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

next stop should be. He could not afford to let her get to Charleston before him. His one hope lay in getting there first, to intercept her before she had a chance to talk with her father.

Convinced he was wasting his time staying at the inn, Crane paid his bill and asked for his horse. He would ride all night to make sure he arrived before Marigold.

"But Mr. Caldwell, aren't you going to use the bed for the night?"

"I've changed my mind. I shan't be staying. Kindly have my horse brought from the stables at once."

"Yes, sir," the innkeeper answered, still puzzled at the man's sudden change of plans.

"I am sorry, ma'am, but I have to abide by the rules. No Negroes riding on the train except those that have their master's children in their care."

Marigold glared at the ticket agent. "It's unfair," she countered. "Can't you make an exception for my driver? We have to get to Charleston tonight."

"I can sell you a ticket for yourself, ma'am—but not for your driver." The man was noticeably uncomfortable, and he coughed several times while Marigold stood waiting. "Perhaps the man could get your carriage repaired and bring it on later," he suggested.

Marigold finally realized there was no dissuading him. And after talking it over with Jake, she purchased her ticket and left the horses with Jake.

Now alone, she was subjected to the curious stares of the other passengers who sat waiting for the train to leave. She had tried to clean her face and smooth her black traveling dress, but it was hopeless. And with no comb to control her unruly golden hair, she looked like a hoyden instead of a lady. Yet, Marigold did not care what they thought of her. She was impatient for the train to start.

But she heard no familiar hiss of steam that would announce their departure. Everything was quiet except for a baby that alternately fretted and then went back to sleep.

"Why don't we leave?" Marigold asked the stout woman sitting next to her on the hard bench.

"Can't—until the stagecoach comes in from Columbia."

"When will that be?" Marigold's voice questioned again.

"Don't rightly know. Maybe one hour—maybe as long as four."

Marigold sighed and settled down for the long wait. Already the darkness had consumed the light in the sky and partially obliterated the rails in front of the engine.

When Marigold had almost given up hope that the train would ever leave, workmen appeared and poured fresh sand on the platform car in front of the locomotive and placed pine knots in the urn-shaped rods. She strained to see if Shaun might be with them, but there was no giant with auburn hair and green eyes.

Steam began to hiss in the engine, and the pine knots outside were ignited to be used as flares in the darkness. The bell clanged and the passengers from the coach and everyone else with a ticket scrambled into one of the three pleasure cars. Soon the train was on its way to Charleston, the engine hopping over creeks, scattering sparks on both sides and making noises like a rocket in a Chinese fireworks display.

They stopped at Midway and again at Summerville, and as the sun came up, the train finally slid into the little station on Line Street.

The sight of the familiar wooden station where she had last seen Shaun Banagher brought pain to Marigold. But it was mixed with anger, too. . . not only at herself, but at the man who had deceived her and brought her to such a point that she had been forced to flee an abusive husband.

It was too early in the morning for the street vendors to be out, singing about their fine wares. Along the deserted familiar streets she walked, from Spring to Radcliffe, Vanderhorst and Calhoun, on her way to the Tabor townhouse situated on the battery.

The malaria season had started at Midgard, so the family would be in residence here at the townhouse.

Marigold, her appearance even worse because of the smoke and soot of the train journey, knew it would be hard to explain her disheveled state to her mother and father. If she could slip into the house before they awoke. . .

The Palladian-design house loomed before her at the end of the street, and the strong, salty odor of the ocean invaded her senses. Sea gulls flew along the battery and Marigold, tired and hungry, quickened her steps toward the white house and hurried through the side gate and up the back stairs to her old room—hers and Maranta's.

The room was not the same. The twin beds had been replaced by a larger mahogany bed, with the mosquito netting pushed back at each side. And the twin bowls and pitchers of water were now on the opposite side of the room, away from the window.

Marigold quickly shed the dirty black dress. She poured water into the basin and leaned over, splashing the cool water on her travel-grimed face. With no further thought except that she was safe at last, she climbed into the mahogany bed, pulled the mosquito netting around her, and promptly fell asleep.

17

The man walking along the hall was engrossed in his thoughts. He walked past the open door of the guest bedroom, but it was not until he had reached the stairs that the crumpled heap of dark material on the bedroom floor registered in his mind.

He stopped abruptly and retraced his steps to investigate. From the doorway he stared at the black dress on the floor and then to the bed. His eyes narrowed as he saw a slight movement behind the mosquito netting. And with a quick, angry stride, the man crossed the room, jerked back the netting and pulled the girl from the mahogany bed.

"Just what do you think you are doing?" he demanded.

Marigold stumbled at his rude treatment. "No, please," she cried and put up her hands as if to ward off a blow. Her tawny eyes flew open,