Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  Seeing Neijee with the horses, Marigold waved frantically. He looked up, and a grin spread across his face as he acknowledged her greeting.

  "Who are you waving to, Marigold?" Crane asked at her side.

  "Neijee. I haven't seen him since he left with Jason on the Grand Tour."

  "You mean you're speaking in public to a servant? Have you no sense of propriety?"

  Marigold sighed. "Neijee is a member of the family, Crane. But I don't expect you to understand." She walked away from her husband and took her place in the review stand.

  She sat in the stand, surrounded by the maids of honor, and watched the men in armor pass by. The clanking of spurs, the plumes of scarlet and blue and green, waving in the breeze, the intricately embroidered saddlecloths of the horses—all gave the martial and festive air of knights gathered from the corners of the realm, so diverse were they in colors and appearance. And the fine-blooded horses, beautiful and gleaming, snorted and went through their practice paces like seasoned war horses—direct descendants of those fiery, fleet-footed animals that had eluded the British through the black swamps of the countryside and saved the lives of many a patriot, disappearing like foxes in the night before the very eyes of the enemy.

  And now the man and his horse became one entity—a centaur, with lance in hand, to test the quickness of his hand and eye.

  The horns sounded. The practice was over. Quickly pairing off, two by two in precise formation, the horses began the sedate procession, and Marigold, listening to the names being called off, watched for her brother, Jason.

  "Jason Boisfeulet Tabor," the man recited, "riding for Midgard. Shaun O'Malley Banagher, riding for Crescent Hall."

  Marigold's mouth dropped open. Her brother and Shaun Banagher, paired together. She turned her head and cast a quick glance toward Docia Henley, one of the maids of honor seated near her. Being chosen by Mr. Henley to ride for Crescent Hall could mean only one thing. Shaun Banagher was as good as engaged to Docia.

  Marigold's spirits plunged, and the bright sunlight caught the brilliance of her topaz eyes that had suddenly moistened. Blinded by the sunlight, Marigold missed seeing the two men, holding their lances high in homage, as they quickly passed the review stand.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Marigold held her head high, while the tournament went on about her, but she was only vaguely aware of what was going on around her—the rings suspended in regular intervals on the crossbars, the gallop of horses over the course, and the hurl of lances through the rings. When a rider was successful, a great cheer arose from the crowd. And later, the tilts began, with the riders speeding toward each other with their blunt poles, attempting to unseat each other.

  On and on it went, while Marigold's throbbing headache grew worse, and Docia Henley's smile grew larger.

  The sound of the trumpets, the applause of the crowd. . . Suddenly, Marigold was thrust back into reality. The two riders approached the stand, and the crowns of golden leaves were pressed into her hand. It was almost over, and then she could leave.

  Kneeling before her were her brother Jason and Shaun, side by side, well matched in size and skill. She saw the heads bowed before her—one a burnished gold, similar to her own, and the other, a darker shade, deep auburn, with the tendrils on his forehead wet from the exertion of the day.

  And when it was over, when the two giants had walked away with their crowns of victory, Marigold searched for her parents. Her duty was done. She had no desire to attend the ball that night—to feel her pride crushed further underfoot. All she wished to do was to get back to the hotel and lie down. And pretend that Docia Henley did not exist.

  To be in his arms. To bear his children—all the things she had dreamed of were to be given to someone who did not deserve him. It was more than Marigold could stand. What a cruel trick for Shaun to play on her—to push her aside and then select someone like Docia.

  In the silence of the sitting room at the hotel, Marigold gazed into the mirror. She had grown up accustomed to the stares, the polite compliments, the turning of heads as she walked by. She was the same. Her golden curls, her creamy, delicate skin, the wide, tawny, topaz eyes that she had inherited from her father—and it was all for naught. The one for whom she had wanted to be beautiful had not been impressed.

  Marigold lay on the sofa, the room darkened, and the smelling salts at hand. Crane came in and, seeing her prostrate, he walked to the sofa.

