Daughters of the Summer Storm

completely foreign to him.
So now, Arthur had to be content with holding the dark-haired baby in the white lace christening gown, and promising to be responsible, as a godfather, for the son of the woman he loved.
Marigold dismissed the twinge of pity for Arthur. Her mind went to Shaun instead—her Shaun now, if what she was planning worked out. For almost a year, Shaun had labored long hours, going without decent clothes and other necessities, saving every penny for the day when he and Marigold could be married.
But she knew that time had run out. They could afford to wait no longer while Shaun accumulated more money. Her father's threat to find a husband for her—someone other than Shaun Banagher—was uppermost in her mind.
Marigold's chin lifted in an unobserved challenge. For once, Robert Tabor would not have his way, she decided.
". . . Lyle Ravenal Tabor, child of the covenant. . ." the priest intoned, bringing Marigold's mind back to the ceremony taking place.
Maranta, standing on the other side of the baby, looked happily into her new little brother's face. He had the same dark coloring that she and her mother had.
When the ceremony was over, Robert Tabor stepped forward and claimed his son from Arthur's arms. His fierce, possessive look encompassed not only his youngest child, but Eulalie, his wife, as well. And Maranta, seeing it, remembered what Marigold had said on their way to the parlor.
Unexpectedly, Maranta shivered. Although she loved her father, even he frightened her. She was glad that she would never have to submit to any man. In two days' time, she would be eighteen, and on her birthday, she planned to ask permission to enter the convent.

2
Eighteen summers, and the twins had never once set foot on the island where they had been born—Tabor Island, just off the coast of Charleston.
The old tabby house, built of oyster shells and lime, was gone, Marigold knew, leveled by the hurricane that swept the island on the day of their birth. Feena had told her that much. But everything else remained a mystery. And any effort to get her mother to talk about that summer was met with defeat. Today, on their eighteenth birthday, she was sure it would be no different.
Once, using her brother's telescope, Marigold had been able to see the ancient lighthouse rising out of the mist surrounding the island. But that was all. They had never been allowed to get close enough to see the remains of the old house, or what the island actually looked like.
Now, standing in the bedroom she shared with her twin, Marigold glanced at her mother, who waited for the two girls to finish dressing for their party. Eulalie sat in the window seat and stared out the panes of glass, miles away in thought. Marigold watched her mother for a moment. Was she, too, thinking of the island and what had happened that day so long ago?
At the rustling of the dresses, Eulalie turned from the window and gazed at her daughters. For the first time since they were babies, the twins were dressed exactly alike, in the elegant dresses that Mrs. Windom had made for them—white moiré silk, with yards of matching lace around the hems. The sleeves were billowing puffs, flaring out from the shoulders almost to the elbows, and by their enormous size, dwarfing the tiny waists, before the skirts expanded in a cone shape of voluptuous proportions.
"How beautiful you both are," Eulalie said with pride in her serene dark eyes. She opened the two small velvet boxes that lay in her lap and summoned the girls to her side. "Before we go to the salon, I would like to give you your first present—from your father and me."
She held out the exquisitely shaped gold lockets on thin, delicate chains, and with a kiss for each daughter, she fastened the intricate golden clasps around their necks. "Happy Birthday, mes petites."
Excitedly, Maranta and Marigold dashed to the mirror to examine their gifts.
"It's beautiful," Maranta said, turning back to her mother. "Thank you, Maman. I shall always treasure it." Her serious dark eyes moistened with tears as she fingered the delicate gold chain.
"You silly goose," Marigold said, nudging her sister. "You always cry at the wrong time. As your elder sister, I command you to smile as a proper thank-you to Maman."
Maranta brushed her hand across her eyes. "Don't be overbearing, Marigold," she replied. "Just because you're a few minutes older doesn't mean you can boss me all the time."
A teasing glint came into Marigold's eyes. "You are not only younger, Maranta, but you stopped growing too soon, too."
As Maranta drew herself up to her full height, she said, "Two inches means nothing."
"Souci! Maranta!" Eulalie said, laughing. "Don't get into an argument now. It's time to go and greet your guests. And Marigold, please try to curb your tongue and be nicer to Crane. He seems to be quite taken with you."
"Dear Crane," Marigold said, making a face. "If it weren't for nice Cousin Julie, I could easily tell her spoiled, adopted son to drop over the seawall."
"But you won't do that, will you, Marigold?" Maranta teased. "Instead, you'll have to smile prettily when he gives you his present and then suffer his not-so-cousinly kiss."
"And what about you, Maranta, with all the condessa's attentions these past two weeks—treating you like some pet puppy?" Marigold retaliated. "I wouldn't be surprised if she planned to put you in one of her wicker trunks to take you back to Brazil with her."
Maranta stuck her tongue out at Marigold.
Eulalie shook her head at her daughters. "If I did not know better, mes enfants, I would think you both about six years old! I trust you are now ready to act like young ladies?"
"Oui, Maman," they chorused and followed her out of the bedroom and toward the family parlor.
Marigold, her cheeks far too flushed, attempted to match Maranta's dainty steps down the hallway. Her thoughts were not