Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  "There has been some mistake, senhor," she said, now furious at his joke. "You know I cannot ride in that type saddle."

  "The only mistake, pequena, is in your dress. I suggest you run inside and borrow one of Mãe's riding habits. It will be much more suitable. But hurry, the wine is already getting hot."

  So he thought he was going to get the better of her. Well, she would show him. And it would be his own fault if everything in the picnic basket were spoiled before she came out again.

  Dona Isobel was helpful, even to finding a hat to shade Maranta's face from the sun. Luckily, the black divided riding skirt fit, even though it was quite old. And the hat, black also, was trimmed in silver, like the skirt.

  Maranta hurried back into the courtyard where the conde waited. "Good. That is much better," he voiced, giving his reluctant approval to Maranta's costume. "And it did not take you forever, as I feared," he added.

  Awkwardly, Maranta sat astride the little mare. "Do not worry, pequena," Ruis said, sensing her uncomfortable feeling. "There is no one to censure you for riding like a man. And once you are used to it, you will see the advantages. Unlike Innocencia, you have much courage."

  Hearing the man speak of his wife was reassuring to Maranta, even though his words were not flattering. Yet, he never mentioned Vasco, his brother. And Maranta, too shy to ask anything about the man who was waiting for her, said nothing but followed the conde out the gates into the street.

  The little mare, ridden by Maranta, trotted alongside the black stallion—up the hilly path away from the city of São Paulo.

  She was still not comfortable, riding astride, but Maranta gave no indication of it to her companion, Ruis da Monteiro. Her black, three-cornered suede hat, a smaller, more elegant version of the gaucho's hat, shaded her pale complexion from the sun and hid from view her serious, dark eyes with their worried thoughts mirrored in them.

  For a long time, they met no one else on the road. Occasionally, a group of pilgrims made their way down the path from the hills—some on foot, some in litters, or palanquins, similar to the pictures Maranta had seen in the court of the Great Khans.

  And for this occasional greeting when they met, Maranta was thankful. It had not occurred to her that she would be so alone with this arrogant, dark man. And she wondered why Dona Isobel had not objected to her journey. But then, Maranta remembered. Ruis da Monteiro made his own laws. And if he decided to ride off, leaving her in the hills, or even to take her virtue, there was no one to condemn him.

  The wind whipped a strand of hair into Maranta's eyes, and the mare slowed her gait when she felt the slight tug on her reins. By the time Maranta's vision cleared, and she had righted her hat, Ruis and the black stallion were nowhere in sight.

  Panic seized her, and as Maranta urged the mare on, her voice called out, "Ruis, Ruis." Around the bend in the road she went, and then she saw the black stallion, waiting.

  The conde's eyes were on Maranta's terrified face, and when she caught up with him, she saw a strange expression flicker across the man's features. "You thought I had left you, pequena?" he asked.

  "My hair got in my eyes, and when I looked up. . ."

  "The bend in the road is sharp. And I did not realize you had stopped," he explained.

  Ruis got off Diabo and, surveying the ground near the road, he said, "This is as good a place as any to have our lunch. You are hungry, Maranta?"

  His sudden use of her name made her wary of him. She had become used to his calling her pequena or menina, as if she were a child and beneath his notice. And she was not sure she liked his reverting to calling her by her proper name.

  "I am very thirsty," she acknowledged. She blushed as he continued staring at her; for now she had to decide how to get down from the horse.

  Ruis suddenly laughed, as if he had become conscious of her dilemma.

  "You swing one leg over the horse, pequena," he advised.

  "Well, you don't have to stare at me while I attempt it."

  He ignored the petulance in her voice, and before she knew it, Maranta was lifted off the horse and placed on the ground by the arrogant conde in his black cape. "This will solve your problem," he said, "until you have practiced."

  The hard object at the conde's side dug into her flesh and made Maranta aware of the wildness of the countryside. He was wearing a gun.

  "Are there jaguars in this area?" she asked.

  "An occasional one," he answered, "although snakes are far more prevalent."

  Maranta shuddered and looked toward the group of rocks not far from the road.