  "What is the matter, Marigold?" he asked.

  "I have a dreadful headache," she replied. "I think it was the dust and the hot sun this afternoon."

  "What will you do about tonight? Are you still planning to go?"

  "No, Crane. I don't feel up to that. If you don't mind, I'll go on to sleep."

  She was still asleep when Jason called for her that evening. At the knock on the door, Crane tiptoed across the room and faced his brother-in-law. "Marigold isn't feeling well," Crane informed him with a triumphant expression. "She has decided to stay here and have a quiet dinner later, when she awakes."

  And so Jason went to the ball without her, to celebrate his victory in the tournament that day—his and Shaun's.

  By the next afternoon, Jason and Neijee were gone. Marigold, feeling better, with only a trace of her headache left, had accompanied her mother and father, Robbie, and Crane down to the wharf to see them off.

  It would be an entire year before she would see her brother again. She had kissed Jason and clung to him, not willing to see him go. And the words that she had vowed she would not speak had rushed past her lips.

  "Jason, who was selected as queen of the ball last night?"

  "Docia Henley," he replied, but noticing the unhappy droop to his sister's mouth, Jason admitted, "but she didn't hold a candle to you, Souci. You were, by far, the most beautiful queen we've had in years."

  They returned to Tabor Island that same afternoon. Marigold, subdued and quiet, watched the sun drag its trail of purple shadows over the waters. No longer blue, but a dull gray, the waters churned and rolled behind the boat. The sails of Jason's ship were barely in sight—small wings jutting from the distant horizon.

  First, Maranta, now, Jason—separated by an ocean and time and age. They were all growing up, and Marigold longed for the good times when they had all been together at Midgard, with not a care in the world.

  Robbie's voice penetrated her sadness, and she smiled, listening to his childish, excited monologue. His first experience as a page at the tournament had been a big event in his young life. Robert Tabor, gazing fondly at his son, reached out and ruffled the boy's hair.

  "So you think you'll be able to ride in the lists next year, son?" the teasing voice asked.

  "Oh, no. It will be a while before Jason gets too old. But I'm going to start practicing on my pony as soon as we get back to Midgard."

  Eulalie and Robert smiled at each other at their son's serious reply.

  The boat reached the pier, and Marigold, with an urgency she could not understand, rushed to the lighthouse, climbed the steps to the top, and there she stood, until the tiny sails of the ship carrying Jason to England were completely erased by the encroaching darkness.

  "Marigold," her husband's voice called, and she reluctantly came down the winding steps.

  For a week, a listless Marigold moped about the island, with Crane making no mention of returning to Cedar Hill. Occasionally he would ride with her father into the city—presumably to negotiate the business of laying the track inside the gold mine. And each day, she wondered when Crane would bring up the subject of her returning with him to the up country.

  She did not feel any better. What was the matter with her? Surely, she had gotten over her disappointment at the idea of Shaun and Docia Henley. But her appetite had not returned. And the taste of food she had eaten for breakfast still lingered. Marigold suddenly put her hand over her mouth. No, it couldn't be true. She wouldn't let it. But Marigold could not deny the signs any longer.

  She was going to hav
e a baby—Crane's baby. All because of that night after Julie's funeral.

  Marigold pressed her fingers into her throbbing temples and tried to think of what to do. If her parents found out, or Crane, they would make her return to Cedar Hill. Oh God, why had she taken pity on Crane that night? Why had she allowed herself to be coerced into remaining for the night in his bed? But it was too late for regret.

  The cold feeling that had spread over her body, numbing her, now changed to unbearable heat, draining her of energy, of strength. Suddenly, the bilious taste of her breakfast overwhelmed her, and she rushed toward the ruins of the tabby house. Sheltered by the cassina bushes, Marigold was sick.

  She was still pale as she slowly walked in the direction of the cottage. She would have to lie down for a while, but not in the room she shared with Crane. Bypassing the cottage, with its screened porch facing the ocean, she continued walking until she reached the lighthouse.

