Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  What would she tell her mother—to explain her sudden visit? Because of Jake, she had made her bargain with Crane not to divulge his mistreatment of her. And they need not know about her harried flight in the carriage, especially now that she had left the money for Jake with Mr. Pettigrew at the bank, and the note at the townhouse. Madame Reynaud had been quite helpful, advancing her the money and adding it to her bill for Crane Caldwell.

  "Do not be embarrassed, ma petite," the woman had said. "Many husbands are that way—willing to make an outward show, but so very stingy with the household money. You are not the first, and you will not be the last."

  Nevertheless, Marigold had held her breath when Crane examined the bill for her clothes. And she had tried to conceal the visible relief when he pulled out his money clip and paid the woman without a fuss.

  19

  "No," she whispered. "Please—"Her mouth was covered with kisses. She struggled against him, attempting to push him away.

  And then Maranta awoke. Alone—with the silken sheet tangled around her arms. She sat up, trying to separate her nightmare from reality. But they were the same.

  Her wedding night had been spent, not with her invalid husband, Dom Vasco, but with his arrogant brother Ruis da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba. He was gone, but his presence remained with her. The imprint of Ruis's head on the pillow beside her was not the only evidence that he had stayed in her bed through the night. Her body felt it, too—his total mastery of her. She tried to rid herself of the feeling of his flesh upon hers, of the half-awakened senses and the shame. But it was impossible.

  With a cry, Maranta gazed down at the white lace gown on the floor, barely visible through the still closed silken draperies of the bed. Just when she leaned over to retrieve the gown, the door opened, and Maranta hastily scrambled under the covers to hide her unclothed body.

  "I have brought your breakfast, Senhora Maranta," Sassia said, pulling back the draperies of the bed. "The tray is in the sitting room, with hot yerba mate to drink."

  "I. . . am not hungry, Sassia," Maranta said, moving still farther down in the bed. Her cheeks were flaming. Did Sassia know?

  The girl ignored her comment and continued. "I shall bring hot water for your bath as soon as you have finished your breakfast."

  Sassia picked up the gown from the floor and nonchalantly laid it on the bed with the lace peignoir, before leaving the bedroom.

  The sob escaped Maranta's lips. She knew. They all knew. Maranta was the only one who had not known. Even the priest—for had he not made it clear to her before her wedding vows that she was to obey Dom Ruis in all things, even above her husband?

  Her wedding vows were broken, and she felt wicked. Tears fell silently as she dressed herself in the lace gown that Ruis had removed with his own hands, and then she covered it with the matching peignoir.

  Through her tears she saw the blurred outline of the open jewelry case. The Cruzamento da Monteiro. Why had she not given it back to the condessa, or at least let it remain unworn in the jewelry case? But already she knew the answer to that. It was her pride that had made Maranta put it on, her feeling of insignificance before the arrogant conde. If Dom Ruis had not seen her in the chapel with it around her neck, this might never have happened.

  "And did you pray for yourself, menina?" His words at Penha came back to her. And now she knew why he had asked her that at the shrine in the hills where miracles were made.

  Forgetting the breakfast tray waiting for her, Maranta snatched up the cross of precious jewels. She would take it to the chapel and hang it on one of the statues for safekeeping. And there it could remain forever. She would never wear it again. She could not bear to have it in her sight, to remind her of her humiliation.

  Clasping the peignoir around her body, Maranta ran barefoot down the deserted hall, across the gallery, and down the steps into the chapel itself.

  The white flowers near the altar were wilted—a sad reminder of what had taken place less than twenty-four hours previously.

  She could not even kneel to pray. She felt too unworthy.

  The row of saints stood in silent splendor before her. Maranta walked among them until she came to the Dolorosa, the sad-eyed madonna that echoed her own hurt and sadness. Standing on tiptoe, she hung the cross around the statue's neck.

  As she made her way back up the stairs, her shoulders drooped and her steps were slow. A door closed nearby, and Maranta, aware of her scanty attire, hid in the alcove until the heavy steps grew lighter along the marbled hallway and then made no further sound.

