Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  "Maranta," he cried. His body gave a giant shudder, and Maranta gasped at the intensity.

  Her rapid breathing matched his, her breasts moving against his chest, while the air he breathed invaded her mouth. He drew her close and held her. Face to face they remained, while the candle flickered its last remnants of light and was extinguished.

  She awoke in the middle of the night and sat up. Ruis was beside her, breathing steadily. In the darkness, Maranta felt a terror that she had never encountered in her life. That night, she had denied ever wanting to become a nun. Ruis's kisses and caresses had made her forget every precept that had ever guided her life.

  The terrible truth struck her. She had not wanted him to stop his lovemaking. She had welcomed Ruis's advances as ardently as some slave mistress in love with her master. The sin was multiplied—a double sin—hers as well as Ruis's, because of her own desire.

  With a tiny groan, Maranta climbed out of bed. Groping for the peignoir at the foot of the bed, she wrapped herself in the garment and sank to her knees, where she prayed for forgiveness for the rest of the night.

  In the distance, over the slopes of the terra-roxa, the sun came up. Ruis, restless, reached out for the woman beside him, but she was not there. He opened his eyes and looked down on the small figure kneeling by the bed. Her long silken hair spread over the white coverlet, and Ruis captured a strand in his giant hand.

  "Climb back into bed, Maranta," he said in a gruff voice. "It is too soon for morning prayers. Besides, the chapel is the place for religion—not here in the bedroom."

  When she did not respond, Ruis climbed out of bed and lifted her from the rug. "You are cold, menina," he said with an irritated tone. "Do you wish to become ill again?"

  Under the coverlet he placed her, drawing her to the warmth of his body. As she struggled against him, Ruis's strong arms held her.

  "Let me go, Ruis," Maranta begged.

  "No, little Iemanjá. You cannot escape me until I know you have the seed of my son planted within you."

  At his frank words, Maranta moaned.

  "You did not object last night, pequena. What has happened? An attack of conscience in the little nun's mind of yours this morning?"

  "It is wrong—"

  "I have no patience for confession," the man snapped.

  "Save that for the family priest."

  "Ruis, please. I beg of you. . ."

  "Hush, Maranta." His voice brooked no opposition, and she became silent as Ruis's hands began their exploration afresh. But Maranta, determined to show her unwillingness, lay passively in his arms.

  Angered at her behavior, Ruis sat up, his cold eyes glaring at the petite girl beside him.

  "Do you think it is a pleasure to take a woman against her will, Maranta? I am sick of this, as you are. And I promise when you are with child, I shall be happy to leave you alone with your maidenly prayers."

  He leaped from the bed, grabbed his robe, and departed from the room, leaving a weeping Maranta more desolate than ever.

  She loved him—not Dom Vasco, her own husband who ignored her, but Ruis da Monteiro, who had just made it plain how distasteful it was to take her to bed, and that it was all for the sake of an heir.

  Maranta rubbed her arm where the bat had left its mark upon her. A pity that it had been only a fever and not the deadly rabies that had invaded her body.

  And yet, despite his harsh words, had it not been Dom Ruis who had braved danger to himself to save her? He had allowed no one else to be exposed to her illness.

  But it was for his heir—not for Maranta. She must remember that. A grieving Maranta turned her face to the pillow and finally slept.

  22

  Maranta knew that she would never be able to claim her bed as her own until Ruis had accomplished his purpose. Each night she lay in his arms and felt his body upon hers. And the more he drew her to him, the more she fought—for her survival and her pride.

  Each time the old condessa looked at her, Maranta shrank in shame, remembering the lovemaking of the evening before. But it was no lovemaking on Ruis's part. It was a cold, calculated plan. Yet, she would never let Ruis suspect the effect he had upon her heart and mind. How much longer was it to go on? How much more disgrace could she bear, sealing her lips—so not to whisper his name in ecstasy? For he must never know she had lost her heart to him as well as her body.

  Once again, Maranta remained cloistered in her apartment—too upset to seek the company of anyone in the fazenda.

  "Maranta?"

