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

rage that Maranta did not understand. "How do you think I felt that night in the chapel when I saw you with the cross on your breast and realized, for the first time, what the condessa had planned?"

His grip became tighter, and Maranta gave a tiny cry. "I shall. . . s-scream, senhor, if you dare to t-touch me."

"You are already in my arms, menina. And there is no one to come to your aid. Will it be more of an embarrassment for the servants to think you spent your wedding night alone? Or will it cause you even more grief for them to learn you have spent it with me?"

She was trapped. Maranta trembled as the conde lifted her into bed and closed the delicate silk curtains to shut out the rest of the world. . .

15

Halfway across the world, the lamps burned bright in Mrs. Stark's boarding house on Chalmers Street.

Shaun Banagher was tired. He stretched his large frame and ran his hand through the thick auburn-colored hair, as the knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," Shaun called out. "The door isn't locked."

Chad opened the door, and Shaun, recognizing his friend, stood up to greet him.

The man seemed ill at ease as he eyed the comfortable bed, the bright room that was in such contrast to the dark, cramped shanty car that he had once shared with Shaun.

"Sit down, Chad."

The man shook his head. "I'm on my way to Keppie's Tavern for a mug of beer. Thought you might like to come."

Shaun smiled. "Not tonight, Chad. I still have work to do."

Chad glanced at the books and papers on the table and frowned. "You can't work every minute of the day and night. Everybody needs a little time off for some fun."

But Shaun refused, and as soon as the disappointed Chad left, he went back to his work.

He could not tell Chad of the important business meeting the next morning. But if all went well, and his prospective financial backers approved his plans, then he would be assured of success.

It was ironic, thought Shaun, that the moderate inheritance from his Cousin Edward had come too late to enable him to marry the beautiful golden-haired Marigold. Now, he could only seek redress against Robert Tabor by accumulating enough wealth and power to challenge him in the marketplace.

Shaun thought of the plans he had outlined—to buy cotton from the farmers all along the rail line; to sell it at a good profit; and then to purchase manufactured goods that the same farmers needed to buy. A double market could be quite profitable. And if that went well, he had a plan to expand the rail lines with the iron from local foundries. His backers would be pleased to hear what could be done using trains to carry goods from the backcountry to the port of Charleston.

For some time, there had been fewer and fewer ships in the harbor. The prosperous country above the fall line had preferred sending its cotton and other exports to Savannah, instead. But if Shaun had anything to do with it, Charleston would once again be a thriving port with ships waiting in the harbor—some that he himself would own one day. The building of rails would make the difference, covering the entire state and eventually running all the way from north to south, and east to west, leaving the waterways and wagon trails obsolete.

But his inheritance was too small to accomplish all this. He needed much more money at his fingertips. If the financial backers approved his plans the next morning, then he would be in a position to buy out the major stock in the same railroad that had once hired him as a worker.

Remembering his rough work clothes, Shaun glanced down at the clothes he was wearing, which were much more suitable for a man on the way to success. Beneath the close fit of his fine linen shirt, his powerful muscles rippled. And because of them, Shaun realized that he gave the appearance of being a little less civilized than the slender town dandies who spent their time gambling and horseracing. But he didn't mind; his studies and labor had paid off.

One afternoon, a month later, Shaun sat in the Exchange with his personal banker, Mr. Pettigrew, and two planters who had come to town for supplies. Shaun's meeting had gained him the backing he had desired, and now, important men were taking notice of him, accepting him as a business, if not social, equal. Conversation focused on the high tariff that had plagued the planters, ever since its passage three and a half years previously.

"Something will have to be done and soon," Mr. Pettigrew was complaining. "It's choking us economically, shutting off most of our trade with Europe."

"Never thought I'd see responsible men behaving like asses in Washington. Just hope John C. can do something about it this term," one of the planters responded and then in a cautious voice added, "It's a touchy situation, though, now that he and President Jackson don't see eye to eye. But 37 percent! I can't afford to pay such a high tariff, especially with the price I'm getting for my cotton."

He took a sip of brandy and then turned to Shaun. "How are you making such a good profit, Mr. Banagher?"

With a twinkle in his eye, Shaun replied, "Buying from the better New England factories and weeding out the items that fall apart at first use."

"Well then, you're doing better than John Henry here. He's spending all his money on glue, just trying to keep the parts together."

The men at the table laughed at the teasing banter.

"You may be joking, Malcolm," John Henry, the other planter said, "but it's about the truth. Even paying the high tariff on the imports, I'm actually coming out better in the long run. Domestic goods just can't touch the ones made in England."

"You think there's any chance of the tariff being lowered this session?" Malcolm