Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  "I am grateful then. . . that he found me. . . and brought me home."

  "Actually, it was Ruis who brought you back. But if it had not been for Patû, you would have drowned in the pit."

  Much later that night, when all in the house were asleep, Maranta awakened to the insistent drops of rain striking against the window. Bolts of jagged lightning traveled across the sky, giving an eerie flash to the room. The sound of a tree crashing in the distance caused Maranta to utter a cry and sit upright.

  In no time, a door opened, and Ruis's tanned, rugged face was framed in candlelight.

  "The storm has frightened you, pequena?" he asked.

  "It woke me," she admitted.

  "But you are safe inside, Maranta," he assured her. "You do not have to be afraid."

  Thunder crashed closer this time, and again, Maranta jumped. If it had not been for Ruis and Patû, she would still be out in the storm.

  "I have not thanked you—for bringing me home," Maranta said.

  Ruis's face, so dark and fierce, nodded in acknowledgment. "You are lucky for the second time, menina. I warned you once before that your worthless little bird could be the death of you."

  The words rankled. Ruis acted as if it were Fado's fault that she had fallen into the animal pit. She gazed anxiously toward the covered cage near the window. And Ruis, pulling the gilt chair beside the bed, announced, "I will sit with you, until you go back to sleep, Maranta."

  "That is not necessary, senhor—for you to treat me like a child. I am not afraid of the storm."

  Ruis's mouth showed his disapproval of her words. "Nevertheless, I shall remain," he said, settling himself in the chair beside her.

  31

  Two days later, Innocencia was dead—poisoned by someone in the fazenda. And Maranta had been the last one to see her alive.

  In a state of shock, Maranta remained in her room, while the quiet preparations for the funeral went on around her. Innocencia's two brothers were notified. Her burial gown was selected and the family vault beneath the floor of the chapel opened.

  Innocencia was dead, but Maranta's angry words lived on. Everyone in the fazenda knew they had quarreled—Dona Isobel, the condessa, Vasco, the servants, and Ruis. Most of all Ruis, for he had been the one who had come in the room to stop their altercation.

  And now, Maranta was ashamed that she had been unable to control her temper. Taking the handkerchief from her moist, dark eyes, Maranta sneezed and gazed inconsolably at the empty cage on the table near the window. Fado's cage.

  Finding Innocencia in her apartment had been the last straw. Maranta lost her reason and lashed out at the girl at the sight of her standing before the cage—jabbing at the bird with her wickedly long fingernail.

  All the hurt and horror of her day in the rain-soaked forest rose up in her throat. "You will never hurt Fado again. I promise you that, Innocencia."

  Maranta had tried to grab the cage from her, but Innocencia in her perversity clung to it. And it was Ruis who had come in at the shouting and gently led the tearful Innocencia out of the room—the man looking at Maranta as if she were at fault.

  The tears streamed down Maranta's cheeks. As soon as Innocencia was gone, Maranta had opened the window. Fado would never be safe with the girl roaming about the fazenda. And remembering how the little green bird had reacted in the forest, twittering and chirping with the other birds about, Maranta opened the cage door. Holding him in her hand, she thrust her arm out the window and loosened her hold. For a moment, the bird remained in her hand, as if he did not realize he was free. Then he fluttered his wings and left Maranta's hand for the ledge along the roof.

  "Go on, Fado," Maranta had urged, her voice breaking. "You're free."

  Maranta closed the window and walked to her bed. There she lay for the rest of the afternoon, feeling sorry for herself.

  Later, Maranta began to be ashamed. She should not have lashed out at Innocencia so strongly. The girl was not really responsible for her actions.

  Where was Maranta's sense of forgiveness? Or her willingness to show a long-suffering spirit? Had she not wronged Innocencia, also—usurping her place with Ruis? Daring to fall in love with him? Conceiving his child?

  Maranta made up her mind. She must apologize to Innocencia. She washed her face and put on a fresh robe of flowing yellow silk. Leaving her apartment, she walked to the iron-grilled door of the nursery and knocked.

  Innocencia, sitting on the swinging hammock, gazed in bewilderment as Maranta apologized. She was more engrossed in the sweet cakes before her than in Maranta's words of apology.

