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

on the party, but on her own plans and what was to take place later that night. And as she glanced at Maranta, she felt guilty that she had not confided in her sister. But the success of her venture had forced her to say nothing. She would make it up to her dark-haired twin later, she decided, when the family had forgiven her for her actions.

The packed valise was already hidden in the garden gazebo, waiting for the appointed hour, late that same evening, when everyone would be asleep and Shaun would come for her. Marigold tugged at her lip as she remembered Shaun's objections to slipping away in the night. He had wanted to face Robert Tabor and ask properly for Marigold as his wife. But Marigold knew her father too well. He would never consent to such an alliance. No, this was the only way—to elope—and then it would be too late for Robert Tabor to stop their marriage.

Maranta, still mulling over Marigold's teasing words concerning the condessa, did not notice Marigold's high color or unusual quietness. Instead, she followed her maman into the parlor, until the noise of well-wishers suddenly greeted her, banishing her troubled thoughts and turning the frown on Maranta's face into a smile.

Hands reached out to propel the twins into the center of the room. They were surrounded by Arthur, Crane and his mother Julie, the Condessa Louisa, and their father Robert Tabor, with the family priest, Father Ambrose, standing beside him.

Two important events were taking place within the space of two days—first the christening, and now the twins' birthday, with the same small group of people attending both.

Outside the circle, a childish voice penetrated the noise. "The presents—'Ranta! Souci! Look at all your presents. Don't you want to open them? I'll help you."

They looked toward their small brother Robbie, who stood beside the tea table where the presents rested. Already his chubby fingers were toying with the ribbon of one of the larger presents.

"Not yet, Robbie," Eulalie said, her voice concealing her amusement at his eagerness to help. "We'll cut the cake first, and then your sisters will open their presents."

Seeing the look of disappointment on his face, Maranta stepped toward him. "Will you help us blow out the candles on the cake, Robbie?" she asked.

He nodded and with one lingering look at the presents, he went with his sisters into the dining room where twin cakes, one at each end of the table, blazed with their eighteen tapers.

Later, with the birthday cakes nearly demolished, Maranta and Marigold moved back into the drawing room. And again, Robbie ran to the tea table where the presents waited to be opened.

"Open this one first. It's the biggest," Robbie urged, lifting a large box and taking it to the settee where Maranta and Marigold sat together.

It was addressed to both girls, and with their little brother helping, the twins removed the ribbons and wrapping. Inside the box were two identical teakwood chests, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl.

"To my godchild, Maranta—To my godchild, Marigold," the identical cards read, and the name, "Uncle Arthur."

Immediately the two eighteen-year-olds laid aside the beautiful gifts and ran to where Arthur was sitting. He stood up to receive their kisses.

"Thank you, Uncle Arthur. Thank you," they chorused, and his pale blue eyes showed his pleasure at their enthusiasm.

Robbie continued to preside over the presents, choosing the ones to be opened next. But just as he reached for a long, slender package, the tall, dark-haired Crane stepped forward and took it from Robbie's hand.

Crane walked toward Marigold, and leaning over, he kissed her on both cheeks. "Happy Birthday, Marigold," he said, handing her his gift.

With a barely disguised sound of annoyance at Crane's uncousinly kisses, Marigold moved her head and quickly lifted the lid of the small box. Her amber eyes stared in disbelief at the gaudy brooch—chips of garnets encircled by mother-of-pearl and embedded in filigreed gold. Whatever Crane had paid for the brooch was far too much. She would never be caught wearing it.

"Garnets. How generous of you, Crane."

At Marigold's polite reply, Maranta stifled a giggle. She knew how much her twin detested garnets. Then her attention turned to the package that Robbie thrust in her lap.

The old condessa, seated across the room with her companion, Dona Isobel, watched with interest while Maranta untied the ribbons.

Suddenly, Maranta's fingers became clumsy and the ribbons knotted. A coldness swept over her, and for a moment, Maranta did not want to open the package. But the feeling passed, and she continued to work with the knotted ribbon until the package was open.

She gasped as she stared down at the gift—a brilliant cross that rested on a blue velvet background, its diamonds and pearls, elegant and exquisite, overwhelming her.

"Aren't you going to show us your present, Maranta?" Cousin Julie asked in an amused voice. "And tell us who has given it to you?"

Maranta lifted the heavy chain, and her troubled eyes sought out her mother. "Maman?" she whispered, as if she needed guidance. With a reassuring nod from Eulalie, she said, "It is a very beautiful cross—from the condessa."

With the murmurs of everyone echoing in her ears, Maranta walked hesitantly across the room and laid her cheek against the thin, wrinkled cheek of the aristocratic old woman.

"Thank you, Condessa Louisa. The cross is very—beautiful. But you shouldn't have given me anything so grand," she added.

"Nonsense, my dear," the woman said. "I wanted you to have it. It suits you well."

The condessa and Dona Isobel exchanged a fleeting, satisfied glance as Maranta returned to the settee.

Much later that night, Marigold sat on the high tester bed and licked the vanilla icing from her fingers, while Maranta carefully put her birthday presents away into the lowboy by the window.

"What did I tell you," Marigold said, eyeing the cross of pearls and diamonds that the Portuguese woman had given to Maranta. "The condessa clearly prefers you to me, and her choice of gifts proves it. There's nothing