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

extravagant about embroidered handkerchiefs," she added, touching the small box at the end of her bed with her toe.

"I would rather have the handkerchiefs," Maranta said, her solemn dark eyes looking down at the cross in her hands. "I have a feeling that this is a family heirloom, and the condessa should not have given it to me."

"But if you become a part of the Monteiro family, then it won't matter, will it? We all know the condessa is shopping for a suitable bride for her son."

"But I don't plan to marry, Souci. You know that."

"Is that why you didn't bring a piece of cake to put under your pillow—so you couldn't dream about the man you're to marry?"

"That's only with wedding cake, Souci, not birthday cake. And anyway—you only have crumbs left. You didn't plan very well, did you, if you expected to dream of your future husband?"

Marigold tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and replied, "I don't need to dream about him. I already know the one I'm going to marry."

"Shaun? Or Crane?"

Marigold made a face at the mention of Crane's name. "Why, Shaun, of course."

"What if Papa won't let you marry him?"

"That doesn't matter now. I'm. . ." Marigold stopped and in an impatient voice said, "Oh, do hurry and put on your gown, Maranta. I'm tired and want to go to sleep. And the candlelight is hurting my eyes."

Surprised at her request, Maranta said, "Aren't you feeling well, Marigold? Usually you're the one who wants to keep the light burning half the night."

Marigold pulled the sheet over her head without replying. And Maranta, sensing her sister's impatient mood, quickly slipped into her gown and blew out the candle beside her bed.

With guests in the house, it had been impossible for Maranta to find time to be alone with her parents—to get permission to enter the convent. But Cousin Julie and Crane were leaving the next day, and things should quiet down. She would just have to wait for the right moment to approach her parents. Maranta knelt by the side of the bed and began her evening prayers.

"Now, what are you doing, Maranta?" Marigold's voice cut through the darkness of the room.

There was a pause, and then Maranta answered, "I'm saying my prayers as I usually do each evening."

Marigold started to reply and then changed her mind. She merely sighed. There was no need to try to rush Maranta, even though Shaun might already be waiting in the garden.

Waiting. The waiting had made the day seem interminable. Through breakfast, luncheon, the party, and then the dinner later that night—having to thank everyone for the birthday gifts—having to smile and pretend to be enjoying the day, and all the time wondering if her valise might be discovered by a servant and brought back into the house—wondering if Shaun might have trouble hiring a carriage at the last minute—and now, more waiting—for Maranta to go to sleep and the household to settle down for the night.

Marigold could hear Maranta climbing into bed. Soon, now—

She listened as the old clock in the downstairs hall wheezed its message, each chime seemingly slower than the previous one. Marigold counted until the twelfth chime sounded and died away. And then, there was total silence, except for Maranta's even breathing that indicated she was asleep. Good. Now she could get up without fear of disturbing her sister.

"Shaun, I'm coming," Marigold whispered, willing the message to reach him while she climbed out of bed and groped toward the wardrobe to rescue her petticoats and dress.

Marigold's hand stopped in midair in its search; for in the distance, a baby began to cry. Marigold remained frozen, listening to the sudden stirring down the hall toward the nursery. Raven's cries grew louder, and Marigold knew he would not go to sleep again until the wet nurse had satisfied his hunger. Just her luck for the baby to wake up, tonight of all nights. But she could still get dressed, Marigold decided. And when the house became quiet again, she would be ready to join Shaun in the garden.

The small bit of moonlight seeped through the curtains, but she dared not look out the window toward the enclosed garden to see if Shaun were there. Somehow, she was superstitious about that. Instead, she removed the silk petticoats and dress from the wardrobe and tiptoed back to her bed with them.

The petticoats rustled as Marigold slipped them over her head. She had never noticed how noisy it was to get dressed, especially by oneself. Each sound seemed magnified in the darkness.

Marigold glanced toward her sister's bed before continuing with her dressing. But Maranta had not stirred. Quickly, Marigold loosened her hair from its confining plait and ran her hands through it. That would have to suffice. No time for an elaborate coiffure, even if she could see.

At last, Marigold felt for her kid slippers under the bed. First one, and then the other—and her reticule, hidden under her pillow—

The bedroom door creaked open, and Marigold, alarmed at the sound, hurriedly got back into bed, dropping her reticule on the floor and pulling up the spread to shield her fully clad body. Surely, Feena was not keeping watch at night, too. Could it be her father? Had he heard her and come to see what she was doing up so late at night?

Hardly daring to breathe, Marigold watched the door. It opened all the way, and a small form stepped over the threshold.

"'Ranta!" the voice called softly. "I'm thirsty."

It was seven-year-old Robbie, intent on waking up Maranta.

Marigold leaped from her bed and whispered, "Robbie, what are you doing up?"

"Raven woke me," he complained. "And I want some water. I'm thirsty."

"Ssh—Don't talk so loud. Come, and I'll give you some water from my pitcher," Marigold promised. She took her brother by the hand, and with only the moonlight to guide her, she led him across the room to the stand where the pitcher rested.

"That's enough, little piglet," Marigold scolded, taking