The stirring along the hall next to the parlor prompted her to leave the chair. As Marigold walked toward Julie's door, the figure of Dr. Kellie came forth. He closed the door, and with a sad expression to match the anxiety in Marigold's eyes, he shook his head.
Alarmed, Marigold hastened inside the bedroom. Crane stroked Julie's hand that now lay limp against the coverlet, and by his action, Marigold knew the worst had happened.
"Crane?" she whispered softly.
He raised his anguished face toward her. "She's dead, Marigold. There is nothing you can do. Please leave me alone with my mother."
The low, plaintive singing in the slave quarters began that morning and continued throughout the day and into the night. Sesame, his eyes moist with tears, kept repeating, "I just knowed somethin' bad was gonna happen when Mr. Crane cut down that cedar tree in the middle of the cotton field. You don't cut down a cedar. It'll bring bad luck ev'ry time."
The news spread quickly over the countryside that Julie was dead. On the day of her funeral, the tiny country church was filled with friends and neighbors who had come from miles around to pay their last respects to the gentle, brave woman, who had survived the slave uprising in Santo Domingo and had been brought from Charleston to the up country as Desmond Caldwell's bride.
Marigold and Crane stood in the cemetery in a downpour of rain. Through the fine weaving of the black mourning veil, Marigold peered out onto the dismal landscape and concentrated on the water dripping from the yellowed leaves of the stunted magnolia tree several feet in front of her.
The droning voice of the rector blended into the cadence of the rain, while the somber, black-clad people stood on the other side of the tree and served as a silent chorus, occasionally nodding in agreement at the words spoken by the man at the grave.
The black wrought-iron spiked fence jutted up from the earth behind them, enclosing the rows of white gravestones planted in the hallowed ground. Beyond that, the carriages and horses stood at attention, with even the horses seemingly aware of the solemnity of the occasion.
"Dust thou art, to dust returneth. . ." Marigold closed her smoky topaz eyes when the first spade of dirt was cast into the six-foot chasm before them. As it hit the pine casket, Crane gave a moan, and Marigold reached out for his hand to comfort him. His grip tightened, and for the first time, Marigold felt pity for Crane in his obvious grief.
When the grave was partially filled, they were shepherded back to the carriage, where Sesame waited to take them home.
Some of the neighborhood women had remained behind at Cedar Hill, and as soon as Marigold and Crane changed from their wet clothes, they went into the parlor, as was the custom, to receive the condolences of the people who had returned from the cemetery.
The dining room buffet and table were filled with food—cakes and pies, ham and chicken and vegetables—brought from the neighboring plantations to feed the family and visitors. Marigold ate little—and Crane, even less.
Eventually the carriages dispersed, leaving Crane and Marigold alone with the steady, unrelenting patter of rain on the old plantation roof.
There was a chill in the air, and by nightfall it was necessary to build a fire in the parlor. Soon, Marigold, tired and sleepy from the long day, went upstairs. Crane sat for a long time and stared into the embers on the hearth. Then he banked the fire and retired to his own bedroom—the one across the hall from Marigold. Ever since the episode in the slave cabin, they had not slept in the same room.
Marigold, ready to climb into her bed, leaned over to blow out the lamp. It was then she heard the muffled sobs from across the hall.
Troubled, she took the lamp and, walking between the rooms, she knocked at Crane's door. "Crane, it's Marigold," she said.
The door opened and her husband stood before her. Julie's request to be kind to Crane was uppermost in her mind. "I cannot go to sleep," she explained, "while you are so troubled. Can I get you anything? A glass of warm milk, perhaps—or a brandy."
"Marigold." His voice broke and he reached out for her. As if she were soothing the dirty little urchin that he had once been, Marigold stroked the dark head that rested against her breast.
"Stay with me, Marigold," he begged. "I cannot bear to be alone tonight, knowing that she is in a rain-soaked grave. . ."
"Hush, Crane. You must not think of that."
As she talked, he led her to his bed and covered her with the down-filled comforter. He held her in his arms until his body, growing warm, stopped shivering.
Marigold, surprised at her tenderness for Crane in his grief, remained in his arms, with the lamplight flickering in the room, while the storm outside gathered in intensity and then subsided.
It was toward morning that the nightmare began. She did not know why she awoke. Perhaps it was the lamplight in her face. Or it could have been the feeling that she was being watched. Sleepily, Marigold opened her eyes. Her husband, Crane, sat upright, his arms folded.
He stared at her, and in his dark eyes, she saw something that reminded her of a wild predator relishing the imminent subduing of its victim. And she was afraid.
"Crane," she murmured. "Is it time to get up?"
"No, Marigold."
"Then, why do you have on the light?"
"I have been watching you, Marigold—and waiting for you to wake up. I will have to punish you, you know."
"Punish me? What do you mean, Crane?" Marigold sat up, pushing a strand of golden hair behind her ear.
"I have been lying here, thinking of the threat you have held over my head these past months. But Mother is dead. Now, it no longer matters that you discovered my secret in the slave cabin."
Marigold threw back the comforter and tried to leave the bed, but Crane grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him.
"I cannot allow you to get away with threatening me, my beautiful, haughty wife."
