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

to learn how it's done. It might be good for you to watch, my dear."

Disappointed, Marigold stayed in the kitchen and watched Julie as she prepared the congealed dessert. The opportunity of speaking privately with Juniper was lost.

Two days later, Marigold gave up trying to talk with Juniper alone. She had not realized how closely Cousin Julie supervised the kitchen. Marigold would just have to find someone else, outside the big house. And she could not wait any longer.

With her cloak sheltering her from the cold wind, she slipped out of the house and walked toward the barn. She passed the corncrib and continued in the direction of the slave cabins.

Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky was beginning to grow dark. Marigold glanced up at the gray, clabbered clouds that obscured the sun. A storm was in the making. And as if to give credence to her thought, a gust of icy wind whipped through the bare branches of the giant poplar tree behind the barn. Like some grotesque puppet, manipulated by an unseen hand, the tree danced in a cumbersome, menacing movement, bowing its branches toward the ground, and then lifting them awkwardly into the air.

Faster, Marigold walked, heading in the direction that Crane had forbidden her to go. And Sesame, standing at the door of the barn, followed her progress with dark, troubled eyes.

Billowing smoke drew Marigold toward the cabin at the end of the path. She hesitated at the door, painted blue to keep the evil spirits out.

"Hello," Marigold called. There was a surreptitious movement from within. Yet no one answered her or came to the door.

Marigold knocked this time as she called out. Still, no one came.

Shivering from the long walk through the icy wind, Marigold decided she would not wait. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"So—you have come to spy on me."

Her husband, Crane, sat up in bed, a quilt gathered around his bare chest, while a naked black child hovered uncertainly in the corner.

A puzzled Marigold looked toward her husband and then back to the boy. And a wave of sick disgust suddenly swept over her.

Silently, she turned to walk out, but Crane jumped from the bed and grabbed her by the wrist. "You cannot go, yet."

Crane, looking at the boy, ordered, "Put on your clothes and get out."

And Marigold, her knees unsteady, sank into the chair by the fire and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, the door closed, and Crane, fully dressed, stood over her. She was now alone with her husband.

"You should not have opened the door, Marigold," Crane admonished.

"You are. . . despicable," she uttered, her voice unable to hide her disgust at her husband's actions.

"Did I not forbid you to come to the cabins?" he said, his voice displaying a growing rage at her disobedience.

Marigold, paying no attention to his rising anger, replied, "Yes—and now I see why."

"You saw nothing, Marigold. Nothing, at all."

"I saw. . . enough. You and that child—together—naked."

"And is that a blow to your pride, my aristocratic wife, to learn that I seek comfort in an earthier setting?"

"I don't care how many wenches you take to bed with you, Crane. But to. . . to molest an innocent little boy. You would be hanged if anyone found out."

"But no one's going to find out, Marigold. Simply because you're going to keep quiet."

"The blow to Cousin Julie when she learns. . ."

"You will never tell my mother what you have seen, Marigold!"

All at once, his voice rose and fear clouded his dark eyes. And Marigold, seeing it, recognized the weapon she now held in her hands.

"For a price, Crane. I will keep silent—for a price."

He hesitated. "And your. . . price?"

"You will stay out of my bed," she said. "You won't ever touch or taunt me again."

Suddenly, Crane laughed, and the fear disappeared from his eyes.

"And you think that will be such a harsh punishment for me? I hate to disillusion you, Marigold. Even though I have been more than satisfactory for you, you have never been able to give me much pleasure."

She flinched at the words that matched his cold, hard eyes.

"And remember one thing, Marigold. You are still my wife. If you are ever unfaithful, or if you ever try to leave me, I will kill you."

There was nothing else to say. Marigold, with a heavy heart, got up from the chair. And Crane, putting on his coat, walked out into the chilling wind with Marigold, his wife, unwillingly at his side.

In silence, they walked back to the big house. Marigold had made a devil's bargain. Now, it was no longer necessary to seek out the brewer of herbs and possets.

12

Maranta stood on the banks of the Tietê River and looked at the painted canoes loaded down with the trunks and supplies. The prows of the vessels rose out of the water, and the faces carved on them seemed to stare at her.

"How long is the river?" Maranta asked, her soft voice barely loud enough to be heard by Ruis, who stood beside her.

"Between seven and eight hundred miles," he answered.

Maranta gasped. "You mean. . ."

Ruis laughed. "We will not be going the entire way. Only to the falls at Hitû. The fazenda is not far from there."

She looked again at the monsoon, the canoe fleet that was almost ready to start on its journey.

"And is there much danger?" Maranta asked.

"The pilots know the river. Don't be afraid, Maranta. They are familiar with all the shallows and rapids along the way. And you will have ample protection when we portage around them. The condessa has gotten you this far. She would never forgive me if I allowed some guaicurú to sweep you onto his horse and carry you off into the plains."

Maranta, undecided whether the conde was teasing her or not, refrained from asking any more questions.

Huddled under the poncho that the conde had forced her to wear on top of her clothes, Maranta