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

the hanging of hams underneath the house in the cellar went on with Julie supervising, and Marigold was glad when it was over and that she had had no part in it.

Even though Julie did not sleep at the big house, Marigold was aware that Crane still considered his mother mistress of the plantation. All he seemed to require of Marigold was to frequent his bed and look pretty, as some inanimate fixture he could claim as his own.

And although she had little prior knowledge of the way most men treated their wives, Marigold soon realized that their relationship was a poor one, not like the marriage between her mother and father. However strong and stubborn Robert Tabor might be, he had never openly subjected Eulalie to ridicule or degradation, as Crane seemed to take delight in with Marigold. For Crane never let Marigold forget for one day that Shaun Banagher had jilted her.

The fire was low on the bedroom hearth, and Marigold hurriedly finished brushing her hair as she heard Crane's footsteps on the stairs.

He walked into the room. Marigold, wary of his glazed, dark eyes that passed over her, gathered her peignoir closer to her body and turned her back to Crane.

With a sudden violence that stunned her, he reached out and pushed her onto the bed. "Crane," she protested, but already he was on top of her.

Jerking her head back by the long hair, he said, "Call me Shaun."

So now it was to begin all over again—that degradation that gave him such pleasure.

When she did not obey his command, he pulled her hair tighter from her scalp and ordered, "Say it, Marigold. It's Shaun you want, isn't it, Marigold? Admit it. Not Crane, your husband—but that lusty, Irish animal, Shaun Banagher."

Marigold kept silent, refusing to say the name. Deliberate and slow, Crane removed his robe. Marigold's arms were taken from the sleeves of the open peignoir, and then she heard the splitting of the matching gown.

"So beautiful," he murmured, kissing her breasts, and then pulling at the tender nipples with his teeth, hurting her. Gratefully, she felt his mouth move lower, but then the real teasing began, and her body grew warm under his actions, in spite of herself.

"Is this the way he aroused you, Marigold? Made you desire him?"

Suddenly she felt his hardness on her thigh, before he found the vulnerable moist softness. At his insistence, she put her arms around his neck and finally whispered, "Shaun," for she was now beyond any turning back.

Succumbing to Shaun's name, she said it over and over, until she felt Crane begin the slow, rhythmic movement. Faster and faster it came—frenzied and passionate. At last, something exploded inside her, and she moaned at the fulfillment.

After his success, Crane kept her pressed to him as he taunted her. "You are a wanton and a slut, Marigold. A proper wife feels nothing. I don't know why I took pity on you and married you."

And Marigold, with tears in her eyes, was shoved aside, while her husband turned his back to her and went to sleep.

The next morning, Marigold hid her fresh bruises under a long-sleeved, high-necked velvet dress—a practice in which she had become adept since marrying Crane Caldwell. One day, he would not get away with it, she vowed.

"Is there something the matter, my dear?" Cousin Julie asked. "You seem so sad this morning."

Marigold turned to the woman, who sat in the rocker and embroidered the dainty, delicate baby bonnet by the warm fire in the parlor. She tried to smile, but tears came to her eyes instead.

"I'm afraid I miss my parents—and the rest of my family," she confided.

At once, Julie's dark eyes were sympathetic. "Perhaps Crane will take you for a visit when warm weather comes—unless of course, you are. . ."

Julie smiled and looked down at the tiny hat in her lap.

"Although I'm sewing this tiny garment for a friend, it may not be long before I can begin one for my own grandchild. It will be such a joy when you and Crane. . ."

"No," Marigold said, her face losing color. She jumped from the chair, and seeing her distress, Julie attempted to right her indiscretion.

"Forgive me, Marigold. I did not mean to upset you. You and Crane have been married such a short time. Please forgive an impatient old woman for dreaming aloud far too soon."

Marigold could not help it. She ran from the room, forgetting her manners, only aware of the repugnant thought that ran through her brain. She did not want Crane Caldwell's child. But already, his seed might be growing inside her.

She knew Feena had secretly concocted potions for some of the slave girls to keep them from becoming pregnant. Why had she not thought to ask Feena about it before leaving Charleston? There must be somebody at Cedar Hill who had the same knowledge as Feena. She would begin a subtle inquiry, starting with Juniper, the cook. Perhaps she would confide in Marigold the name of the mauma who made amulets and possets for the slaves. But she would be careful not to reveal the real reason for seeking the information.

The black woman stood in the middle of the kitchen, kneading bread on the rough table. She looked up as Marigold entered the kitchen.

"You want something, Miss Marigold?" the woman asked, still punching at the dough with her flour-covered hands.

"Not really," she answered, undecided now on how to approach the woman. "I just. . ."

"Oh, Juniper," the feminine voice sounded behind her, "I neglected to tell you that Mr. Crane wants syllabub for supper tonight. Will you have time to make it?"

"Yes'm. But the milk needs to be took out'n the. . ."

"I'll do it myself," Julie said, changing her mind. She reached for the apron hanging behind the door. "You just keep on with the bread-baking," she continued, tying the large white apron around her waist

Julie looked at Marigold and said, "It's Crane's favorite dessert, and I know you'll want