"Mãe is dead?" she asked.
Vasco, disconcerted, looked at the grieving girl and apologized. "I thought you knew. I did not realize they had kept it from you."
"When did she die?"
"She collapsed in the chapel, soon after Patû carried you upstairs."
So that was why no one came near her—Ruis, Dona Isobel, or the condessa. Suddenly, Maranta was exhausted. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. "I am tired, Vasco," she said.
He wheeled out of the room and left Maranta greatly troubled and grief-stricken.
Maranta grew stronger as the days went by. But the loss of the condessa continued to grieve her. Each time she held the baby, she lamented the tragedy that had kept the old condessa from ever seeing the grandchild she had waited for—even schemed for. The cruzamento around Maranta's neck reminded her of that fact daily.
Maranta was not the only one affected by this cross of pearls and diamonds. It held a morbid fascination for Vasco. Amused at first, he began to resent it. But then, Maranta would remind him that it was Mãe who had given it to her—not Ruis. Sometimes in the evenings, she would catch Vasco staring at it with fury. But when she tried to go without it for a day, Vasco insisted she put it back around her neck.
"It has its purpose, Maranta," he declared, "for it is a reminder to Ruis that you will never belong to him again, even for one night. You will have to be content to be my own dear faithless wife for the rest of your life—or mine."
When Vasco goaded her too far, Maranta would retire to the nursery with Dona Isobel. The woman who had cared for the condessa for so long continued to sleep in the small dressing room adjacent to the condessa's large bedroom—almost as if the woman might have need of her during the night. But gradually, the loyalty she gave to the condessa was transferred to the child, and she watched carefully over him. It was for the condessa's sake, Maranta knew.
Vasco planned the baptism for Christmas Eve, a fitting time for an infant to be blessed. And Maranta, knowing of Dona Isobel's fierce love for the child, asked Vasco if the woman might be allowed to serve as godmother.
"If you wish, Maranta," he said. "And shall we get Ruis to be godfather? It will give me pleasure to hear Ruis addressed as 'Tio' when the child begins to talk."
Christmas Eve arrived and the family gathered in the chapel. Floresta, holding onto the three-year-old Tefe, watched the proceedings from her nook in the gallery, while below, the child that Vasco claimed as his legitimate son was sprinkled with holy water.
As godfather, Ruis held the child in his arms, and Dona Isobel stood beside him. At the sight of the dark-haired baby in the man's arms, Maranta was transported back to another world—another christening—to that of her little brother Raven. All the feelings of that day, so many miles distant, overwhelmed her—the fierce, possessive look of her father toward her mother and the baby, and Maranta's own innocent certainty that she would be allowed to enter the convent.
Now, little over a year later, she wore a priceless cross about her neck, but she was no nun. Married to one man, she had borne a son to another. Vasco, watching her, saw her shiver despite the heat in the chapel, and a satisfied glint sprang into his eyes.
Paulo Alvares Honório—the names Vasco had chosen for the child. The padre pronounced each syllable distinctly. He was now properly recognized by the church. And through it all, the baby, Paulo, in the exquisite handmade heirloom christening gown, yawned in his sleep.
33
Marigold was not dressed, though it was mid-morning. Her locket was gone and it upset her. Several times she'd looked through the small box on the marble-topped night stand and the larger jewelry box sitting on her dressing table, but it was not to be seen.
Where could she have left it? She remembered having it around her neck on the previous afternoon. But did she take it off? Did she drop it somewhere? She had been so distraught the night before that she had gotten undressed for bed in a daze. Shaun was leaving, and that was all she could think about.
Perhaps the catch had broken while she was cutting the flowers or arranging them on Feena's grave. At least, those were two places to begin looking.
Marigold put on the dull blue silk dress that she and Juniper had altered, adding the panel in front to make the dress larger. She made a face at her bulging figure in the mirror and then sat down to brush her hair.
After her golden curls were pinned into place, Marigold found her black shawl and hurried down the stairs. Her slippers made little noise as she stepped onto the porch and down the side steps that hid the cellar where the hams were stored. Soon, it would be time for the slaughter of hogs. But Julie was not at Cedar Hill to oversee it as she had done the winter before. Surely Crane would not expect her to preside over the killing and the grinding of sausage, in her condition. Marigold shuddered and walked on beyond the closed cellar door.
To the sheltered side of the house she went, her eyes staring downward where she walked. She looked at the base of the camellia bush, but there was no glint of gold in her search.
Looking for the necklace assumed a disproportionate amount of her concentration, for she was trying to keep her mind from Shaun's leaving. On toward the meadow she walked, feeling the sting of the wintry air, the odor of apples that still clung to the limbs of the old tree. She and Juniper would have to gather them soon to make jelly and cider to sip during the cold evenings ahead.
Marigold came to the grave and saw the camellias tinged with an ugly brown—their delicately painted petals no longer beautiful because of the frost. On her hands and knees she searched, until the sight of the man running through the meadow brought her to her feet.
As Crane ran up to her, the expression on his face was alarming. "Marigold," he said, gasping for breath.
"What is it, Crane?"
"There has been an accident in the mine."
