Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

her own soft, dark doe eyes and replied, "That will not be necessary, Papa. I. . . I have wanted to tell you for a long time. Now that I am eighteen, I wish to enter the Convent of Our Blessed Lady."

The wind suddenly rose and whipped through the open window, and in the distance, a rumble of thunder beyond the battery announced the storm sweeping from sea to land. Maranta, standing in the middle of the room, watched as the stunned look on her father's face gave way to a frightening granite hardness.

Forgetting Shaun Banagher for the moment, he asked, "You could give up your family as easily as that?" His voice rose with the gathering intensity of the wind. A shutter flapped and the drops of rain pelted the bedroom window.

But neither Robert nor his daughter made a move to let down the sash.

"You would be content, shut away with your prayer beads and your 'Hail, Marys'—shut away from everything that you have ever known—your mother, Robbie, and the baby?"

"I. . . I would miss all of you, Papa," she assured him. "You and Jason—and Marigold, too," she added in a small voice. "But I would be happy in a certain way, too—apart from the world."

His eyes narrowed and the years dispersed. Instead of Maranta, it was Eulalie who stood before him as she had years ago in her chaste nun's clothes. And the old feelings spawned themselves inside him. He shook himself to rid his mind of those emotions that he had thought were absolved—guilt, sorrow, jealousy—but his face remained set and hard.

"Then, you shall have your wish, Maranta. . ."

"Oh, thank you, Papa." She placed her hand on his arm, but he carefully removed it.

"I have not finished. You shall have your wish—to be separated from your family. But it will be to no convent that you will go."

Maranta looked up in alarm.

"I thought you were too sensitive to be removed from the bosom of your family," he continued, "but now, I see that I was wrong. It will come as no surprise to you, Maranta, that the Condessa Louisa wants you to return to Brazil with her—as the bride chosen for her son. I hesitated before, but when the woman returns this afternoon, I shall give my consent."

With those frigid words, Robert Tabor left the room, his limp more pronounced. And the frightened Maranta, kneeling by the bed, nervously twisted the fringe of the white canopy spread while her agitated voice prayed over and over again, "Help me, Blessed Lady."

5

Marigold uttered an epithet under her breath.

She sat at the crude dressing table in the bedroom of the inn and attempted to arrange her golden hair to hide the bruise on the right side of her face. She ignored the man watching her so insolently with his coal black eyes.

Finally he spoke and she could no longer ignore him. "It's a wasted effort, my dear," he said, "to try to conceal it. I will give you five more minutes to stare at yourself, and then we'll go downstairs. Mother is already waiting for us."

Marigold whirled from the dressing table bench and faced Crane, her husband, her snapping tawny eyes matching the golden flecks of her dress. "Won't it embarrass you for your mother to see what you have done to me?"

Crane laughed. "So you're going to blame it all on me, are you? If you had not been in such a hurry to escape me, it would not have happened."

"I. . . I hate you, Crane Caldwell," Marigold said and turned her back to him to take up the hairbrush again.

The man roused himself and came to stand behind her, his eyes seeking hers in the mirror. "At least you're beginning to feel something again," he conceded, "even if it's hate."

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. "But don't think you'll be able to shirk your duties, Marigold. I intend for you to become a meek and obedient wife. And to show your gratefulness to me for rescuing you from a disgraceful situation."

Marigold bit her lip to keep the retort from spilling out. She was seething at his harsh treatment of her. How could she have been such a fool as to marry him? There was something malicious about this cousin—no, no cousin of hers. They were not related by blood.

Marigold arose from the dressing table, and taking the lightweight evening shawl from the chair, she went toward the door and stood aside for Crane to open it.

Her mind was busy as she walked to the small private dining room that lay to the right of the larger, main dining room of the inn. She hated all men, Marigold decided—especially Shaun Banagher and Crane Caldwell.

Cousin Julie's dark eyes lit up when she saw her adopted son and his wife. Then noticing the swollen, discolored area of Marigold's face, she expressed her alarm. "My dear, what has happened to your face?" Julie asked, hastening to Marigold's side.

Her first thought, to denounce Crane, quickly died when she saw Julie's concern. She could not hurt the woman like that; for Marigold could not be absolutely sure that Crane had done it deliberately.

"A small bruise, Cousin Julie," Marigold explained. "You remember when the carriage almost turned over yesterday. I must have hit my cheek then."

"I believe they are ready for us, Mother," Crane said, indicating the innkeeper, who stood waiting to seat them.

Julie's concerned eyes returned to Marigold's face as soon as they were seated. Seeing this, Crane leaned close to his wife and gently touched her bruised cheek.

"Poor Marigold. Already I can see that I will have to take better care of you. I will tell Sesame to go slower tomorrow. We cannot risk marring such a beautiful face."

His hand lingered, caressing the smooth, silky skin just below the bruise, until Julie, noting the loving gesture, relaxed.

"Do that, Crane," Marigold whispered sarcastically under her breath. "I am sure that will help."

Julie looked up with a puzzled expression,