  Ruis's voice disturbed her, and she started at his sudden appearance in her sitting room. He frowned at the dejected figure on the pale lilac sofa. "It is not good for you to sit and mope in this apartment, menina. You must get more fresh air—not only for your own sake, but for—"

  She jerked her head up and glared at him with her stormy dark eyes, daring him to continue, to put into words what she had tried so hard to forget.

  At her behavior, a coldness pervaded his voice. "I have set up an easel on the veranda for you, Maranta, with your paints and brushes. I won't have you behaving as if you have been walled into this room, like a martyr waiting for death. In fifteen minutes, I expect to see you on the veranda."

  He turned heel and slammed the door. Maranta closed her eyes and knotted her hands into small fists.

  Every action—every gesture. Like a marionette, she was forced to move and behave, with Dom Ruis manipulating the strings. As if she did not have a mind of her own, or as if it mattered not that her very soul was in mortal danger.

  Sighing, Maranta arose from the sofa and slowly walked down the stairs, out onto the shaded veranda of the plantation house. A perverseness had kept her from changing her dress. If she ruined it with the paints, then it would be Ruis's fault.

  Maranta found the easel, and setting aside her anger at Ruis, she explored the box at her feet. Delighting in the abundance of colors, she began the absorbing task of mixing the paints to her specifications, and in quick slashes, she brushed a light wash over the white linen canvas that stood before her. All her frustrations she put into her painting, using the brushes to blot out her unhappiness. Soon the canvas began taking shape as she remembered the landscape from Santos to São Paulo.

  Abruptly, Maranta wiped her hands on the cloth. Fado would enjoy sunning himself on the veranda. And the little green bird could keep her company while she painted, for no one else seemed to be about. Even the conde, certain in his arrogance, had not waited to see that she obeyed him. Maranta hastened upstairs, and with the chirping Fado in his cage, she returned. Innocencia was on the veranda and leaning over the canvas that Maranta had left. Was it curiosity to see what she was painting? For a moment, Maranta watched her. Then she saw that the girl had a brush in her hands, dabbing paint on the canvas, spoiling what Maranta had already done. But instead of becoming angry with her, Maranta felt a gentle sympathy. At least she must be better, to be able to leave her room.

  At Maranta's approach, Innocencia, looking guilty, dropped the brush on the floor. "It's all right," Maranta assured her. "Do you want to paint, too?"

  The girl's eyes indicated she was far away. "The forest—it is evil," she announced. "It frightens me. I have hidden it so it can't harm me."

  When Maranta came closer, she saw that Innocencia had slashed the scene with black, ruining the careful color of the sunset that was beginning to take shape.

  Aware of Naka coming toward her, Innocencia fled from the veranda, colliding with a servant who balanced the tigre on his head. It was lucky for both of them that he had already been to the river to empty the barrel that held the waste collected from the bedrooms, which was stored under the stairs until it was full. Innocencia shouted at the man as he retrieved the rolling tigre. And Maranta, wrinkling her nose, seated herself again at the easel and took a cloth to dip into the turpentine. Rubbing gently across the canvas, she removed the ugly black color. But in doing so, she could not save the beautiful hues of the river sunset. She would have
to start over.

  For the rest of the afternoon she worked, forgetting all sense of time, until a wave of nausea assailed her. Impatiently, Maranta brushed her hair back and surveyed the canvas. She had worked too long, sitting in one position. It had tired her. That was why she did not feel well.

  Sassia, in her bare feet, silently approached. "It will soon be time for dinner, Senhora Maranta. I will bring your things inside for you."

  The idea of food was repulsive to her. And she did not look forward to dressing or facing the family at dinner, especially Dom Vasco, with his amused expression each time he looked at her.

  Maranta stood up and stretched, bringing her hand to rub the tense muscles at the back of her neck. A warm bath would make her feel better. "The canvas is easily blurred, Sassia. Make sure it does not rub against anything."

  "I will be careful, senhora."

  Later, as darkness overtook the fazenda, Maranta proceeded directly into the dining hall. The bell had already clanged, indicating it was late. But the only one ahead of her was Dom Ruis.