The man had never appeared this concerned before, even when the slave had drowned in the subterranean water.
"Is it one of the slaves?" she asked, not yet sharing in his alarm.
"No. It's Shaun."
Marigold's face turned ashen. "What is the matter? What happened?"
"We were inspecting the rails for the last time before he left. And a runaway car filled with ore ran over him."
"Oh God, no!" the girl cried and, flinging her shawl from her shoulders, she held up her skirts and began to run.
"He's still in the mine," Crane said. "I thought it best not to move him while I went for Dr. Kellie. He's asking for you, Marigold. And I promised to get you first, before sending for the doctor."
"Then hurry, Crane. Hurry before it's too late."
She left Crane in the meadow and flew down the path as fast as her awkward body would take her. But at the bridge, she had to stop and rest. The ache in her side could not be ignored.
"Shaun—Shaun," she said over and over and began running again toward the dark mouth of the mine where the crossbeams and dirt made an unholy design against the hillside. The lantern hanging inside the cavernous hole was already lit. Marigold, brushing aside her fear of the dark, took the lantern from its hook and began the journey inside, along the tracks, to find the injured Shaun.
Deep into the mine she walked, her heart beating fast against her chest. The rails divided and she did not know which way to go. She should have asked Crane. To the right? Or straight ahead? She called out Shaun's name. But there was no answer. Finally she decided to turn to the right.
The air was cold and a splatter of water fell from overhead. But Marigold kept on, pushing back her fright; for the love she had for Shaun was greater than her fear of dark places.
Suddenly the earth rocked amid a deafening blast. She fell to the ground, the force of the blast knocking the lantern from her hand. In the flare, Marigold saw the loosened gold-veined rock crumbling from the walls about her, and the crosspiece shifting overhead. Dust overwhelmed her, covering her, making her cough violently. The sound of the tunnel collapsing behind her, the pi
eces of rock splitting apart made her cover her head with her arms to avoid being struck.
For some moments, Marigold lay on the ground—stunned. Gradually, as the dust settled, she sat up, brushing the dirt from her face and reaching for the lantern that miraculously still burned.
Someone had set off the gunpowder overhead. And now she was trapped in the mine, with no way out.
Her fear of the dark gripped her. Crane had done this to her, she knew, for some reason that she could not comprehend. Shaun's accident had been an excuse to get her inside the mine. Marigold hoped with all her heart that the man she loved had gotten away safely, and was even now traveling back to Charleston, and not buried in the mine with her.
She was drained of energy and will. Sitting in the dirt, with the debris scattered about her, she wondered how long it would be before the oil in the lantern would be gone, leaving her in total darkness.
Cold pervaded her body and her teeth chattered. Hugging herself, Marigold felt the child move. Poor baby—never to have a chance to see the sun. Crane had killed his own child with her.
She watched while the rocks deep inside the tunnel moved, and a part of the wall gave way in front of her. Another cave-in? She closed her eyes and waited. She could do nothing but wait.
The pinging sound was distant at first. Marigold lifted her head and listened to the noise of a pickax striking against the rock. Someone else was in the ruined mine with her. She watched as the hole grew larger, and finally, a man covered in dust emerged from the hole. First his head, and then his body emerged, as he twisted his shoulders to push himself through. It was Shaun. Her heart sank. He had not escaped.
"Marigold, thank God you are all right." He did not seem surprised to see her.
"I had hoped that you were on your way to Charleston, Shaun." The unemotional words sounded incongruous, even to Marigold's ears. She saw the anger in Shaun's eyes as he bent over her.
"You were foolish to be lured inside, Marigold," he said.
His words made no sense to her. He acted as if he had seen her coming into the mine. But that was impossible. Shaun had to have been farther back inside the mine than she, with no way of knowing.
"Crane told me you had been hurt."
"And you came in, without using that brain of yours, without once stopping to think that he might be setting a trap for you. . ."
"I was only thinking of you, Shaun," she confessed, hurt at his anger toward her.
He took the lantern and helped Marigold from the tunnel floor. But Shaun could not stand up straight because of his height. If their situation had not been so tragic, Marigold would have laughed at his caveman stance.
Shaun threw the pickax through the opening he had dug and then helped Marigold, handing the lantern to her on the other side. She did not question his taking her deeper into the mine.
"How long do we have before the air gives out?" she asked as she stopped to rest.
"There should be no danger of that. The build-up of gases should be well behind us."
She started walking again. Marigold was thirsty. And hungry. How long could they last before finally starving? She must not think about it. But the small tunnel closed around her, and she felt as if she were suffocating. The fear of the dark enclosure made her arms tingle, her heart beat erratically. She could not go on. She was ready to scream out her fear, but her voice erupted into a small, dismal moan.
"We're almost there, Souci," Shaun assured her, as the last flicker of light from the lantern vanished in the darkness.
Marigold stumbled and reached out for Shaun. Almost where? Heaven? Hell? She was so frightened. In anguish, she held to Shaun and whispered, "I don't want to die."
"You're not going to die, Souci. Hold onto me. It's probably only a few more yards."
"To where?"
"Why, to the outside."