  With a sudden urgency to get back to the safety of her room, Maranta rushed from her hiding place, her dark hair flying behind her, her small, silent, bare feet sprinting along the cold, black-and-white tiles of the hall.

  At her suite, she grasped the golden handle, pushed open the door, and then, leaning against the closed wooden panel, she struggled for her breath; for she had run as if the devil's legions had been on her heels.

  The breakfast tray lay where Sassia had left it—on the table beside the pale lilac sofa. The tea was already cold, but Maranta gulped it down to assuage the terrible thirst that had come upon her. She left the rest of the breakfast untouched.

  From the bedroom door, Sassia appeared, and Maranta, seeing the black girl, put down the delicate porcelain cup and asked, "Is my bath ready?"

  "Yes, senhora. It is ready."

  Suddenly shy at undressing before the servant, Maranta said, "I. . . I do not need any help, Sassia. Just put my dress on the bed, and then you may go."

  "Yes, senhora," the girl replied.

  Maranta went behind the screen and removed her gown. As she climbed into the tub of warm water, there appeared to be no telltale signs that her body was any different from the day before. Yet, Maranta knew that was not true. The spots of blood on the silken sheet acknowledged that she would never be the same again. She was no longer the virgin bride brought to the fazenda to marry the younger brother of the conde—but a woman taken by the wrong man on her wedding night. Yet, she had meant nothing to him. She was a means to an end. Without any emotion or love, she had been selected to bear the heir of the Monteiro family.

  Now she knew why Marigold had not been considered a suitable candidate by the condessa. Her sister would never have allowed such a thing to happen to her.

  But with Maranta, it was different She was too shy, too intimidated by the entire family to assert herself. Perhaps now that the conde had had his way with her, he would leave her alone.

  Maranta, feeling suddenly ill and weak, decided not to put on the dress Sassia had laid out for her. Instead, she put on a fresh gown and barely brushed the tangles from her long, black hair before climbing again into the dreaded bed that she had shared with Dom Ruis. The soiled sheets had been removed, and in their place, fresh white silken ones covered the mattress.

  For the rest of the morning, Maranta remained in her room—too tired and disheartened even to see about Fado, who chirped in his cage by the window. When the bell signaled that luncheon was served, Maranta did not respond. Too embarrassed to face Dom Ruis and his family, she drew the bed draperies around her and hid in her cocoon of thin, gossamer silk.

  Later, Sassia came into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. "Are you not feeling well, Senhora Maranta?"

  "I. . . I have a headache, Sassia."

  "Do you wish me to bring some food to you?"

  "No, thank you. I. . . am not hungry. But I am very thirsty. Could you please bring me some water to drink?"

  The girl left the room and soon returned with a glass, holding it for Maranta as she drank. When the glass was drained, Maranta asked, "May I have more?"

  The servant's troubled eyes stared at Maranta, and then, backing away from the bed, she took the empty glass with her.

  But it was not Sassia who entered the room later. It was the conde, Dom Ruis. He thrust back the curtains, and Maranta, just on the edge of sleep, opened her dark doe eyes, and at the sight of the
man, she gave a cry.

  "Be still, menina. I will not hurt you," he said in a stern voice.

  His face was solemn—almost angry. And in a commanding tone he said, "Let me see your right arm."

  Obediently, Maranta held it out, and Ruis bent over, examining the faint teeth marks left by the vicious bat. His hand ran up her arm, and she protested, "Please, Dom Ruis. There is no cause for concern."

  His frown denied her affirmation. To her forehead his hand moved and then brushed back the slightly damp tendrils that clung to her perspiring skin. Under his breath he muttered words that Maranta could not understand. And in English he said, "You are running a fever, Maranta. Do you have a headache also?"

  "Yes," she replied. "And. . . and my throat hurts." She swallowed painfully.

  At her confession, Ruis became terrifying to see. Never had she seen his face so angry, so filled with wrath, his eyes flashing with a malignant light. He swept out of the room like a whirlwind, but before Maranta could stop shivering from fright, he was back again, thrusting something toward her.