  "We will avoid the rocks," he said, following the direction of her gaze. "There is a spring not far from here—a more suitable place to spread our lunch."

  With the mare's reins in her hands, she walked behind Ruis until he ordered her to stop. "Wait here," he said, "until I see that the area is safe."

  Soon he was back without Diabo. From Maranta's hands he took the reins of the mare and tied them to a nearby sapling. "It would not do to have Diabo tied too close to the mare. He might forget that this is a religious pilgrimage we are on."

  The conde's dark eyes swept over her, and Maranta, disconcerted at his manner, stared at the ground. But the conde continued, "I shall wait here for a while, Maranta. But do not linger too long—or I shall come to find you."

  She walked past him, her head held high, even though her cheeks were burning. Why did he have to embarrass her so? Somehow, with the condessa and Dona Isobel, it had not seemed so bad when they had stopped to take care of the necessities. She was almost sorry now that she had asked to come.

  But then, Maranta thought of the condessa. And it seemed more urgent than ever to get to the shrine at Penha.

  "I should tell you, menina," the conde said as they finished their lunch, "a little about the shrine.

  "Many of the people who come to pray are simple, trusting people—unsophisticated in their knowledge. They clutter the altar with representations of any parts of the body they wish to have healed. You might see a foot of clay, or a heart, or any other. . . organ that needs attention—But they believe in miracles. For them, that is the important thing," he said, his voice suddenly taking on a harsh and condescending tone.

  "And I, too, will pray for a miracle, senhor," Maranta's voice affirmed with a slight tremor.

  "Then, come. Let us not waste any more time."

  As soon as they reached the place, Maranta felt at peace. There was something comforting about the shrine high on the hill, with the wind blowing, making a slight whistling sound. And as she knelt before the statue, which was aged from the weather and the constant wind, Maranta forgot the objects on the altar, forgot all else but the condessa. Her lips moved silently, while the statue seemed to smile at her and give her courage.

  The hand on her shoulder finally brought her mind back to her surroundings.

  "It is growing late, menina. We must leave before darkness sets in." The conde's impatient words held no tinge of apology for having disturbed her.

  He took Maranta's hand and led her toward the horses. As he lifted her upon the mare, Ruis looked into her eyes, and in a dry tone, he said, "And did you pray for yourself as well, Maranta?"

  "Did I need to, senhor? With the great Count of Sorocaba protecting me?"

  His lips tightened into a thin line, and he made no effort to reply to her impertinent question. Instead, he moved Diabo toward the road and began to canter, leaving Maranta to follow as best she could on the little mare.

  The lamps were lit by the time they reached the casa. Dona Isobel stood at the door, and her worried frown lifted when the two came into sight.

  No one noticed that Maranta could barely walk—for all eyes were on the condessa seated in the salon.

  "Mãe," the conde greeted her with surprise. "You are feeling better?"

  "Sim, Ruis. The doctor has given me permission to get up. I have rested in bed long enough."

  It was a coincidence, Maranta thought. For it was too
early for a miracle. Perhaps the condessa had not been so ill after all—just exhausted—and the trip to the shrine had been unnecessary. Although her soul did not protest the wasted journey, Maranta's body rebelled. It was an effort to get up the stairs by herself, and when Maranta saw the warm bath that Pará had prepared for her, she stumbled toward it.

  Later as she sat painfully in the tub, Maranta wondered if this was why Ruis had suggested she pray for herself. And she was sorry that she had not done so.

  The tray of food remained on the table—untouched. And the room was filled with silence. Not even Fado in his cage interrupted the quiet by as much as a chirp. Sighing, Maranta covered the cage and blew out the light.

  The tears came slowly, staining the embroidered pillow cover, while her body ached from the long, hard journey into the hills. Never had she felt more alone—in a house of strangers. It was as if she had been swallowed up—completely forgotten by anyone who had ever spoken her name with love.

  11

  "Marigold. . . that was her name—Marigold Tabor."