"But there's no other way out, Shaun. We're trapped."
"No, Marigold. There is another way out. You don't think I'm a complete idiot, do you? I never totally trusted Crane, and after that day I came upon the two of you down here—and he had obviously forced you to come—I had the men dig another exit—one that Crane knew nothing about." His voice was soothing in the darkness.
"Today, when Crane disappeared during the final inspection, I walked on and climbed out of the hidden exit—and waited to see what he was going to do. And then I saw you—running into the entrance. I should have shouted to you then to stay out. But Crane was directly behind you, and it was too late."
Her laugh bordered on hysteria. A vast relief swept over Marigold. Thanks to Shaun, she would see the sunlight again.
A small chink let in light from the end of the tunnel. Marigold crawled with Shaun the last few feet, holding onto his shirt, while he dragged the pickax with him.
The sun poured through the hole, and Marigold gazed up at the sky. Shaun pushed her upward, and she climbed through to the top of the hillside. Amid the bare-branched landscape, Shaun took her in his arms and held her. She dug her face into his dusty shirtfront and cried.
Shaun instructed the slaves to begin digging. He told Marigold to go back to the house, but she could not. Juniper sat with her a short distance away from the mine and wrapped the heavy black shawl around the shivering young woman.
Crane was inside the collapsed mine—that much she knew. The shovels cleared away the dirt; the men lifted the crossbeams and set them out of the way—and continued with their clearing of the earth around the entrance of the mine.
For an hour, Marigold sat, while they worked. Shaun and Sesame had joined in the rescue efforts. And when the big man disappeared through the dark hole that had been made, Marigold stood to protest.
She remained standing, with Juniper at her side, holding her hand. And the slaves stood back, silent and watchful.
The wind increased, soaring through the bare-branched limbs on the hillside, and overhead, the black crows flew. A cloud passed over the sun and then the wind died—almost as if it too had stopped to watch and listen.
An eternity passed, with life and time suspended, before Shaun came out of the mine. In his arms he carried the limp body of Crane Caldwell.
Marigold, seeing Shaun, gave a cry of relief. Juniper, mistaking the meaning, clasped the girl to her mammoth bosom, as if to protect her from seeing too much.
Crane was dead. Caught in his own trap, he had not been able to escape. Shaun, leaning over to cover the man with the tarpaulin, saw the locket in his hand. The auburn-haired man removed it and put it in his pocket to return to its rightful owner.
Late the next afternoon, Shaun sat in the parlor with Marigold, the fire on the hearth still unable to take away the cold.
"Do you have everything you need?" he asked.
"Yes."
They waited for Sesame to bring the carriage to the front. She had no wish to remain at Cedar Hill another minute. And Shaun had been kind enough to offer to escort her back to Charleston to her parents.
He looked at tMarigold in the pale green silk dress and he seemed satisfied. But she was embarrassed. Her swollen breasts made a mockery of the neckline, and the material over her rounded stomach was tight, emphasizing her condition. But Shaun had instructed her to take nothing from the plantation that Crane had given her. "You will take no more than you came with, Marigold," he had said. "This part of your life is finished, and you need no reminders of your unhappiness."
He held the black bombazine cloak for her—the one she had wrapped herself in that night in the garden when she had waited for Shaun in vain—and its dark fabric against her golden curls presented an exotic picture.
Down past the long row of cedars the carriage traveled—and not once did Marigold look back. She expected the carriage to proceed to the river, but instead, it turned and headed in the other direction—the longer way.
With a questioning look, Marigold met Shaun's eyes. In answer to her silent question, he said, "I have business to attend to. It will not take long."
In a
half- hour, they had come to the little stone church a short distance from the village. The church was round—built that way to keep the devil from the corners. The black carriage came to a stop and Shaun turned to Marigold.
"I cannot be bothered with social customs," he informed her. "You need a man to take care of you, especially in the next few months. And I might as well start now, as your husband. Hurry up, or we shall ruin the parson's supper."
He held his hand for her, but she drew back. "Shaun, you couldn't possibly wish to marry me," she said incredulously.
"And why not?"
"Docia Henley's waiting in Charleston."
"And what has that to do with us, Souci?"
"You love her."
"Have I ever said so?"
"Well, no—not in actual words."
"Then—"
"I can't marry you, Shaun."
The man frowned. "Does it bother you what people will say if they discover you have taken another husband while the first one is being buried?"
"No. It's not that."
"Then what is keeping you from going into the church with me?"
"It's what the parson will think," she blurted out, "seeing me like this." She stared down at the tight dress she was wearing—at her stomach that advertised her advanced pregnancy.
Shaun's eyes were amused. "He will think we have waited far too long as it is."
Not knowing whether to cry with joy or embarrassment, Marigold went with Shaun. His commanding height and air of authority sent the sexton immediately to fetch the parson. In a flurried manner, the little man appeared, buttoning his black frock coat and smoothing the few strands of hair that adhered to the top of his head. Looking over the glasses, he said, "My wife will be along presently, to serve as witness."
When Shaun and Marigold stood at the altar, she kept on her bombazine cloak as the service began.
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