  Already, Innocencia had forgotten the quarrel in the apartment. But Maranta felt better, knowing she had made the effort to put things right between them. She declined a sweet cake offered by the blue-eyed girl and left the nursery.

  Dona Isobel, in the hall, appeared startled to see Maranta emerging from the nursery. Maranta coughed and sneezed, and anxiously, the woman scrutinized the girl. "Are you feeling well, Maranta?" she asked.

  "Yes, Dona Isobel—much better now that I have apologized to Innocencia for losing my temper with her."

  The woman fell in step with Maranta, eyeing her as they walked down the hall of black and white tiles. At the door of her apartment, she hesitated. "Will you come in, Dona Isobel?" she invited, sensing the woman's reluctance to leave her.

  "No, Maranta. I must go—to the chapel—to pray."

  The angelic face, with the circlet of flowers around her long golden hair, was hauntingly beautiful. Innocencia lay in the chapel, with multitudes of candles and mounds of exotic flowers guarding her bier. The long white gown embroidered with gold—similar to the one Maranta had worn—was draped in graceful folds about her body. And her long slender hands lay folded across her breast.

  No one seeing the girl—her blue eyes, pale as the summer sky, closed forever—would have suspected her of a single unkind thought, much less a malignant deed. Yet, Maranta knew differently. But she would keep silent. It would not do to speak ill of the dead.

  Because of the warm weather, the funeral could not be delayed for Innocencia's family to arrive. And so on the next day, the rites took place. The old condessa, supported by Dona Isobel, Vasco, Ruis, and Maranta gathered in the chapel, and the padre began the service.

  As Maranta sat in the chapel, her dark hair covered by the black lace mantilla, she stopped hearing the words the padre spoke. Her mind and eyes were on the Cruzamento da Monteiro, still hanging around the Dolorosa's neck—that and the head of the distant, formidable Ruis, who sat in the pew in front of her. His black suit was austere to match the severity of his posture.

  A fly buzzed about the ceiling, and the sickening sweet fragrance of flowers and myrtle wax candles bombarded Maranta's senses.

  The nagging ache in her back, that had begun that morning, increased, tightening its ribboned pain around her stomach. A small gasp escaped her lips and she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

  Vasco frowned at her and whispered, "What is the matter with you, Maranta?"

  She shook her head and did not answer, for Dona Isobel was gazing in their direction with a censuring look.

  The service continued, and Maranta, feeling the pains coming on, twisted the handkerchief tighter and tighter. Small beads of perspiration formed above her lip, and her skin took on the pale milkiness of the white candles burning.

  Now, Vasco looked worried. "Maranta?" he inquired again softly. "Is it the baby?"

  Her dark doe eyes, filled with pain, rested on Vasco's face. Her lips formed the word silently. "Yes."

  "You mean—the baby is coming? Now?"

  "I. . . think so," she whispered, and tightened her hands on the limp handkerchief in her lap.

  Vasco immediately turned and motioned for Patû, who came silently to his side. "Carry my wife to her room," he ordered, "and then return for me."

  Now beyond protest at the scene she was making, Maranta was lifted into the strong arms of the Indian and removed fr
om the chapel.

  The casket closed and the dead Innocencia was lowered into the family vault, while upstairs, Ruis's child struggled to be born.

  Vasco stayed by her side, letting her grip his hands as the pain worsened. Then he was sent from the room, and Sassia with Naka, took over. Finally, a strange man with a red beard and dark robe put in an appearance—the doctor summoned from the town of Hitû to preside at the birth of the heir to the Monteiro fortune.

  In her pain, Maranta forgot every Portuguese word she had ever been taught. And there was no one who understood her cry for help. The man answered her in the strong, nasal language that meant nothing to her.

  Dona Isobel—the condessa—Ruis—all ignored her as she traveled through hell and back again.

  Far into the night, the travail continued, but the baby did not come. There was something wrong. It was in that man's eyes, and Maranta feared that she was going to die—that she and the unborn child would join Innocencia underneath the stone floor of the chapel.

  Would Ruis grieve for her, too? Or would he be furious with her for allowing the child to die with her?