  The man stood at the long counter in Keppie's Tavern and ordered another mug of rum. "Robert Tabor was seeing her off today on the Beaufort—with those two foreign women. Promised to some Portugee bigwig on a coffee plantation in Brazil, I was told."

  At the mention of the Tabor name, Shaun Banagher put down his mug. Chad, seated beside him, paled. He got up noisily from the table and began to say something to Shaun, but the auburn-haired man, interested in the conversation at the counter, motioned for Chad to be quiet. He reluctantly sat down again.

  "No, it was the other twin," someone corrected. "Marigold is the one that married that fellow from the up country—her cousin—several weeks ago."

  Chad, afraid to look at Shaun, closed his eyes and groaned.

  "Now, I've got to hand it to that Robert Tabor," the second man continued, "Marrying his daughters off so well. One to coffee and the other to gold."

  The first man scratched his head and replied, "I reckon so. Only if I had such beauties in my house, I'd be real slow to hand 'em over to some other man to enjoy—'specially that one with the golden hair."

  The other men laughed at his comment and drank to his sentiment. But Shaun left his unfinished drink on the table and blindly headed for the door. Chad rushed to catch up with Shaun, but the three men weaving their way into the tavern impeded his progress.

  "Shaun," Chad called. "Wait for me, man."

  But Shaun, oblivious to everything but his own pain, kept walking, his feet moving along the wooden pathway from the wharf.

  A few minutes later, Chad matched his stride to that of his friend, who had slowed down and was now breathing rapidly from the exertion. It was Shaun's first venture out after the accident, and at the corner, with the street lamp illuminating his friend's face, Chad glanced at Shaun and was appalled at what the light revealed.

  In a low, dangerous voice, Shaun said, "You lied to me, Chad."

  The anger that Chad had curbed for Shaun's sake overflowed at the sight of the man's pained, twisted features.

  "Forget about her, Shaun. The bitch isn't worth worrying over."

  Suddenly, Chad found himself on the ground, nursing a bruised jaw, while Shaun disappeared haltingly from sight. Shaun's newly healed chest wound was of far more concern to Chad than his own bruised jaw. He should have kept his temper, rather than risk damage to the recuperating, auburn-haired giant. He should have known that Shaun would defend the girl no matter what she did.

  Damn! Why hadn't he kept Shaun out of the tavern? Especially on the very day that the other Tabor girl had left Charleston with those two foreign women. He could kick himself. He should have known that the men in the tavern would be talking about her and discussing her twin sister as well. And after he had been so careful to assure Shaun that Marigold Tabor was visiting relatives in the up country.

  Now, Shaun knew that she was not only visiting her cousin, but had married him.

  He picked himself up from the ground and headed for the rail shanty, where Shaun sat at the table, his head in his hands. The man did not look up when Chad entered. And Chad, afraid to say anything that would antagonize the man further, made a fire in the stove and heated the stew for their supper.

  "I didn't believe her, Chad. I thought she was being dramatic when she told me of her father's threats."

  The unfilled earthen plate was hurled from the table to break into shards against the wall. "Damn Robert Tabor!" Shaun said, standing up. "Damn his soul to hell!"

  At least no one in the tavern had accused Shaun of being jilted by the girl. That was Chad's only consolation as he sat by himself at the table and ate his stew, already cold.

  The gate swung noisily behind her. Marigold, avoiding the path of the black-and-white-speckled guinea hens, gathered up her skirts and walked quickly toward the big house.

  True to her promise, Cousin Julie had moved her things to the cottage. She remained at the big house during the day, but after supper each night Julie would go back to the cottage. And Marigold, feeling more vulnerable than ever, was forced to spend the evenings alone with Crane.

  The main meal was in the middle of the day, and already, Marigold was late for it. She found Julie and Crane seated at the dining table, finishing their soup. Marigold, with a breathless apology, took her place at the end of the table.

  "You seem to have no conception of time, Marigold," Crane scolded. "And because of that, you will have to forgo the first course."

  "I am not hungry anyway," Marigold announced as the servant began clearing the table of the soup plates.