  There was a cot in the room at the top. If she could rest there, then she might be able to survive another day without having her secret discovered. Crane would never let her stay if he discovered she was going to have his child.

  In the room where she had been born, Marigold lay down, not caring about the cobwebs, not caring about anything. She closed her eyes, and slowly, the tension eased and she drifted to sleep.

  The footsteps downstairs on the stone floor awoke her. How long had she been asleep? The sound faltered on the stairs, and Marigold sat up, listening.

  Tread by tread the steps came, and Marigold knew someone was searching for her. And she could not escape.

  Finally the figure became visible in the doorway. Marigold sighed in relief as she recognized the white-haired woman. "Feena," she said.

  "I have been looking for you, ma petite," the woman replied. "You have missed lunch, and your maman is worried about you—You do not look well. There is something wrong, n'est-ce pas?"

  Marigold could no longer control her despondency. "Everything, Feena. Everything is wrong." She burst into tears, and Feena came to sit by her and console her as she had done through the years for as long as Marigold could remember.

  "You will tell Feena what is wrong?"

  "I'm. . . I'm pregnant," Marigold wailed, searching in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief.

  "And that is a tragedy?" Feena asked gently.

  "Yes. I can't bear the idea of having Crane's baby. The child will probably grow up to be mean and malicious just like Crane."

  "But you will be the mother, ma chérie. Therein lies the difference. You will teach him to be kind and loving."

  "But I don't want to have a baby."

  At her confession, Feena's voice hardened. "So you think you are the only woman to have felt this way? Soon you will get used to the idea—and even look forward to it."

  "I'm afraid, Feena. I'm afraid of Crane. I hate Cedar Hill and I just know everybody will make me go back there. And I'm afraid I'll die all alone and be. . . be buried under that sickly magnolia tree next to Cousin Julie." Her weeping grew louder.

  "Would you feel better, ma petite, if I went back to Cedar Hill with you?"

  Marigold sniffed and looked up into Feena's dark eyes. "You would actually go—if I wanted you?"

  The woman smiled. "I am sure your maman would give permission, if you ask. Now does that make you feel better?"

  Marigold nodded. "Yes, Feena. If you're there, it won't be quite so bad."

  "Then dry your eyes and let us go back to the cottage. The lighthouse is not a proper place for you to be alone. There are too many steps, and you must be careful."

  Marigold, with her mind on her troubles, walked back to the cottage with Feena. And all at once, her twin assumed shape in her mind. Marigold stopped feeling sorry for herself. Poor Maranta. Even now, she might be pregnant, too. And she did not have Feena to help her. But for her sake, Marigold hoped her twin loved her husband, this Vasco da Monteiro. It would be difficult enough to have a child when she was halfway across the world from her family.

  26

  By the next afternoon, Crane knew he was to be a father. A satisfied expression changed his dark face at the news. Now, Marigold would be forced to go back to Cedar Hill with him. He had kept putting it off as long as he could, afraid she would refuse, but he knew the plantation had suffered from neglect, with his leaving so suddenly. He needed to get back, not only to see to the land, but to make arrangements for the work to be done in the gold mine. If everything worked out, Crane could stop farming altogether. The mine would keep him rich.

  The only thing that bothered him was that Jake had not been caught with the horses. Despite his promise to Marigold, he wanted to see the man hang for his insolence. But the black man had escaped the net the sheriff had drawn around the city.

  He would post a reward for information concerning the man. Someone was bound to have seen him. And Jake would have to surface at some time, to seek employment. Perhaps it was better this way. With Marigold at Cedar Hill, she would have no way of knowing that Jake had been hanged.

  The cholera that Charleston had dreaded was now getting closer, already taking its toll on some of the nearby islands. The city was uneasy. And Crane, fearful for his own safety, decided to leave as soon as he could arrange transportation.

  "Marigold," he said, "I realize it is not a good time for you to be traveling, but cholera is already on John's Island. It will be much safer for you if we leave immediately—just as soon as I can see to a carriage."