  His eyes took in her appearance, the pale, ice blue dress that gave such contrast to her alabaster complexion and her liquid dark eyes. And his possessive look reached out to snare her.

  Maranta put her hand up to her cheek in defense, but already, Ruis had turned to greet the condessa and Dona Isobel. Soon, Patû lifted Dom Vasco into his chair, and the meal began.

  The conversation went on around her, but Maranta sat silently, toying with her food.

  "You are not eating, daughter," the old condessa said, peering at the girl with curious, expectant eyes. "Has something happened to take your appetite?"

  "No, Mãe," she assured her, spearing a piece of meat to put into her mouth. But the taste was not pleasant, and Maranta had difficulty swallowing it. She reached for the glass of wine at her place to help wash it down. The glass suddenly blurred in front of her, and in her awkwardness, the wineglass spilled its red liquid over the embroidered lace tablecloth.

  Immediately a servant came to mop it up, and Maranta, lightheaded, pushed her chair from the table. Her one wish was to get to her room and lie down. "If you will excuse me, I. . ."

  On unsteady feet, Maranta left the table. She did not know what was the matter with her.

  "Ruis," the condessa's voice sounded. "The child is not well. I think you had better follow her."

  She had gotten as far as the sala before her knees gave way. "Meu Deus," the deep voice proclaimed, while strong arms caught her before she reached the floor.

  She was on the bed, with the cool cloth draped over her forehead. The odor of ammonia assaulted her nose, and Maranta moved her head to avoid it. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the man's face hovering over her.

  "What. . . happened?" she asked, attempting to get up.

  "Lie still, menina," Ruis ordered. And with an unfathomable expression, he stated, "You fainted, Maranta."

  Indignantly, Maranta protested. "I. . . couldn't have fainted. I'm fine, I. . ."

  "I assure you, pequena. You fainted, right into my arms—and it was not the first time. Only this time, I do not believe it was in fright."

  "Is the fever returning?"

  "No, Iemanjá. I think perhaps there is another reason. I think more than likely that you are with child."

  Maranta's face paled even more, and unable to meet the dark sapphire eyes that held a satisfied gleam, Maranta pushed the cloth from her forehead and burrowed her face into the pillow.

  For the first time in weeks, Ruis did not come to her bed that night. Maranta lay in the darkness—alone and unable to sleep. If it were true—what Ruis had said, that she might be with child—then it was no longer necessary. Dom Ruis Almeida José da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba, would have his heir in less than nine months' time.

  Morning sickness soon affirmed Ruis's suspicions. There was now no doubt. Maranta was with child, and there was no way she could keep it secret—from the servants, from Vasco, or Innocencia—

  Innocencia improved, and Naka relaxed her constant vigil over her. The episode concerning the canvas was forgotten, and although Innocencia showed no interest in what Maranta was painting, at least she made no attempt to destroy it with the black paint.

  One day, Maranta sat at her easel and occasionally glanced toward Innocencia who sat at the other end of the veranda. When Floresta brought refreshments and set them before Innocencia, the young woman called out, "Come and join me, Maranta. Sweet cakes and tea." She turned the porcelain cups upright and waited for Maranta.

  Maranta realized she was hungry. She put her brushes aside, and removing the apron that protected her turquoise dress from the paints, she cleaned her hands and walked to the far end of the veranda. It was her pregnancy that gave her such an appetite, Maranta decided, especially after the morning sickness disappeared for the day.

  Innocencia filled one cup from the teapot and pushed it toward Maranta.

  "Are you not going to have some, too?" she asked, when Innocencia left her own cup unfilled.

  "Later," she said, "when I have finished my sweet cake."

  Between bites, Innocencia watched Maranta expectantly with her pale blue eyes. The liquid was not tea. Maranta could tell from its odor. Holding up the cup, she asked, "What is it?"

  "Aguardente," Innocencia replied, giggling.

  Maranta knew that the servants were partial to an alcoholic drink made from sugarcane juice, but she was not eager to try it. She wrinkled her nose at the odor.

  "Don't be a prude, Maranta. Drink it," Innocencia urged.