She fought to get loose, but Crane tightened his grip and threw her back against the pillows. He reached for the small bamboo cane and began to beat her. At the first blow, she screamed.
Listening to her cry, Crane's eyes took on a glazed appearance. "Scream all you want, my dear," he crowed, his breathing uneven. "There is no one to hear you, save your husband."
16
She waited until she was certain he was asleep. Marigold, barely able to stand, put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.
It was the last time Crane would ever violate her body like that, she vowed. Never again would she take pity on him. His kisses and pleas for forgiveness afterward could never erase the violence of his actions.
Marigold crept into her own room and, with trembling hands, she dressed and packed a few clothes in the valise that she pulled from underneath the bed.
She had little money for the journey, but it did not matter. She would manage somehow. She could not stay another day with Crane.
It was still dark as she groped her way to the barn. She could not afford to wake Sesame, and so she saw to the horses herself. They whinnied when she removed them from their stalls to hitch to the carriage.
Marigold listened, but no one came to see about the noise in the stable yard. While everyone else at Cedar Hill slept, Marigold opened the gates and started down the road away from Cedar Hill and toward the river.
The tall cedars, blue gray in the semidarkness, gave way to green full-leafed hardwood trees that lined the road to the ferry. The sun came up, spreading its glittering light over the road and filtering through the trees.
Would Jake be awake? Marigold wondered. Would he cross the river in time to get her safely on the ferry before Crane could stop them?
The horses, sensing her urgency, rushed down the road and stopped at the water's edge. Marigold, her unruly hair hanging down her back, stepped toward the bell to give the signal to Jake.
She jumped as the peal magnified itself, the air carrying its dismal clang over the whole countryside.
Oh, please hurry, Jake, she pled silently while her wary eyes t
urned to the road to make sure she had not been followed. Back and forth she paced on the muddy red bank while she waited for some sign of movement across the river.
The rattle of chains on the opposite bank told her that Jake had heard her signal and was now casting off. Marigold watched as the raft-like structure came slowly over the swollen waters of the river. The rain of the previous evening made it more difficult than usual for Jake, and Marigold's heart missed a beat each time the ferry was dragged off its course by the swiftly running current. But each time it happened, Jake took the long pole and guided it back.
Again Marigold glanced at the road behind her. More nervous than ever as the time lapsed, she could not tell if the sudden pounding was a horse galloping down the road, or her own heart beating in her ears.
Then, she saw the figure on horseback in the distance. It was Crane, she knew, coming to take her back to Cedar Hill. The bell had awakened him.
The raft was almost to the bank. Marigold ran to the carriage, and before Jake had time to finish hooking the last chain to the planks on the bank, she moved the carriage forward.
"Cast off, Jake," she shouted. The horses cantered down the bank, pulling the carriage behind. With all her strength, she tugged on the reins, and the horses drew up only inches from the end of the raft.
"Miss Marigold, what's the matter?"
"It's my husband. He's after me, Jake. Hurry!"
The black man took his pole and shoved the ferry from the bank. His muscles rippled in the early morning sunlight, and Marigold began to tremble.
The shout came from Crane. "Stop, Jake," he ordered. "Bring the raft back."
"No," Marigold whispered.
Jake's hands became slack on the pole. His worried face looked at the man on the bank and then to Marigold, and his look reflected his indecision.
On the opposite shore, Crane stood, a smile on his lips and a relaxed air to indicate his certainty that Jake would obey him.
"Miss Marigold?" Jake questioned.
"If you take me back, he'll—he'll kill me."
Her words had the desired effect. Jake's eyes narrowed at the sight of her swollen face, and his muscles began to work again, digging the pole into the water to continue the journey across the river and away from Crane Caldwell.
Seeing the movement away from him, Crane became livid. "Jake, didn't you hear me? I order you to return my carriage and my wife to me immediately."
Jake continued to move the ferry in the opposite direction.
"You'll spend the rest of your life in irons, Jake. That, I promise you," Crane shouted, his raspy, hoarse voice carrying over the water.
Marigold, hearing his threat, realized the dreadful position in which she had placed her friend, Jake.
"Oh, Jake, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get you into trouble because of me."
"Where're you goin', Miss Marigold?" he asked, ignoring Crane's words and her heartfelt apology.
"To Charleston—to my parents."
"You plannin' on drivin' that distance all alone?"
"I have no choice," she answered.
Marigold glanced again across the river. The horse was still in sight, but Crane had disappeared. Then she saw her husband pushing a canoe into the water.
"He's following us, Jake," Marigold's distressed voice announced.
The black man turned to look toward the wobbling canoe and, in a reassuring voice, said, "He won't get across the river in that, Miss Marigold. The water's too swift."
A few feet from the bank, the canoe overturned. And minutes later, a waterlogged Crane crawled out onto the muddy bank, while the overturned canoe drifted downstream.
Jake's strength propelled the ferry to the other bank, but before he fastened the chains to the metal rings, the man took one last glance at Crane, who stood shaking his fist at them. Turning to Marigold, he said, "Wait, Miss Marigold, at the top of the hill, while I get some things out of the house. With Mr. Crane so mad, I can't stay here. I might as well come with you."
