Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

Marigold was determined that Feena was going to stay in the big house with her. And Crane, mindful that it was not good to upset a woman who was expecting a child, gave in, allowing the servant to have a room in the attic, directly above the second-story bedrooms.

  "We'll need to get the cottage ready for the foreman who's coming to oversee the building of the rail," Crane said that evening at dinner.

  "So you are going ahead with your plans?"

  "Yes. The company in Charleston seemed to be reasonable in price. The man who is going to determine the roadbed layout for the tracks will be coming in about ten days. When he has finished with the plans, he will send for his workers. But you need not bother about them. They will have their tents to live in and their own cook.

  "The only one you will ever see will be the supervisor. He'll take his meals with us."

  The days passed quickly, and Marigold, happy to have Feena with her, was not quite so homesick as before. With Feena, she saw to the cleaning of the cottage, the removal of the bed, and the fumigating with sulphur, as the doctor had advised because of Cousin Julie's illness.

  On the tenth day, the man came. Marigold was resting and did not see him, for Crane took him straight to the cottage as soon as he arrived. But he would be present for supper. And probably with a big appetite, too, Marigold guessed. She must make sure that Juniper cooked extra portions of everything.

  Late in the afternoon, Marigold dressed in one of the white dresses made by Madame Reynaud. Her pregnancy had not yet thickened her waistline, so no one would be able to tell. They so seldom had guests for dinner at Cedar Hill that Marigold was looking forward to having the man at the table. For a while, at least, she would not be forced to make polite conversation with Crane alone.

  It was almost time for the evening meal when Crane returned from the gold mine. Dusty and hot and in a bad temper, he lashed out at the boy who brought water for his bath. Not wishing to hear the tirade that spread along the upstairs hall, Marigold slipped out of the house, intent on getting away from the voice that always managed to irritate her.

  Taking her basket and shears with her, Marigold walked to the flower garden—one of the few things she loved at Cedar Hill. It was a short distance from the house, and in the late afternoon, the fragrance of the summer flowers hung heavily on the air. She had cut enough blossoms for the dining table and the tall vase in the parlor earlier that day, but Marigold began to cut other flowers, not sure what she would do with them when she finished. Crane did not like flowers in the bedrooms. He claimed they took away the air and were not healthy to have around. The fragrant musk roses, the tall purple delphiniums, and the gladioli whose spikes were slightly awry from the recent rain, didn't look like enemies to her, for they were so beautiful.

  Marigold held the white musk rose in her hand, and as she started to put it into her basket, she saw the stranger come out of the cottage and walk along the path toward the big house.

  Marigold's heart fluttered. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. For a moment—just a moment—she thought it was Shaun. But of course that was impossible. Shaun Banagher was in Charleston, dancing to the tune of Docia Henley.

  She openly stared at the man and clutched the basket of flowers so hard that it seemed welded to her hands. He was headed straight for her. And she watched, dumbfounded, as he approached her. It was Shaun. He was there, at Cedar Hill, within touching distance.

  "Hello, Marigold."

  She backed away from the tall, muscular man who towered over her. "Shaun. What are you doing here—at Cedar Hill?"

  "Didn't your husband tell you? My company is laying the track in his gold mine."

  "Your company? Crane hired you to build the rail system?"

  The auburn-haired man's mouth moved in an ironic twist. "I believe he talked with my partner. He may not have been aware of the association. I think Crane was expecting the foreman, but since the man is busy on another project, I decided to come ahead to design the system. And I will stay to oversee it myself, so your husband will not be kept waiting any longer than necessary."

  No wonder Crane had been in a bad temper, having to welcome the man whom he disliked so thoroughly.

  "I. . . I have never repaid you for the dress. . ."

  "Forget about it, Marigold." He stared hard at her, and she could think of nothing to say because of the effect his green eyes had on her.

  "Are you happy with Crane?" he demanded suddenly. There was anger in his voice. "If he is mistreating you—if you need help, Marigold. . ."

  She saw the pity in his eyes—pity for her. Was her love for Shaun so obvious in her face? Did he sense the way her heart was fluttering as she stood near him?

