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

But it was not a willing thing on her part. If circumstances had only been different. If she had not become pregnant—if she had not felt responsibility for Jake—

But what was the use? She had brought all this trouble on herself, by falling in love with Shaun Banagher. And now, she must manage as best she could—with no one's help, except Feena's.

Stopping at the same inns on their journey home, Marigold presented a far different picture from the runaway with her face hidden by the black mourning veil. Crane's hat was draped in black, but Marigold's costume gave no indication of a recent bereavement.

The recovered valise—the one waiting in the carriage—contained the clothes that she wore on the trip back to Cedar Hill. The dust, the heat, the steady drizzle of summer rain along the muddy red trail would not be kind to the elegant white dresses. And the pale green dress was carefully packed away, as Crane had suggested, but not for the reason he had given.

She had forgotten to repay Shaun for the dress and the other things. And now it was too late. An amused smile played around the corners of her expressive mouth. Crane would be furious if he ever found out she had spent the night in the same house with Shaun. But it was his own fault. Crane had neglected to show her the letter written by her father—mentioning the sale of the house.

But had her father named the buyer? Was Crane already aware that it was Shaun Banagher who now lived in the Palladian mansion along the battery? Perhaps he knew more than she thought.

Robbie's troubled question about a letter puzzled her. Was it her father's letter he was talking about? Had Robbie sent her a special message that Crane had not given to her?

Marigold glanced uneasily at her husband, but he did not seem to be aware of her. He was thinking of something else—something that gave him immense pleasure, judging by the self-satisfied expression on his face.

The river finally came into sight—that final lap of the journey that pushed Marigold on to Cedar Hill against her will. As before, she climbed from the carriage and waited until the vehicle was driven onto the ferry. She and Feena followed the carriage, and when they were safely on the wooden structure, the black ferryman, who had evidently taken Jake's place, cast off, directing the raft to the other side.

Marigold was determined that Feena was going to stay in the big house with her. And Crane, mindful that it was not good to upset a woman who was expecting a child, gave in, allowing the servant to have a room in the attic, directly above the second-story bedrooms.

"We'll need to get the cottage ready for the foreman who's coming to oversee the building of the rail," Crane said that evening at dinner.

"So you are going ahead with your plans?"

"Yes. The company in Charleston seemed to be reasonable in price. The man who is going to determine the roadbed layout for the tracks will be coming in about ten days. When he has finished with the plans, he will send for his workers. But you need not bother about them. They will have their tents to live in and their own cook.

"The only one you will ever see will be the supervisor. He'll take his meals with us."

The days passed quickly, and Marigold, happy to have Feena with her, was not quite so homesick as before. With Feena, she saw to the cleaning of the cottage, the removal of the bed, and the fumigating with sulphur, as the doctor had advised because of Cousin Julie's illness.

On the tenth day, the man came. Marigold was resting and did not see him, for Crane took him straight to the cottage as soon as he arrived. But he would be present for supper. And probably with a big appetite, too, Marigold guessed. She must make sure that Juniper cooked extra portions of everything.

Late in the afternoon, Marigold dressed in one of the white dresses made by Madame Reynaud. Her pregnancy had not yet thickened her waistline, so no one would be able to tell. They so seldom had guests for dinner at Cedar Hill that Marigold was looking forward to having the man at the table. For a while, at least, she would not be forced to make polite conversation with Crane alone.

It was almost time for the evening meal when Crane returned from the gold mine. Dusty and hot and in a bad temper, he lashed out at the boy who brought water for his bath. Not wishing to hear the tirade that spread along the upstairs hall, Marigold slipped out of the house, intent on getting away from the voice that always managed to irritate her.

Taking her basket and shears with her, Marigold walked to the flower garden—one of the few things she loved at Cedar Hill. It was a short distance from the house, and in the late afternoon, the fragrance of the summer flowers hung heavily on the air. She had cut enough blossoms for the dining table and the tall vase in the parlor earlier that day, but Marigold began to cut other flowers, not sure what she would do with them when she finished. Crane did not like flowers in the bedrooms. He claimed they took away the air and were not healthy to have around. The fragrant musk roses, the tall purple delphiniums, and the gladioli whose spikes were slightly awry from the recent rain, didn't look like enemies to her, for they were so beautiful.

Marigold held the white musk rose in her hand, and as she started to put it into her basket, she saw the stranger come out of the cottage and walk along the path toward the big house.

Marigold's heart fluttered. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. For a moment—just a moment—she thought it was Shaun. But of course that was impossible. Shaun Banagher was in Charleston,