  Maranta took the cup in her hands but lowered it at the sight of Ruis riding in from his inspection of the slopes. He had seen them and was coming toward them on the veranda. A pretty sight for him, Maranta thought bitterly—his wife and his pregnant comadre having tea together. Only it was not tea.

  Ruis's boots sounded on the stone floor, interrupting the chirp of Fado in his cage. The man was almost upon them when Maranta determinedly raised the cup to her lips.

  Ruis lifted his head like some dark panther sensing danger and sniffed the air. That peculiar odor. Where was it coming from?

  "Que Diabo!" he said, reaching out and knocking the cup from Maranta's lips. The liquid spilled on her dress, and the delicate porcelain cup tumbled to the floor where it shattered.

  His violent action alarmed Maranta. With trembling hands, she jumped from her chair and tried to brush the liquid from her skirts.

  "You—you had no right to do that," Maranta said, her voice as unsteady as her heartbeat.

  "I have every right," Ruis corrected, with a fierce gleam overtaking his sapphire eyes. "Where did you get that drink, Maranta? I demand to know. Who gave it to you?"

  He looked at the silent Maranta and then toward Innocencia. The blonde-haired woman put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.

  Ruis's gaze narrowed at her nervous gesture. "Was it you, Innocencia?"

  She giggled again and nodded.

  The thunderous look echoed in the man's voice. "Go to your room, Innocencia. At once!"

  The woman got up from the table, and turning her back on both Ruis and Maranta, she snatched the rest of the sweet cakes, before running inside.

  Maranta, now angry at Ruis's harsh treatment of both of them, defended Innocencia. "Surely, there was no need to frighten Innocencia like that, over a little harmless aguardente."

  Ruis took the silver teapot and, opening the lid, stared at the remaining liquid. Flipping the lid back in place, he repeated, "A little harmless aguardente. Is that what you imagined it to be, Maranta?"

  "Isn't it?"

  "Poor little innocent. You did not drink any of it, did you?"

  "You gave me no time to do so."

  "Bem!"

  "It is not. . . aguardente?"

  "No, Maranta."

  "Then what is it?"

  She watched him empty the liquid onto the ground beyond the railing of the veranda and then hurl the beautifully engraved silver teapot
over the surrounding wall. He stood at the railing for a minute before coming back to the table.

  "You remember the day the Indian outside the gate frightened you?" Ruis asked.

  "How could I forget—especially with the snake coiled up by the steps to frighten me, too."

  "But the Indian, Maranta. You remember his appearance?" Ruis insisted.

  "I am not likely to forget those horrible lesions on his skin," Maranta said, shuddering.

  "The same deadly drink that caused his skin condition, Maranta, was in your teacup."

  Her face turned pale, and she held onto the chair at her sudden dizziness.

  "You are never to eat or drink anything that Innocencia offers you. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Ruis."

  He walked with her into the house, his dark face still brooding. "Who served you, Maranta? Who brought the teapot to the veranda?"

  Reluctantly, Maranta answered, "It was. . . Floresta."

  The man's lips tightened into a thin line. "I shall have to speak to Vasco about that."

  A subtle change spread over the fazenda, and Maranta became more of a prisoner than ever, with constant attention lavished upon her. She was waited upon, hand and foot—not allowed to lift the lightest pillow, move the easel one inch on the veranda, or carry Fado's cage up and down the stairs. Sassia remained at her elbow, seeing to her food, and Maranta, despite her scare with Innocencia, felt stifled at all the attention given her—from everyone, except Ruis. His duty was done. She was pregnant. And so he could afford to stay away for days at a time, seeing to his vast estate.

  Ruis had been gone for over a week before Vasco deemed to speak to Maranta alone. He wheeled his rolling chair out onto the veranda and inspected the painting that Maranta had nearly completed.

  "I understand that you are soon to become a little mother. Is that true, my faithless wife?"

  Maranta, dropping the paintbrush at his question, marred the stone floor with the red paint. Vasco's harsh laugh mocked her attempt to clean it up.

  "What shall I do, Maranta? Announce to the padre your terrible sin? Or keep silent and pretend that the child is mine? What would you have me do, wife?"