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

"What will you do about tonight? Are you still planning to go?"

"No, Crane. I don't feel up to that. If you don't mind, I'll go on to sleep."

She was still asleep when Jason called for her that evening. At the knock on the door, Crane tiptoed across the room and faced his brother-in-law. "Marigold isn't feeling well," Crane informed him with a triumphant expression. "She has decided to stay here and have a quiet dinner later, when she awakes."

And so Jason went to the ball without her, to celebrate his victory in the tournament that day—his and Shaun's.

By the next afternoon, Jason and Neijee were gone. Marigold, feeling better, with only a trace of her headache left, had accompanied her mother and father, Robbie, and Crane down to the wharf to see them off.

It would be an entire year before she would see her brother again. She had kissed Jason and clung to him, not willing to see him go. And the words that she had vowed she would not speak had rushed past her lips.

"Jason, who was selected as queen of the ball last night?"

"Docia Henley," he replied, but noticing the unhappy droop to his sister's mouth, Jason admitted, "but she didn't hold a candle to you, Souci. You were, by far, the most beautiful queen we've had in years."

They returned to Tabor Island that same afternoon. Marigold, subdued and quiet, watched the sun drag its trail of purple shadows over the waters. No longer blue, but a dull gray, the waters churned and rolled behind the boat. The sails of Jason's ship were barely in sight—small wings jutting from the distant horizon.

First, Maranta, now, Jason—separated by an ocean and time and age. They were all growing up, and Marigold longed for the good times when they had all been together at Midgard, with not a care in the world.

Robbie's voice penetrated her sadness, and she smiled, listening to his childish, excited monologue. His first experience as a page at the tournament had been a big event in his young life. Robert Tabor, gazing fondly at his son, reached out and ruffled the boy's hair.

"So you think you'll be able to ride in the lists next year, son?" the teasing voice asked.

"Oh, no. It will be a while before Jason gets too old. But I'm going to start practicing on my pony as soon as we get back to Midgard."

Eulalie and Robert smiled at each other at their son's serious reply.

The boat reached the pier, and Marigold, with an urgency she could not understand, rushed to the lighthouse, climbed the steps to the top, and there she stood, until the tiny sails of the ship carrying Jason to England were completely erased by the encroaching darkness.

"Marigold," her husband's voice called, and she reluctantly came down the winding steps.

For a week, a listless Marigold moped about the island, with Crane making no mention of returning to Cedar Hill. Occasionally he would ride with her father into the city—presumably to negotiate the business of laying the track inside the gold mine. And each day, she wondered when Crane would bring up the subject of her returning with him to the up country.

She did not feel any better. What was the matter with her? Surely, she had gotten over her disappointment at the idea of Shaun and Docia Henley. But her appetite had not returned. And the taste of food she had eaten for breakfast still lingered. Marigold suddenly put her hand over her mouth. No, it couldn't be true. She wouldn't let it. But Marigold could not deny the signs any longer.

She was going to have a baby—Crane's baby. All because of that night after Julie's funeral.

Marigold pressed her fingers into her throbbing temples and tried to think of what to do. If her parents found out, or Crane, they would make her return to Cedar Hill. Oh God, why had she taken pity on Crane that night? Why had she allowed herself to be coerced into remaining for the night in his bed? But it was too late for regret.

The cold feeling that had spread over her body, numbing her, now changed to unbearable heat, draining her of energy, of strength. Suddenly, the bilious taste of her breakfast overwhelmed her, and she rushed toward the ruins of the tabby house. Sheltered by the cassina bushes, Marigold was sick.

She was still pale as she slowly walked in the direction of the cottage. She would have to lie down for a while, but not in the room she shared with Crane. Bypassing the cottage, with its screened porch facing the ocean, she continued walking until she reached the lighthouse.

There was a cot in the room at the top. If she could rest there, then she might be able to survive another day without having her secret discovered. Crane would never let her stay if he discovered she was going to have his child.

In the room where she had been born, Marigold lay down, not caring about the cobwebs, not caring about anything. She closed her eyes, and slowly, the tension eased and she drifted to sleep.

The footsteps downstairs on the stone floor awoke her. How long had she been asleep? The sound faltered on the stairs, and Marigold sat up, listening.

Tread by tread the steps came, and Marigold knew someone was searching for her. And she could not escape.

Finally the figure became visible in the doorway. Marigold sighed in relief as she recognized the white-haired woman. "Feena," she said.

"I have been looking for you, ma petite," the woman replied. "You have missed lunch, and your maman is worried about you—You do not look well. There is something wrong, n'est-ce pas?"

Marigold could no longer control her despondency. "Everything, Feena. Everything is wrong." She burst into tears, and Feena came to sit by her and console her as she had done through the years for as long as Marigold could remember.

"You will tell Feena what is wrong?"

"I'm. . .