  Leaves—of some unknown plant. And he was forcing them into her mouth. "Chew them," he ordered, but Maranta, shaking her head, struggled against him and tried to spit them out.

  Was he trying to poison her? Had she displeased him so much that he had decided to get rid of her?

  "Pequena, I pray you. Do not struggle against me. Do as I ask," he begged in a hoarse voice. And Maranta, too tired to keep up the battle, accepted the leaves between her small, white teeth and tasted their bitterness on her tongue. If Dom Ruis wanted to get rid of her, there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  A strange, floating feeling came over her. In and out of consciousness she drifted, while she murmured in her delirium. And at times, when she awoke, she saw Ruis sitting by her bed. Never Sassia—never the condessa or Dona Isobel. Always the dark-haired conde. Completely deserted, with no one in the world but Dom Ruis to soothe her hot forehead with the damp cloths, to force the bitter leaves into her mouth, to hold her and make her drink the water—always the cool water.

  Once, she thought she saw an angel with long, golden hair and pale blue eyes gazing down at her. Was she dying and at the gate of heaven? But no. That was impossible. Maranta was too wicked to go to heaven. Her tears clouded her vision, and the angel disappeared.

  The quietness in the room was disturbed by the chirping of a bird. Fado—and she had not fed him or given him water.

  "Fado," Maranta murmured, trying to lift her head from the pillow.

  The deep voice was assuring. "Fado is all right, menina. Can you hear him singing for you?"

  "Y-Yes," she whispered, and the effort of speaking left her exhausted. Maranta's eyes closed and she slept.

  The demons rapidly multiplied, invading her mind and body, sending pain and agony, numbing her legs. Her throat was on fire. Maranta cried out, and the man held her against his chest, rocking her back and forth.

  "What is bothering you, menina?" he inquired gently, pushing back the long, dark hair from her tiny, pale face.

  "My legs," she answered. "They're numb."

  His hand stopped abruptly. And before she could object, Ruis had jerked back the bed cover and was examining the slender legs, the tiny feet.

  "Move them, Maranta," he urged.

  "I. . . don't think I c-can," she said, too ill to feel any embarrassment at Dom Ruis's intimacy.

  "You will move them, Maranta. I order you to do so."

  His command meant nothing to her. She lay still, with only the fluttering of her hand to show that there was any life left in her body.

  "God—no!" Ruis groaned and stumbled from the bedside.

  Far into the night, the candles of myrtle wax burned, and the low chant of the family priest intermingled with the shallow breathing of the small figure that lay in the massive oriental bed.

  As the pale sun finally slipped through the window, the priest arose from his knees. He took one last look at the girl on the bed, the sleeping conde in a chair beside her, before walking out into the hall. His steps led him along the gallery, down through the chapel, and to his own room at the back. Three nights they had kept watch together, and he was exceedingly weary.

  The room was warm—much too warm for Maranta. She stirred and kicked off the heavy white comforter that covered her. And a laugh of jubilation filled the room.

  The man smiling down at her was a stranger. Bloodshot eyes and a heavy growth of beard. And yet, there was something familiar about him too.

  "Ruis?"

  "You moved your legs, pequena," the conde said, his deep voice sounding relieved.

  Maranta frowned. Why should that make him happy? she wondered. A moving of her legs. Did he think she was immobile?

  In a few days, Maranta's fever had vanished, and she sat up, with pillows in embroidered lace propped behind her. Every two hours she was brought nourishment and urged to eat. But it was Sassia who now attended her. Dom Ruis had disappeared at the same time as her fever.

  20

  A week later, Maranta left her room for the first time since she had become ill.

  On the veranda she sat, content to be lazy and do nothing more strenuous than gaze out toward the slopes of coffee plants in the distance.

  "So you finally decided not to make a widower out of me."

  The voice spoken from behind prompted Maranta to turn her head. Vasco pushed his rolling chair toward her and stopped. His calculating inspection of her thin body in the aqua dress that Sassia had altered and the dark circles under her eyes made Maranta nervous.