  "We are having quail—one of your favorites," Julie spoke up, attempting to soften the harshness of Crane's words to his wife. "You'll enjoy that, I'm sure."

  Marigold smiled and nodded. Crane still looked at his wife with a frown on his saturnine features, and Marigold, afraid he would question her as to where she had been, turned her tawny eyes to him and asked, "Did you bring up much gold from the mine this morning?"

  The frown remained on Crane's face. "Not as much as I hoped. One of the slaves drowned in the underground water. I had to have the others whipped before they would venture back down again. Damned inconvenient, since we have only a short time to blast before winter sets in."

  Not one shred of sympathy did he show. And Marigold, instead of revealing her antipathy to his lack of feelings, casually asked, "Did the man who drowned have a family?"

  "Yes, Marigold. But I forbid you to take one of your goodie baskets to them. An interfering wife can be a scourge to her husband and spoil everything he has worked for."

  "Crane. . ."

  "Now, Mother," he said at the woman's protest, "Marigold has to learn, like Floride, not to barge into her husband's affairs."

  Floride Calhoun, Vice-President Calhoun's wife, was a sore spot with Marigold. Crane was constantly harping on the damage the low-country woman had done, accusing her of bringing about the estrangement between Andrew Jackson and his vice-president, John Calhoun, because of her snobbish ways.

  "I expect there was more to it than Floride's snubbing of the barmaid," Marigold answered, refusing to be cowed by Crane's behavior.

  "Peggy O'Neal is no longer a barmaid, but Secretary of War Eaton's wife. And any insult to Eaton is a double insult to the President," Crane said. "Calhoun should have kept his wife locked away. Then maybe Jackson would not have reorganized his cabinet and removed every Calhoun member. Now, he has no influence in Washington at all, because his snobbish wife thought she was too good to associate with Mrs. Eaton."

  "He seemed to have enough influence to keep the Senate from approving Mr. Van Buren as minister to England," Marigold answered, her voice unusually sweet.

  "Marigold, a knowledge of politics is not becoming in a woman. Your father may have allowed it at Midgard, but here at Cedar Hill, it will not be a subject for discussion."

  "Yes, Crane."

  Soon the ground was covered with a layer of snow and ice, and work at
the gold mine was suspended.

  But the cold weather heralded a new activity—one that Marigold tried not to think about. She knew it was necessary, but the high-pitched squeals of the hogs as they were slaughtered brought nightmares to her sleep. The making of sausage, the hanging of hams underneath the house in the cellar went on with Julie supervising, and Marigold was glad when it was over and that she had had no part in it.

  Even though Julie did not sleep at the big house, Marigold was aware that Crane still considered his mother mistress of the plantation. All he seemed to require of Marigold was to frequent his bed and look pretty, as some inanimate fixture he could claim as his own.

  And although she had little prior knowledge of the way most men treated their wives, Marigold soon realized that their relationship was a poor one, not like the marriage between her mother and father. However strong and stubborn Robert Tabor might be, he had never openly subjected Eulalie to ridicule or degradation, as Crane seemed to take delight in with Marigold. For Crane never let Marigold forget for one day that Shaun Banagher had jilted her.

  The fire was low on the bedroom hearth, and Marigold hurriedly finished brushing her hair as she heard Crane's footsteps on the stairs.

  He walked into the room. Marigold, wary of his glazed, dark eyes that passed over her, gathered her peignoir closer to her body and turned her back to Crane.

  With a sudden violence that stunned her, he reached out and pushed her onto the bed. "Crane," she protested, but already he was on top of her.

  Jerking her head back by the long hair, he said, "Call me Shaun."

  So now it was to begin all over again—that degradation that gave him such pleasure.

  When she did not obey his command, he pulled her hair tighter from her scalp and ordered, "Say it, Marigold. It's Shaun you want, isn't it, Marigold? Admit it. Not Crane, your husband—but that lusty, Irish animal, Shaun Banagher."

  Marigold kept silent, refusing to say the name. Deliberate and slow, Crane removed his robe. Marigold's arms were taken from the sleeves of the open peignoir, and then she heard the splitting of the matching gown.