  She had been waiting for this, so it came as no surprise. "What's wrong with the carriage I brought to Charleston from Cedar Hill?" she asked.

  "You mean it's here?"

  "Well, not here on the island. Actually, it's at Little Jim's Livery Stables, with the horses."

  So Jake had gotten to Charleston, unapprehended. Now, it would be more difficult to bring him to justice, especially without his being caught red-handed with the horses.

  "Why didn't you tell me, Marigold?" His voice was suddenly irritable.

  "Would it have made any difference? We could hardly have brought the carriage on the boat to the island."

  There was truth in what Marigold said, he had to admit. And he could not tell her the real reason why he was upset—that Jake had not been caught.

  The next morning, Marigold and Crane walked to the pier, amid the good-byes and the handshakes and kisses. Suddenly, Robbie slipped up to Marigold and tugged at her skirt. Quickly, he whispered, "Souci—ask him for the letter. He never gave it to you." As soon as he had said it, Robbie ran toward Eulalie and remained at his mother's side, as if afraid.

  Crane frowned at the child's whisperings and watched Marigold's face for some sign of what the boy might have told her. But she evidently had not understood his childish babbling. So intent was he on Marigold, Crane did not realize that Feena had gotten into the boat ahead of them.

  When he saw the white-haired servant ensconced with their luggage, he stopped. "What is Feena doing in the boat?" he asked.

  "Oh, I thought you knew," Marigold responded airily. "Maman has been good enough to lend her to me until after the baby comes."

  His dark eyes darted suspiciously back to Feena. She smiled at the man, but her eyes were no more friendly than his. And he became uneasy.

  The horse that Crane had ridden into Charleston was brought from another stable and tied to the back of the carriage at Little Jim's. With a hired driver, the carriage left the city, a silent Crane staring first at Marigold, and then at the Tabor servant, Feena.

  Because of Marigold's condition, they traveled in a leisurely manner. Such a difference, Marigold thought, from her hurried flight from her husband. She had vowed never to return to him and yet, she was in the carriage with him, riding back to Cedar Hill. But it was not a willing thing on her part. If circumstances had only been different. If she had not become pregnant—if she had not felt responsibility for Jake—

  But what was the use? She had brought all this trouble on herself, by falling in
love with Shaun Banagher. And now, she must manage as best she could—with no one's help, except Feena's.

  Stopping at the same inns on their journey home, Marigold presented a far different picture from the runaway with her face hidden by the black mourning veil. Crane's hat was draped in black, but Marigold's costume gave no indication of a recent bereavement.

  The recovered valise—the one waiting in the carriage—contained the clothes that she wore on the trip back to Cedar Hill. The dust, the heat, the steady drizzle of summer rain along the muddy red trail would not be kind to the elegant white dresses. And the pale green dress was carefully packed away, as Crane had suggested, but not for the reason he had given.

  She had forgotten to repay Shaun for the dress and the other things. And now it was too late. An amused smile played around the corners of her expressive mouth. Crane would be furious if he ever found out she had spent the night in the same house with Shaun. But it was his own fault. Crane had neglected to show her the letter written by her father—mentioning the sale of the house.

  But had her father named the buyer? Was Crane already aware that it was Shaun Banagher who now lived in the Palladian mansion along the battery? Perhaps he knew more than she thought.

  Robbie's troubled question about a letter puzzled her. Was it her father's letter he was talking about? Had Robbie sent her a special message that Crane had not given to her?

  Marigold glanced uneasily at her husband, but he did not seem to be aware of her. He was thinking of something else—something that gave him immense pleasure, judging by the self-satisfied expression on his face.

  The river finally came into sight—that final lap of the journey that pushed Marigold on to Cedar Hill against her will. As before, she climbed from the carriage and waited until the vehicle was driven onto the ferry. She and Feena followed the carriage, and when they were safely on the wooden structure, the black ferryman, who had evidently taken Jake's place, cast off, directing the raft to the other side.