  Maranta, through the white silken draperies of her bed, was only partially aware of another figure who stood and watched her—Ruis, with tears in his dark sapphire eyes—grieving for his dead wife, and for his son who refused to be born.

  The strong hand gently touched the long black hair, wet from the ordeal of a fruitless labor.

  "Amada, you cannot die," he whispered, his deep voice alien in its emotion. "I have greatly wronged you. But I do not ask that you pay for my sin. Live, amada," he whispered with a desperate urgency, "for the sake of my son—and for me."

  White feathers lay on the table beside Fado's empty cage—with the beads, the bowl of rice, and the plaster saint. The candles glowed in the night. The room took on the same odor as the chapel.

  "No, it's pagan," Maranta protested, "just like the figa. Take them away," she urged, thrashing deliriously in her bed.

  "Marigold," she called out. "I never told you. Shaun loved you. He didn't desert you. . . The blood," she moaned, "So much blood."

  Maranta held her hand to her face. "I do not make a habit of complaining over something so small, senhor. I am used to the gnats and mosquitoes of my own country. . .

  "Fado, you are a beautiful little bird—not silly and molting. Forget what the arrogant conde has said."

  Ruis suddenly changed into the man with the red beard, who leaned down to take her hand in his. Had Ruis come to see her? Or had the strength of her wish given the man in the robe the appearance of Ruis for a short time?

  She was so tired. She wished to rest, but the man with the red beard would not allow it. "Senhora," he called, over and over, slapping at her, pinching her, and never leaving her alone.

  "Please," she whimpered, but he paid no attention to her entreaty. He was intent upon punishing her, making her bear the pain—the pain that would not stop.

  With an agonized scream, Maranta felt her body torn apart. Before she lost consciousness, she heard a familiar voice. Sassia's—"Rest, yayá. No one will stop you now."

  32

  Maranta awoke to an empty room. The white silken bed draperies were drawn and the shutters at the windows kept the room in darkness. Was it day? Was it night? Why was everything so quiet and deserted?

  She lifted her hand to push the coverlet back. She had lain in bed too long, her body on fire. That much she knew. Gradually, she began to remember other things—a feeling of cool hands attending her, forcing her to drink, placing cold cloths on her hot brow. The enervating fever that drew the life out of her—

  Maranta touched her forehead. It was cool. She was not dead. She was alive, even though death had beckoned to her.

  She had borne Ruis's baby. Maranta raised herself and pushed aside the draperies. There was no cradle in the room. She had heard no cry during her illness. Did that mean. . .?

  If only it weren't so dark. If only someone would come—to tell her what had happened.

  The sounds from outside filtered through the shuttered windows. The twitter of birds and the low plaintive singing—a sad song—greeted her.

  Then a door opened, and Sassia with a tray in her hands came into the room. She set the tray on the table near the window and lit a candle, casting a dim light over the room.

  "Sassia?" Maranta called.

  The black girl turned in surprise toward the bed. "Senhora," she said, her face breaking into a smile at the sight of Maranta's sitting up. "You are awake."

  "Sassia," Maranta repeated in her weak voice as she held out her hand to the servant in a gesture of entreaty. "Tell me—the baby—"

  Her voice quavered and she could not go on. Sassia took pity on her and replied, "He is a fine one—that baby—and growing so big every day."

  "It is. . . a boy?"

  "Yes, senhora. A boy."

  "But where is he?"

  "In the nursery with Naka and his wet nurse."

  Maranta frowned. Innocencia was in the nursery. Didn't they know she might harm him? But no. Innocencia was dead. She had forgotten.

  "Dom Vasco is a proud papa. He is already making plans to have the baby baptized by the padre in the chapel," Sassia offered.

  "But the conde. . ."

  The loud voices across the hall disrupted their conversation as a door opened. Quickly, Sassia doused the light. In the darkness, she whispered, "Senhora, you must pretend to be asleep. Do not let them know that you have awakened."

  Sassia drew the silken draperies around the bed and turned her back to straighten the things on the table near the window.

  Frightened at the urgency in the girl's voice, Maranta lay still, her dark eyes closing as the men came to the bedside.