  Marigold closed her eyes and saw him with the possessive Docia, the woman he preferred. No, she would not have him sorry for her.

  "Of course I'm happy with Crane," she said, lifting her chin a trifle higher. "I am expecting his child. Is that not what makes a woman's joy complete—to be expecting the baby of the man she. . . loves?"

  The words almost choked her. Marigold, watching Shaun, saw his emerald eyes change. Not pity, but something else now in its place. Resignation? Disappointment?

  "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. And I expect you are hungry, Shaun." Marigold began walking toward the house with Shaun at her side.

  In a daze, Marigold sat at the table, looking at Crane and then at Shaun. How could she stay and act as if nothing were wrong, when she was being torn apart? Forced to show indifference to the man she actually loved, while pretending affection for the man she hated. Her fork clattered onto her plate, and she dropped her napkin. She could eat almost nothing. Yet Shaun, seemingly impervious to the stilted atmosphere, ate heartily, while Crane watched him with narrowed eyes.

  As soon as she could do so, Marigold left the table. "If you will excuse me," she said. When she left the dining room she heard Crane's gloating voice. "My wife is expecting a child, Mr. Banagher. And so she is a little high-strung."

  By the next morning, Marigold had gotten over the initial shock of having Shaun Banagher at Cedar Hill—but she was not entirely relaxed. She supposed she never would be—seeing the two men together. But somehow, she had to get through the next few weeks.

  When the mail for the week came, Marigold was in the parlor, reading. Feena brought three envelopes to her, saying, "A man just delivered these, ma petite."

  Eagerly, Marigold looked at the addresses. Two were for Crane and one for Shaun. Disappointed, she saw there was no communication from her family.

  Marigold turned the letters over in her hand. What business did Crane have with the sheriff in Charleston? Could it be about Jake?

  Seeing the feminine handwriting on the letter addressed to Shaun, Marigold did not have to guess the name of its sender. She placed the three letters on the front hall table and went back to her reading.

  27

  Crane gazed incredulously at the letter in front of him. It was not possible. And yet, the detective had sworn everything he wrote was the truth—Marigold's spending the night in Shaun Banagher's townhouse, his purchase of a new dress for her the next day, and his sheltering the man, Jake.

  Crane had merely wanted to find Jake, to punish him for his insolence. But here in his hands, Crane held far more incriminating evidence. While searching for the black man, the detective had stumbled onto something far more serious—Marigold's unfaithfulness.

  The glint in Crane's coal dark eyes, the fist clenched around the ball of paper indicated the man's extreme anger. The longer he thought about it, the more livid he became.

  Marigold had spent the night with Shaun—in the townhouse that had once belonged to Robert Tabor. She had said nothing to her husband about it the next day, or any day afterwards. And with good reason, Crane now realized. The child that he had thought was his—it was Shaun Banagher's!

  He should have guessed. From all the times that he had bedded Marigold, not once had there been any hint that she was with child. Why should it have b
een otherwise that last time—the night of his mother's funeral?

  And the green dress she had worn to the wharf. Shaun had even purchased that for Marigold. And the final insult—Jake was now working for Shaun Banagher and under his protection.

  Crane's anger was now combined with fear. They must have found out that he had deceived Marigold, forcing her into marrying him. What other reason did the man have in coming to Cedar Hill but to kill him and take Marigold? It was not the rail to be laid in the gold mine. Owners didn't come to supervise. They sent their underlings instead. No. It was for murder—to get rid of Crane Caldwell before he discovered the child his wife was carrying was not his, but Shaun Banagher's.

  The man took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He would have to be careful. The two must not suspect that he knew the truth about them.

  He would have to find a way to get rid of them both. They would have to pay for their insults to Crane Caldwell—and pay with their lives.

  His head began to ache from so much thinking. Crane smoothed the crumpled paper and hid it under his mattress and then left the room to get some fresh air.

  Nothing had gone right the entire day for Marigold. Ever since the letters, Crane had watched her like a hawk, as if he suspected her of some witch's planning. And his constant accusing stare frightened her. If it weren't for Feena sleeping in the same house, she did not know what she would do.

