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

A few minutes later, Chad matched his stride to that of his friend, who had slowed down and was now breathing rapidly from the exertion. It was Shaun's first venture out after the accident, and at the corner, with the street lamp illuminating his friend's face, Chad glanced at Shaun and was appalled at what the light revealed.

In a low, dangerous voice, Shaun said, "You lied to me, Chad."

The anger that Chad had curbed for Shaun's sake overflowed at the sight of the man's pained, twisted features.

"Forget about her, Shaun. The bitch isn't worth worrying over."

Suddenly, Chad found himself on the ground, nursing a bruised jaw, while Shaun disappeared haltingly from sight. Shaun's newly healed chest wound was of far more concern to Chad than his own bruised jaw. He should have kept his temper, rather than risk damage to the recuperating, auburn-haired giant. He should have known that Shaun would defend the girl no matter what she did.

Damn! Why hadn't he kept Shaun out of the tavern? Especially on the very day that the other Tabor girl had left Charleston with those two foreign women. He could kick himself. He should have known that the men in the tavern would be talking about her and discussing her twin sister as well. And after he had been so careful to assure Shaun that Marigold Tabor was visiting relatives in the up country.

Now, Shaun knew that she was not only visiting her cousin, but had married him.

He picked himself up from the ground and headed for the rail shanty, where Shaun sat at the table, his head in his hands. The man did not look up when Chad entered. And Chad, afraid to say anything that would antagonize the man further, made a fire in the stove and heated the stew for their supper.

"I didn't believe her, Chad. I thought she was being dramatic when she told me of her father's threats."

The unfilled earthen plate was hurled from the table to break into shards against the wall. "Damn Robert Tabor!" Shaun said, standing up. "Damn his soul to hell!"

At least no one in the tavern had accused Shaun of being jilted by the girl. That was Chad's only consolation as he sat by himself at the table and ate his stew, already cold.

The gate swung noisily behind her. Marigold, avoiding the path of the black-and-white-speckled guinea hens, gathered up her skirts and walked quickly toward the big house.

True to her promise, Cousin Julie had moved her things to the cottage. She remained at the big house during the day, but after supper each night Julie would go back to the cottage. And Marigold, feeling more vulnerable than ever, was forced to spend the evenings alone with Crane.

The main meal was in the middle of the day, and already, Marigold was late for it. She found Julie and Crane seated at the dining table, finishing their soup. Marigold, with a breathless apology, took her place at the end of the table.

"You seem to have no conception of time, Marigold," Crane scolded. "And because of that, you will have to forgo the first course."

"I am not hungry anyway," Marigold announced as the servant began clearing the table of the soup plates.

"We are having quail—one of your favorites," Julie spoke up, attempting to soften the harshness of Crane's words to his wife. "You'll enjoy that, I'm sure."

Marigold smiled and nodded. Crane still looked at his wife with a frown on his saturnine features, and Marigold, afraid he would question her as to where she had been, turned her tawny eyes to him and asked, "Did you bring up much gold from the mine this morning?"

The frown remained on Crane's face. "Not as much as I hoped. One of the slaves drowned in the underground water. I had to have the others whipped before they would venture back down again. Damned inconvenient, since we have only a short time to blast before winter sets in."

Not one shred of sympathy did he show. And Marigold, instead of revealing her antipathy to his lack of feelings, casually asked, "Did the man who drowned have a family?"

"Yes, Marigold. But I forbid you to take one of your goodie baskets to them. An interfering wife can be a scourge to her husband and spoil everything he has worked for."

"Crane. . ."

"Now, Mother," he said at the woman's protest, "Marigold has to learn, like Floride, not to barge into her husband's affairs."

Floride Calhoun, Vice-President Calhoun's wife, was a sore spot with Marigold. Crane was constantly harping on the damage the low-country woman had done, accusing her of bringing about the estrangement between Andrew Jackson and his vice-president, John Calhoun, because of her snobbish ways.

"I expect there was more to it than Floride's snubbing of the barmaid," Marigold answered, refusing to be cowed by Crane's behavior.

"Peggy O'Neal is no longer a barmaid, but Secretary of War Eaton's wife. And any insult to Eaton is a double insult to the President," Crane said. "Calhoun should have kept his wife locked away. Then maybe Jackson would not have reorganized his cabinet and removed every Calhoun member. Now, he has no influence in Washington at all, because his snobbish wife thought she was too good to associate with Mrs. Eaton."

"He seemed to have enough influence to keep the Senate from approving Mr. Van Buren as minister to England," Marigold answered, her voice unusually sweet.

"Marigold, a knowledge of politics is not becoming in a woman. Your father may have allowed it at Midgard, but here at Cedar Hill, it will not be a subject for discussion."

"Yes, Crane."

Soon the ground was covered with a layer of snow and ice, and work at the gold mine was suspended.

But the cold weather heralded a new activity—one that Marigold tried not to think about. She knew it was necessary, but the high-pitched squeals of the hogs as they were slaughtered brought nightmares to her sleep. The making of sausage,