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

for them to be seated, started the horses away from Line Street at Robert's nod and headed toward the townhouse that looked over the Charleston harbor.

"Are you going to tell Maman?" Marigold asked, slightly uneasy.

"Not until after the christening," her father replied. "I don't want to spoil the day for your mother."

Marigold relaxed at his words and cast a relieved glance at Maranta. Once again, Robert Tabor's overwhelming love for his French Creole wife, Eulalie, had postponed immediate chastisement. And later, he would have cooled down enough, so that Marigold's punishment would not be too severe, or so she thought.

The horses' hooves on the cobbled streets were the only noise of the early afternoon. In the silence that enveloped the carriage, Marigold gave herself up to thinking about Shaun. A softness crept over her face as her fingers, going to her mouth, touched the delicate spot that still tingled from the feel of Shaun's lips upon hers.

At the sight of the large Palladian-design house at the end of the street, the driver slowed the carriage and brought it to a stop before the door of the two-and-a-half-story white frame house sitting majestically on its high basement.

"Take the girls up the back stairs, Feena, while I go in the front," Robert ordered the black servant. "And see that they are presentable as quickly as possible."

"Yes, Monsieur Robert," Feena replied, her dark eyes still showing her consternation at their afternoon prank.

Robert hurriedly handed down each daughter from the carriage and watched them disappear through the side gate. Lightly touching the ornamental iron railing that he had added a few years previously to the house, he climbed the sweeping front steps.

He had been lucky to acquire the larger house when Robbie was born, since they had outgrown the one on Tradd Street. But it was becoming increasingly expensive to keep up two houses—Midgard, the plantation house, and this one in town—especially with the declining price of cotton.

Robert paused and, scowling, looked out toward the sea and the brilliant blue sky before he went through the front door that the servant held open for him. A tender look replaced his frown at the sight of his wife Eulalie walking toward him with the baby in her arms.

Maranta and Marigold, careful to make as little noise as possible, dashed up the back stairs. Feena was directly behind them, puffing from the exertion of the hot afternoon.

"There will be no time for a tub bath," a sour-faced Feena informed them. "Sponge off quickly and I will help you into your dresses."

Anxious to forget the unpleasant episode, Maranta rushed to the basin on her side of the room. She drank a glass of water and then poured the rest of the liquid from the pitcher into the earthenware bowl, dipping her fingers into the cool water to splash on her face.

Maranta and Marigold, in their camisoles and pantalettes, waited for Feena to lace them into their light corsets. The old woman was still angry. Marigold could tell from the way she drew the strings together and tied them. But Marigold said nothing. She stood still while Feena helped Maranta into her yellow silk dress. And then Marigold felt her own pale green crepe sliding over her golden curls.

When the dresses were in place and buttoned, Feena left them so she might get ready herself; for the old servant was not about to miss the christening of the latest Tabor infant because of the twins' antics.

In silence, Maranta and Marigold brushed their hair, and with a last glimpse in the mirror to make sure nothing had been forgotten, they hurried from the bedroom. Side by side they walked down the hall to the formal parlor where everyone had gathered.

"To think—we'll soon be eighteen, and Maman and Papa are still having babies," Marigold whispered to Maranta in disgust. "You would think Papa would know better by now and leave Maman alone."

"Marigold," her twin reprimanded. "Babies come from God, and I. . . I'm happy that He has blessed Maman and Papa with another child."

"Oh, Maranta, you are so naive. Maman is thirty-eight years old—thirty-eight, Maranta. Most of my friends' mothers don't even sleep with their husbands, much less make babies with them."

At Marigold's words, Maranta's dark eyes widened in her gentle, small face. "Please, Souci," Maranta whispered, reverting to her sister's pet name. "Someone might hear you. We're in enough trouble already."

The door to the parlor opened, and Arthur Metcalfe, their father's best friend, quickly drew them inside. "I thought I heard your voices," he greeted the twins, taking each under his arm to lead them into the room. And not a moment too soon, for everyone was assembled and waiting. Even their little brother Robbie stood patiently in his place. Maranta and her sister had time only to curtsy briefly to the guests, before the priest, in his robes, beckoned them to come forward.

It had been decided to have the christening at home rather than in the church so that the baby, Raven, would not risk being exposed to the fever that was beginning to spread once more throughout the city.

Marigold watched while Arthur leaned over and took the sleeping child from Eulalie's arms. The man stared down at the baby, and then he looked toward Eulalie with love and pain undisguised in his soft, blue eyes. Suddenly, Marigold's own eyes widened. Why, Uncle Arthur was in love with her maman! Arthur's eyes were instantly hooded, hiding the pain, while he carried the baby toward the priest, with Maranta and Marigold, the baby's godmothers, at his side.

Silently, Marigold stood, hearing little of the rites. Her mind spun with the sudden revelation. All these years—Uncle Arthur—loving her mother. Was that why he had never married?

Marigold looked at her father and then back to Arthur. Gentle, kindhearted Arthur had never been a match for Robert Tabor, Marigold knew. Robert Tabor had only to reach out for what he wanted; he was never denied. And losing something he had acquired was