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

in vain—and its dark fabric against her golden curls presented an exotic picture.

Down past the long row of cedars the carriage traveled—and not once did Marigold look back. She expected the carriage to proceed to the river, but instead, it turned and headed in the other direction—the longer way.

With a questioning look, Marigold met Shaun's eyes. In answer to her silent question, he said, "I have business to attend to. It will not take long."

In a half- hour, they had come to the little stone church a short distance from the village. The church was round—built that way to keep the devil from the corners. The black carriage came to a stop and Shaun turned to Marigold.

"I cannot be bothered with social customs," he informed her. "You need a man to take care of you, especially in the next few months. And I might as well start now, as your husband. Hurry up, or we shall ruin the parson's supper."

He held his hand for her, but she drew back. "Shaun, you couldn't possibly wish to marry me," she said incredulously.

"And why not?"

"Docia Henley's waiting in Charleston."

"And what has that to do with us, Souci?"

"You love her."

"Have I ever said so?"

"Well, no—not in actual words."

"Then—"

"I can't marry you, Shaun."

The man frowned. "Does it bother you what people will say if they discover you have taken another husband while the first one is being buried?"

"No. It's not that."

"Then what is keeping you from going into the church with me?"

"It's what the parson will think," she blurted out, "seeing me like this." She stared down at the tight dress she was wearing—at her stomach that advertised her advanced pregnancy.

Shaun's eyes were amused. "He will think we have waited far too long as it is."

Not knowing whether to cry with joy or embarrassment, Marigold went with Shaun. His commanding height and air of authority sent the sexton immediately to fetch the parson. In a flurried manner, the little man appeared, buttoning his black frock coat and smoothing the few strands of hair that adhered to the top of his head. Looking over the glasses, he said, "My wife will be along presently, to serve as witness."

When Shaun and Marigold stood at the altar, she kept on her bombazine cloak as the service began.

"Is there—er—any reason why the two of you should not be joined in marriage?" the embarrassed clergyman asked.

"No. None," Shaun replied.

"Yes. Well—er—"

The parson's eyes avoided looking at Marigold after the initial shock. He hurried through the ritual in the prayer book, and in five minutes, Shaun and Marigold were husband and wife.

"My son," the parson whispered to Shaun as they were leaving, "you have done the right thing."

34

Shaun treated her tenderly, seeing to her comfort as they stopped at the inns along the way to Charleston. Cold November wind whipped in from the sea as they reached the battery, and the townhouse that had once belonged to Robert Tabor welcomed them.

"We're home, Marigold," Shaun said, touching her shoulder. But she did not respond. The man smiled and, gathering up the girl in his arms, he carried her from the carriage to the door.

"Welcome home, Mr. Shaun," the black man said, holding a lamp at the entrance to light the man's way.

"Thank you, Jake," Shaun replied. "If you will light the way to the guest room, we will put Mrs. Banagher in there for the night."

Jake's eyes widened at Shaun's revelation. He looked at the sleeping woman and back to the giant of a man. But he asked no questions. It would not be appropriate for him to do so. But he knew that Crane Caldwell was no longer a threat. And he breathed easier.

That night the winter storm began, blowing in from the ocean—the white-foamed, angry waves battering against the seawall, the cold rain pelting the roof of the house, and the strong gale swinging the shutters against the windows.

The banging awoke Marigold and she sat up. In the light of the soft embers still glowing in the fireplace, she saw the tall posts of the unfamiliar mahogany bed—the same one from which Shaun had so angrily dragged her the morning after her hurried trip from Cedar Hill. And here she was, in it again. But she had been put there by Shaun—the man she loved. She was no longer wife to Crane Caldwell.

All at once, the enormity of her deed hit her. She had married Shaun, even though she was soon to bear another man's child. She had been completely selfish, thinking only of her own need, not Shaun's. She began to shake. Not once had Shaun professed his love for her, nor given any explanation for his backing out of marrying her the first time.

Marigold began to fear that Shaun had married her out of pity—not love. And the disturbing thought kept her awake for much of the night.

Her face was drawn and her tawny eyes mirrored her distress as she sat the next morning huddled by the fireplace and drank the hot tea that Jake had made for her. There was no other woman in the house, no servants. Just Jake, and now, Sesame. Marigold had no one to help her, to turn to. Shaun had not even felt it necessary to tell her good-bye. He had gone for the day to attend to his affairs. She was left alone.

But not for long. The knocker on the front door vibrated from a vigorous hand, and Marigold wondered who could be calling at such an early hour. She heard the voices downstairs and realized whoever it was, was coming upstairs, despite Jake's protest.

"That's all right, Jake," the girl's voice said, rising above the landing. "Mr. Banagher sent me. I'm sure Mrs. Banagher will be glad to see me."

Marigold recognized the high-pitched voice of Docia Henley.

"Marigold," the girl called out, knocking at the bedroom door. "It's Docia. May I come in?"

Marigold was tempted to ask her to go away. But that would not do. Sighing, she said, "Yes,