  She had not felt well for some time, and it was hard on her, trying to maintain her pretense of being happy, with Shaun sitting across the table from her each evening.

  Marigold, in the meadow next to the apple tree, now stared down at the broken eggs at her feet. She was so nervous, she could not even trust herself to take eggs from a hen's nest and get them safely to the house. And Juniper was waiting for them, for the cake she planned to bake for supper.

  Marigold sat on the fallen log and began to cry. She had kept it inside for so long. And her anger, her fear, her unhappiness spilled out in great sobs, with only the pigs in the nearby pen to hear her. They stood up and brushed against the rough planks that held them in and grunted several times in answer to her sobs. Finally, with their curiosity satisfied, they went away to wallow in the mud on the far side of the pen.

  "Marigold."

  The voice was Shaun's, and Maranta was embarrassed for him to find her in the meadow, crying her heart out.

  With a tear-streaked face, she looked up and said, "Go away, Shaun Banagher."

  "What's the matter, Marigold?" he asked gently, ignoring her command.

  "I. . . I dropped the eggs," she said, "if you want to know. And now there'll be no cake for supper."

  The man's deep laugh startled the pigs, and again they grew curious, pressing their noses against the wire fence and sniffing.

  "Is that all?" Shaun asked. "I thought something tragic had happened."

  "What else could possibly be the matter?" she retaliated. "Certainly not that I'm pregnant when I don't want to be. Certainly not that I'm married to a man I hate."

  He stared at her without speaking. And the log moved as he brought his giant frame down beside her.

  "You have told me on several occasions that you loved your husband. Why have you so suddenly changed your mind?"

  It was too much to keep up the pretense. "I. . . I've never loved Crane Caldwell."

  The man's eyes bored into her. And his voice was fierce. "Then why did you marry him, Marigold? For God's sake, why did you marry the man? Did your father make you do it after all?"

  To blame her father when it was all his fault—did she have to spell it out for him?

  "I married Crane because you jilted me, Shaun Banagher. And I couldn't stand the thought of staying in Charleston while you bragged about it. To bet that you could get the proudest girl in Charleston to elope with you—I hope you enjoyed your fun that night, Shaun, while I waited in the garden half the night for you to come."

  Her angry words stabbed him. Shaun pulled her to her feet, and when she tried to free herself, he held on to her, so that she could not escape. "But the letter—you must have gotten my letter that day. It explained why I couldn't come."

  "I received no letter from you, Shaun."

  "But Chad said he gave it to your brother at the gate."

  "Robbie? He gave it to Robbie?" Marigold frowned at his affirmation. Was that what Robbie had meant when he said goodbye to her on the island? Ask Crane for the letter.

  Crane must have taken the letter from Robbie. That was how he knew that she was going to elope. That's how he knew that Shaun was not coming. Now, it was clear. Her cousin had deceived her. And her wounded pride had made her believe him. He must have threatened her little brother to keep him from telling her.

  "I think. . . Crane must have taken it from him."

  Shaun moaned and pressed his lips to Marigold's golden hair. "Oh, Souci—Why couldn't you have had more faith in me?"

  "You didn't really want to elope, Shaun. I knew that. And I guess all the time I was waiting for you in the garden, I was wondering if you would actually come."

  Marigold looked back toward the house. "I've got to go, Shaun. Juniper is waiting for me."

  "I have to see you again, Souci—alone. There are too many things left unsaid."

  "Crane watches me constantly. It won't be easy."

  Shaun's fingers touched the small scar near her temple. "Is Crane responsible for this?" he asked.

  Marigold nodded and suddenly fled from the meadow.

  The workers appeared the next day, with the great wagon loads of equipment—the small rails and the spikes and the cross ties—and the shiny metal cars that would eventually carry the ore from far back inside the tunnels to the openings of the mine.

  Marigold and Feena sat on the side porch, watching the procession of men and equipment as they passed by and disappeared over the bridge to the creek. The cooking wagon, with its wooden barrels lashed to the side, stopped at the well. And when the barrels were filled with fresh water, the driver urged the mules on to catch up with the other vehicles.

