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

far above, heard Marigold's irate voice as she approached the two. "Take your hands off my brother," she warned.

From the vehemence in Marigold's voice, Feena knew that her suspicions were confirmed. Marigold had no love for her husband. And by his action, it seemed that he did not deserve any.

Marigold, taking off her slippers, waded into the water and retrieved Robbie's shell. She brought it to him and, putting her arm around him, led him to the cottage, while Crane stood on the beach, watching them.

"I do not know what you were trying to prove," Marigold said later to Crane in their bedroom, "treating Robbie that way."

Crane, his face dark and sullen, snapped, "The child is insolent. He needs to be taught a lesson. Haven't you noticed how he gets up and leaves whenever I come around?"

"I think it must be because of his shells, Crane," she answered defensively. "And his dignity has suffered, being treated like a baby and moved into the nursery."

"Is that what he has told you?" Crane looked at Marigold warily as he waited for her answer.

"He has told me nothing, Crane. I only assume that's the reason. Why? Could he have another reason for disliking you?"

"Not that I know of. And I hope he won't start making up a pack of lies to gain your sympathy."

"Robbie very seldom lies. Sometimes, he does not volunteer the truth, especially if he is afraid of the consequences. Does he have reason to be afraid of you, Crane?"

Marigold remembered the fear on Robbie's face, with Crane hovering over him. Crane denied it; yet he must have done something to Robbie, to make the child so frightened.

25

Marigold rolled up the pallet from the floor where she had slept and placed it in the large chest. She didn't want the servants to know that she did not share the bed with her husband, so it was better to remove the evidence before they came in to clean the room.

She and Crane went to the dining room together for breakfast. In conversation at the table, Marigold asked Jason about his horses and the jousting tournament.

They were used to the event and did not think it strange that the young men who lived half their lives on horseback should choose a chivalrous event from the past to display their skills. The tournament had been a part of their lives for years—to gather in the green meadow a mile from the Henley plantation, with hundreds of others from neighboring plantations, and watch the tents, the crossbars, and knights, pages, and squires appear, transforming the quiet meadow into an Arthurian fantasy. And each year, the fairest belles of the city watched and secretly hoped to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty at the ball that always followed. All except Marigold. She had always wanted to be a page or squire for her father when he had engaged in the lists with his horse as finely adorned as he. But Robert Tabor had chosen his son, Jason. And Marigold had to be content with second best—to be chosen queen of the ball.

Now Jason was to take her father's place to represent Midgard, with Robbie as his page. Mr. Henley and her father had always paired as a team, because of their size. But Mr. Henley had no sons to ride in his place this year—only six daughters, including the wispy-haired Docia Henley, who had been with Shaun that night at the theater. Marigold swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump that had lodged in her throat at the memory of that night at the Queen Street theater.

"You are coming, aren't you, Souci?" Jason asked his sister.

Her mind had been wandering, and she was not sure what Jason was asking.

"Where, Jason?"

"To Jackson Meadow—to watch the tournament. The officials will expect you to sit on the stand and watch the review."

"Marigold and Crane are in mourning, Jason," Eulalie reminded her son. "She may not wish to come. I am sure everyone would understand."

"Oh, but I want to, Maman—very much."

In less than an hour, Crane and Marigold, walking along the beach, were engaged in an argument. "Why would the officials expect you to be there, Marigold?"

"Because I was queen of the ball last year," she snapped. "The queen and her maids of honor always sit in the review stand."

Crane's lips pursed. "I do not like the idea of your being on public display—for all to see."

"For heaven's sake, Crane, the horses are the ones on display. And since this is the first time that Jason has represented Midgard, I'm eager to see him."

"I can't understand how you can so suddenly stop grieving for Mother, now that you are with your family."

"Burying myself in sackcloth and ashes, or staying here on the island won't bring Cousin Julie back. I loved her, too, Crane. But life doesn't stop just because a loved one dies."

"But you have made no pretence of mourning, Marigold, regardless of your fine words and your hoity-toity French clothes. Your determination to engage in this barbaric ritual indicates that you care nothing for my feelings."

Marigold's eyes flashed dangerously. "Did Cousin Julie ask me to stop living when she died? No, Crane. And I'll mourn her in my own way. Besides, if you don't want to go, Maman will remain here with you."

"And where will you stay in town, Marigold?"

"Papa and Jason have reserved two rooms at the hotel. I can share a room with Robbie."

At the mention of Robbie's name, Crane frowned. "On second thought, I will go into the city with you. It won't look right for you to be surrounded by men. If you're bound and determined to go, it looks as if I have no choice but to accompany you."

"Then Maman might as well come, too," Marigold said.

Crane's acquiescence took away some of the pleasure of the trip to the mainland. But at least it had brought Maman with them, with only Raven staying on the island with his