Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

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