  "D-Dom Vasco," she said, surprised to see her husband on the veranda.

  "You gave Ruis quite a scare. And now I see why. There isn't much left of you, is there?"

  At his brutal frankness, Maranta paled and could not think of a reply.

  Evidently, Vasco expected none. "He thought you had rabies, you know. From the bat."

  "I. . . did not know."

  "Of course, Ruis said nothing to Mãe about his fears. It would have shattered all her carefully laid plans. And I doubt she could have stood that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Come now, Maranta Monteiro é Tabor. Do you think I do not know why you were brought to the fazenda?"

  He leaned toward her and with relish, he whispered, "Ruis loves Mãe too much not to give her what her heart desires—even though it means taking to bed a girl he has no feeling for."

  Maranta's hand went up to her cheek, and she fled from the veranda, the sound of Dom Vasco's taunting laughter following her.

  All the time Ruis had taken care of her, he had been doing it for Mãe. Maranta meant nothing to him. And she meant nothing to Dom Vasco either, except as someone to taunt and tease in her humiliating situation. Why had the conde not allowed her to die? She did not belong on the fazenda. She would never belong. Even if she should bear the child the condessa wanted, Maranta would still have no official place in the Monteiro family. She might even be sent away later.

  Maranta thought of her little brother, Raven, so sweet in her arms. How she had enjoyed holding him and singing to him. And what a wrench of the heart to leave him. How much more heartache if Dom Ruis should be so cruel as to send her away after her own baby was born.

  But Maranta was not with child. The night spent with Ruis had accomplished nothing but the taking of her maidenhead.

  "Hello," the blond woman called out to Maranta as she passed through the sala. "You are Maranta, Dom Vasco's wife, are you not?"

  "Yes, and you must be—Innocencia."

  The tinkling laugh was musical and refreshing after the harsh, cynical laughter of her husband. "I have been so bored today, playing only with the pickaninnies. Come into my room and have tea with me."

  Unable to think of an excuse not to do so, Maranta followed Innocencia through the sala and into the large room whose iron-grilled door stood open.

  The draperies were drawn, shutting out the sun. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness,
Maranta realized she was in the nursery. On the floor mat, several small black babies crawled.

  Innocencia clapped her hands and said to the approaching servant, "Take them back to their quarters. I am tired of them."

  The servant scooped up the babies under her arms and disappeared.

  "Come sit down and I will ring for tea and cakes."

  Maranta obeyed, fascinated by the beautiful young woman in her loose garment and bare feet. Innocencia sat on the ornately embroidered hammock and made room for Maranta. With one foot, she started the hammock into motion and then tucked both feet under her, as a child might do. The swinging back and forth was disconcerting to Maranta.

  "If you don't mind, I think I'll sit in the chair," Maranta said. "I've been ill, and the swinging motion is making me dizzy."

  Innocencia stopped the hammock for Maranta to get off. "Vasco said you were going to die, but you didn't, did you?"

  "No."

  The pale blue eyes stared at her in a curious manner, until the cakes and tea brought into the room diverted Innocencia's gaze.

  "I have sweet cakes with cream every day," she confided. "All I can eat. Dona Isobel says it is not good for me to have so many, but I know why she tells me this. The black crow does not like me. But I do not care. I don't like her either."

  Unaware of the shock her words produced, Innocencia tore into the cake, breaking it into small pieces. Her hands became sticky from the cream, and impatiently, she wiped them on the loosely fitting robe.

  She was still a child—just like Robbie with his candied apple, thought Maranta. And yet, she was married to the Count of Sorocaba. And that made her the young condessa—the mistress of the household.

  As soon as she could politely do so, Maranta stood up to leave.

  Innocencia's voice was petulant. "Do you have to go?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid so. Sassia will be looking for me. It's past time for me to rest."

  Innocencia lay back on the hammock and pouted. "I'm beginning to get a headache, anyway." Then, she sat up. "But tomorrow. You'll come and see me again tomorrow?"