A few minutes later, to Marigold's relief, she sat back on the cushioned seat of the carriage, while Jake crooned to the horses, urging them at top speed down the road.
Each time they stopped, Marigold hid her face from view with the long, black mourning veil that she had worn to Julie's funeral.
Curious people turned to look at the slim figure dressed in black from head to toe. But the mystery of the obviously bereaved woman, with only her driver to accompany her, went unsolved.
"Not even a maid to travel with her," one elderly woman commented at the first inn. "Looks as if she's running from something, if you ask me. Wonder who she is?"
Marigold ignored the speculative comments and kept to herself, wearing the disguising veil until she and Jake were on the road again.
By the third day, the routine was well established with Jake seeing to the lodgings and paying from the small metal box he had brought with him.
"My father will reimburse you, Jake," Marigold assured the man as she climbed into the carriage.
The sun was already up, and it promised to be a good day for traveling as they left the yard of the inn.
"I'm not worried about the money, Miss Marigold," Jake said.
Neither one spoke of the worry that served as a goad to hasten them on their way—the knowledge that Crane might be directly behind them.
It would not go well with either the black man or Marigold if Crane should catch up with them before they reached the safety of Charleston.
By mid-morning, Jake stopped in a clump of trees to give the horses a rest. Unhitching them from the carriage, he led them down to the old Indian springs hidden from the road by a small, grassy mound.
Marigold, glad to stop for a while, flicked the dust from her dress and walked in the opposite direction of the springs. When she returned to where the carriage had been, she was surprised to see that Jake had moved it so that it could not be seen from the road.
"Jake?"
"Cain't be too careful, Miss Marigold," he admitted.
"You think my husband is following us?"
"Could be. I got this feelin' in my bones. Woke up with it this morning . And my bones is usually right."
The light went out of Marigold's eyes. "I. . . won't go back with him, Jake, if he finds us."
Jake nodded, showing no surprise at her avowal. In another half-hour, the black man had the horses hitched to the carriage, and he pulled out onto the road.
Because of Jake's words, Marigold began to glance regularly at the road behind her. The sight of other carriages did not alarm her. She looked for a lonely rider on horseback—a rider with coal black hair and cruel eyes.
They were on the old peltry road north of Blacksfield when the left wheel of the carriage developed a wobble. The carriage jolted and tilted to one side. Marigold held onto the strap inside the vehicle until Jake could bring it to a stop in the middle of the dusty, lonely road.
She climbed out of the carriage and watched as the black man ran his hands over the wheel to assess the damage. Marigold waited for him to speak.
The orioles in the trees sang their summer song and darted in and out of the woodland, while the horses jerked their heads up and pawed the ground.
Finally Jake said, "We can't go no farther on this wheel, Miss Marigold. It's done for, good and proper."
"Can't you fix it?" she asked, trying hard to keep the mounting anxiety from her voice.
The man shook his head. "Looks like somebody deliberately damaged it, Miss Marigold. And the pothole in the road musta done the rest. We was lucky to get this far."
While Jake talked, the dust in the road behind them began to clear. And as it did so, Marigold saw in the distance the large roan horse with its lone rider bearing down upon them.
Stifling the exclamation, Marigold's hands went to her mouth, and at her actions, Jake looked back.
There was no mistake. The distinctive riding posture of Crane Caldwell could not be duplicated by another rider.
But Marigold was not about to wait like a trapped animal for Crane to apprehend them. She had gotten this far. She would not give up now.
"Quickly, Jake. Help me unhitch the horses," she ordered and ran to the horses' heads.
"What you plannin' to do, ma'am?" he asked, following her.
"We'll ride the horses into the woods. Crane hasn't won yet."
"We got no saddles," he objected. "You won't get far, Miss Marigold. Me—now I'm used to ridin' bareback on a mule, but a lady has to have a saddle."
Marigold laughed as she climbed upon the horse's back and urged the animal into the woods. How many times she had ridden like this in growing up, giving her brother Jason a good run down the narrow road through Emma's Bog. Of course, she had always gotten a good tongue-lashing from Feena afterward, but now it did not matter that her petticoats were showing. The important thing was to hide before Crane Caldwell spotted them.
Into the wooded forest they rode, away from the carriage and the rapidly approaching figure. When the two had reached the safety of the canebrake, Marigold led her horse into cover and watched as Crane got off the roan to survey the carriage with its injured wheel.
He glanced to the back and to the front of the abandoned carriage and looked to one side of the road and then the other, as if undecided what to do. Finally he climbed back on his horse and galloped south, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
Marigold's elation plummeted when Jake spoke. "He'll be waiting for us at the next inn."
Marigold pulled at a long strand of golden hair, twisting it around her finger as she thought. "Then we won't stop at the inn, Jake," she said aloud, and again lapsed into silence.
The train. How far had the tracks been laid? She tried to remember what Shaun had said—something about when it was finished all the way to Hamburg in 1833, it would be the longest rail line in the world. It could not be helped if she risked coming face to face with Shaun. That was preferable to being caught by Crane. Surely, the line had come farther by now.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 13