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

As soon as they reached the city, they checked into the Planter's Hotel. Marigold and Crane went to the same small suite that Crane, unknown to Marigold, had kept. Jason, who was anxious to put his horse through the paces, immediately left for the meadow, with Robbie and their father, Robert Tabor.

It was inconvenient, not having the townhouse anymore. Her father had said nothing about selling it, but Marigold knew he must be hurting financially with cotton down to a mere nine cents a pound. It had plunged every year that the high tariff had been in effect—all the way from thirty cents—and now so low that it was hardly worth the effort to grow it.

There was an air of excitement in town that evening. The hotel was crowded, and the townhouses along the narrow streets were bulging with guests.

The next day, Marigold dressed carefully in one of her new white dresses that Madame Reynaud had made for her. And taking up the matching parasol, she climbed into the family carriage and began the journey to the meadow. Jason had gone on ahead to see to his horse.

Seeing Neijee with the horses, Marigold waved frantically. He looked up, and a grin spread across his face as he acknowledged her greeting.

"Who are you waving to, Marigold?" Crane asked at her side.

"Neijee. I haven't seen him since he left with Jason on the Grand Tour."

"You mean you're speaking in public to a servant? Have you no sense of propriety?"

Marigold sighed. "Neijee is a member of the family, Crane. But I don't expect you to understand." She walked away from her husband and took her place in the review stand.

She sat in the stand, surrounded by the maids of honor, and watched the men in armor pass by. The clanking of spurs, the plumes of scarlet and blue and green, waving in the breeze, the intricately embroidered saddlecloths of the horses—all gave the martial and festive air of knights gathered from the corners of the realm, so diverse were they in colors and appearance. And the fine-blooded horses, beautiful and gleaming, snorted and went through their practice paces like seasoned war horses—direct descendants of those fiery, fleet-footed animals that had eluded the British through the black swamps of the countryside and saved the lives of many a patriot, disappearing like foxes in the night before the very eyes of the enemy.

And now the man and his horse became one entity—a centaur, with lance in hand, to test the quickness of his hand and eye.

The horns sounded. The practice was over. Quickly pairing off, two by two in precise formation, the horses began the sedate procession, and Marigold, listening to the names being called off, watched for her brother, Jason.

"Jason Boisfeulet Tabor," the man recited, "riding for Midgard. Shaun O'Malley Banagher, riding for Crescent Hall."

Marigold's mouth dropped open. Her brother and Shaun Banagher, paired together. She turned her head and cast a quick glance toward Docia Henley, one of the maids of honor seated near her. Being chosen by Mr. Henley to ride for Crescent Hall could mean only one thing. Shaun Banagher was as good as engaged to Docia.

Marigold's spirits plunged, and the bright sunlight caught the brilliance of her topaz eyes that had suddenly moistened. Blinded by the sunlight, Marigold missed seeing the two men, holding their lances high in homage, as they quickly passed the review stand.

For the rest of the afternoon, Marigold held her head high, while the tournament went on about her, but she was only vaguely aware of what was going on around her—the rings suspended in regular intervals on the crossbars, the gallop of horses over the course, and the hurl of lances through the rings. When a rider was successful, a great cheer arose from the crowd. And later, the tilts began, with the riders speeding toward each other with their blunt poles, attempting to unseat each other.

On and on it went, while Marigold's throbbing headache grew worse, and Docia Henley's smile grew larger.

The sound of the trumpets, the applause of the crowd. . . Suddenly, Marigold was thrust back into reality. The two riders approached the stand, and the crowns of golden leaves were pressed into her hand. It was almost over, and then she could leave.

Kneeling before her were her brother Jason and Shaun, side by side, well matched in size and skill. She saw the heads bowed before her—one a burnished gold, similar to her own, and the other, a darker shade, deep auburn, with the tendrils on his forehead wet from the exertion of the day.

And when it was over, when the two giants had walked away with their crowns of victory, Marigold searched for her parents. Her duty was done. She had no desire to attend the ball that night—to feel her pride crushed further underfoot. All she wished to do was to get back to the hotel and lie down. And pretend that Docia Henley did not exist.

To be in his arms. To bear his children—all the things she had dreamed of were to be given to someone who did not deserve him. It was more than Marigold could stand. What a cruel trick for Shaun to play on her—to push her aside and then select someone like Docia.

In the silence of the sitting room at the hotel, Marigold gazed into the mirror. She had grown up accustomed to the stares, the polite compliments, the turning of heads as she walked by. She was the same. Her golden curls, her creamy, delicate skin, the wide, tawny, topaz eyes that she had inherited from her father—and it was all for naught. The one for whom she had wanted to be beautiful had not been impressed.

Marigold lay on the sofa, the room darkened, and the smelling salts at hand. Crane came in and, seeing her prostrate, he walked to the sofa.

"What is the matter, Marigold?" he asked.

"I have a dreadful headache," she replied. "I think it was the dust and the hot