  "As you can see, she has not recovered." It was Ruis speaking. "It has been over a week now since the birth of the child. And so the chances are slim that she will ever get well."

  "A pity," another man said in his nasal voice, "that she cannot be brought to justice. She should be made to pay for the murder of our sister."

  "I have told you before," Ruis growled. "No one knows who poisoned Innocencia. It could have been anyone on the fazenda."

  "But this one was the last to see her alive—Floresta has sworn. And you cannot deny that they had quarreled."

  "We will not discuss it," Ruis replied. "Come, and let us not disturb her further."

  The door closed again, but Maranta was too afraid to open her eyes. Did they think she was the one who had poisoned the girl? Innocencia's brothers?

  Later, Sassia slipped back into the room. "They are gone, senhora. Now I can open the shutters and give you something to eat."

  "But Sassia. They acted as if I were the one responsible for Innocencia's death."

  "Yes, senhora. But Dom Ruis will not allow them to take you away."

  "I had nothing to do with it," Maranta said in a disturbed tone.

  Did Ruis think she had poisoned Innocencia? And if the men came back, would he give her up to them?

  The desire to see her child kept Maranta from going to pieces. She must remain calm. She would not let them frighten her. "Sassia, I want to see my baby. Will you bring him to me?"

  "Naka will bring him as soon as you are prepared to have visitors. Dom Ruis is pleased that you are better."

  While Sassia bathed her and brushed her hair, Maranta said, "What does the condessa think of the baby?"

  The brush stopped for a moment and then Sassia resumed working. "Everyone in the fazenda thinks he is a beautiful little boy."

  She had to be content with the girl's answer. Later, she would see the condessa herself and ask her.

  Expectantly, Maranta sat up in bed and faced toward the door. Her hair had been twisted into a coronet, held by the beautiful jeweled comb. It felt good to be between fresh sheets, to be wearing the delicately embroidered white robe, and to be waiting for the first glimpse of her son.

  Naka came to the bedside with the small bundle in he
r arms. "He is heavy, senhora," Naka said. "A greedy one—this fine criança de peito." Maranta had no trouble following the Portuguese words, punctuated by the hearty laugh.

  She held out her arms for the child. Pushing back the blanket, she stared down into her baby's eyes—dark sapphire eyes—and hair, blue-black as a crow's. His skin was a shade darker than that of Maranta, she noticed, holding his tiny hand in her own. The resemblance was there—to Ruis, and to Vasco, too. He was a Monteiro. There was no mistake.

  While she held the baby, murmuring endearments to him, Maranta became aware of the tall, dark man standing at the foot of the bed—watching her. The two servants discreetly disappeared.

  Searching for something to fill the sudden silence, Maranta said, "The condessa—she has seen him?"

  Ruis ignored her question and continued staring. With a step he came nearer the bed, and the light from the window caught the object he held in his hands—the cruzamento.

  "I have brought something that belongs to you, amada."

  Maranta shook her head.

  "It is yours, Maranta," he insisted.

  She drew back, holding the baby against her breast. At her action, a distressed look crossed his face and he said, "If you will not wear it for me, then wear it for Mãe's sake."

  Maranta could not refuse. She remained still while Ruis's hands lifted the cross of pearls and diamonds over her head, and she felt its coldness as it touched her breast. She shivered, remembering Ruis's anger the first time he had seen it around her neck. She had vowed never to put it on again. But it was for Mãe—not Ruis—that she now wore it.

  "A touching little scene," Vasco's voice announced as he wheeled himself into the room. "So you have given Maranta the cruzamento. Does that mean, Ruis, that you have no hopes for a son of your own? Now that Innocencia is dead, I would have thought you anxious to marry again."

  Ruis's face darkened and his hands tightened against his side. "The child before you is the heir, Vasco."

  "A pity that Mãe didn't live long enough to see him."

  "Vasco," Ruis warned, but it was too late. Maranta had heard. The baby began crying, and Ruis took the child from Maranta's arms. "He is better off in the nursery, pequena," he said in a gentle tone, seeing the stunned expression on her face. Ruis disappeared with the wailing infant, and Maranta was left alone with Vasco.