  Into the woods they went, along the quiet stream where rocks glittered in the sunlight and vaguely promised richer treasures farther downstream.

  Soon the tents covered the hillside, with the cooking wagon off to itself. A regular camp of brawny men—yet none was so tall as Shaun. It would not be easy for them inside the mine, where they had to stoop as they worked. For some, it was the first time they had ever been inside the earth. They were used to working in the open, where the sun shone on their heads—not in a dark cavity with water dripping overhead. But they were being paid well.

  The blasting began that afternoon along the hillside, to make new tunnels where the track would be laid. Powder caps were pushed into overhead recesses. The new rich veins had been discovered, running at a sixty-degree angle, east to west. And when the vein disappeared into deep rock, the men had only to take a pick and trace it at that angle to find it again. But that was left for the miners. The railroaders were concerned with making the job easier for the miners.

  They worked with lanterns to give them light. And at the end of the first day, Shaun was satisfied with their progress. It would get harder the farther back inside the hill they went, but they had made a good start.

  Amid all the activity, Crane went back and forth from the mine to the house. And always, Feena was at Marigold's side, a fact that Crane resented deeply—as if his wife needed protection from him.

  He brooded over the child, and at the first thickening of Marigold's waist, he felt anger. Her unfaithfulness had to be punished and soon. But all this Crane kept to himself. It would not do for Marigold and Shaun to suspect that he knew.

  That evening at dinner, Crane exhibited no outward animosity toward the man. He was enthusiastic about the work done in the mine that day and seemed to be content with the progress that Shaun's company was making.

  "If all works out well with the mine," Crane said, "I can stop wasting
time with the farming and spend all my time at the mine. I'll leave it up to my neighbors to work their bones to death in the hot sun and wait for drought and disease to come along and destroy their labors."

  Shaun laughed. "It seems you have acquired the gold fever, my friend."

  "Not a fever—just an appreciation of what gold can mean. The whole countryside is dotted with lost gold and silver mines. And yet, few have tried to find them."

  "Perhaps our neighbors have long memories, Crane," Marigold suggested, joining in the conversation.

  "Memories of what, Marigold?" Crane asked, irritated at her implied criticism.

  "Oh, the greed that broke so many men, and the curse of the Indians when they got tired of having their hunting grounds spoiled."

  "Gold is much more important than a few measly herds of buffalo and elk, Marigold," Crane insisted.

  "Xualla didn't think so."

  Her words caused Crane to smile and look toward Shaun. "My wife has read entirely too much. And her sympathies seem to lie with the murdering redskins, rather than the white men who explored this wilderness. A grave error on her part, don't you think? A woman should never have a conflicting opinion from her husband."

  Marigold's face flushed. "It was the white men who were the murderers," she persisted. "When De Soto and his army came to the Carolinas and visited the beautiful Indian queen, Xualla, she welcomed them gladly and treated them well. And what did they do? They made her a prisoner in her own territory. Their greed for gold caused them to act like barbarians rather than honored guests."

  "Which only proves that women are too weak to rule," Crane suggested, a smug expression on his face.

  "Or it may prove that a woman should never trust certain men," Marigold replied, with honey dripping from her voice.

  The meal was over and she stood up. "If you will excuse me, I will leave you two to your brandy." She swept out of the room pretending to be unconcerned at the bent of the conversation. But it was a long time before she simmered down.

  Crane's constant derogatory remarks about her reading—as if she did not have a brain of her own to use, but must be content to parrot her husband's opinions—infuriated Marigold. Brought up in a family where each person's opinion was valued, Marigold was not used to such condescension. Of course, she didn't know much about geography of foreign countries—about Brazil where Maranta was living, for instance. But she loved the old legends of the land around her. She didn't actually believe in the curse of the Indians about the mines, and yet, all the old stories surfaced and kept her from sleeping—the avaricious gold hunters sealed into the mine by the Indians and all outward signs of the mine obliterated; the gift of two hundred horse-loads of pearls given by Xualla to De Soto to get rid of him; the gold and copper tools and trinkets that were dug up from time to time in the surrounding fields that had once been Indian burial grounds.