anger turned to chagrin. Shaun had every right to escort the girl. Marigold was the married one—not Shaun.
She smiled at Crane as he returned with the glasses of sherry, and for the first time during the evening, Marigold began to converse animatedly with him, while turning her back to Shaun Banagher and his party. Soon the signal sounded, and Marigold and Crane went back to their seats for the final act.
Marigold, now aware of Shaun's eyes on her from the nearby box, took an exaggerated interest in the happenings on stage, laughing daintily behind her fan at some of the more amusing elements, and leaning over to comment to Crane off and on.
But then, she became engrossed in the exotic scene before her. Marigold gripped her chair as the drama rushed to its breathtaking ending. The dark-haired woman on stage, dressed in a minimum of clothing, teetered over the cataract. The audience gasped, but the heroine was suddenly dragged to safety by her dark-skinned lover. And Marigold, with the others, gave a sigh of relief.
The final curtain went down on the embracing lovers, and there was complete silence in the theater. Then the applause began, mounting higher and higher, until the whole theater shook from the intensity of the applause.
The crowd swarmed from the theater, and on the pavement outside, Marigold, clinging to Crane's arm, passed by Shaun without speaking. Into the waiting carriage she stepped, and through the darkness she sped, with Crane at her side, and her heart left with the man she had deliberately snubbed.
That night, Marigold slept in the sitting room, while Crane retired to the bedroom. He was pleased with Marigold's behavior toward Shaun Banagher. He had known they would meet someday but was not sure how Marigold would react. Now he knew he could rely on her pride to keep them apart.
Marigold tossed and turned in her sleep. And her troubled dreams awoke her—the vision of her twin Maranta, hanging precariously over the cataract of the Ganges. But no. That was the dark-haired actress in the theater—not Maranta.
She sat up, feeling the heat of the room closing in on her. Creeping to the window, she raised it higher for the cooling breeze of the sea. And the stars in the sky beckoned to her.
Could Maranta see those same stars on the coffee plantation where she lived? What was it like for her in Brazil? Marigold wished she had paid more attention to the geographer at Miss Denison's Seminary.
She left the window and crawled back onto the sofa, where she remained for much of the night, thinking of her twin and their separation from each other. And her heart was sad.
The next morning, Marigold packed her clothes in the new valise and was ready to leave when Crane came into the sitting room.
"We will have breakfast downstairs," he stated, "and then it will be time to take the boat."
All at once, Marigold remembered Jake. He would be coming with the repaired carriage—to the house on the battery.
"You go ahead, Crane, and order for us. I will be down in a moment."
"Make sure you don't dawdle. The boat won't wait."
As soon as he left, Marigold searched for writing paper and pen. At the desk in the sitting room, she sat and quickly penned a message to Jake—and addressed it to the black man in care of Shaun Banagher. She could do nothing else.
The messenger boys that hung about in the streets were congregated around the shoeblack in front of the hotel. Taking one of her meager coins from her new reticule, Marigold pressed the money and the letter into one of the outstretched hands, and she watched the boy running down the street before she joined Crane for break
fast.
Azure blue—with the sparkle of gold sprinkled over its white-tipped edges—the sea that Marigold loved surrounded her, lifting the boat in the rolling swells. The white sea gulls flying about with their punctuating cries—these were the sights and sounds that she loved.
Crane, slightly ill from the rolling of the water, eyed Marigold resentfully for her obvious enjoyment of the trip.
She gazed out to sea, her hand shielding her amber eyes from the burning sun. They were nearing the island where she had been born—she and Maranta—and a feeling of excitement obliterated the pain and unpleasantness of the previous days.
They would be surprised to see her, with no message to prepare them for her coming. But she had never been much to write. Her parents knew that.
The old lighthouse stood tall and formidable in the distance—the sentinel that had been used by her father as a watchtower for the British ships, the structure that had sheltered her mother from the hurricane as she gave birth that stormy night. And now, Marigold would get to see it up close, walk up its winding steps, and gaze out its broken windows to the sea, to the miles of water where the ships sailed in a line across the horizon, where Maranta herself had sailed half a world away.
Raven and Robbie, Feena, her parents, perhaps even Jason—Marigold was impatient to see them all.
The palm trees and the palmettos came into view, some of the taller ones growing at a strange angle along the sandy beach, bent that way by the buffeting winds. And then, the dock appeared, and the boat slowed, drifting and gliding over the glassy waters.
The boat stayed barely long enough for Marigold and Crane to disembark, before it started up again for the next stop in its journey through the barrier isles off the coast.
Marigold, not certain how far she would have to walk, left her luggage near the wooden pier for a servant to fetch and walked toward the path that was edged with cassina bushes, recently clipped. Crane had rung the bell at the pier to alert everyone of their approach. Marigold shivered, remembering the sound of the other bell near Cedar Hill.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 15
