Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  Embarrassed at his attention, Maranta drew the black cape about her, as if to ward off his penetrating stare.

  The journey on the river finally came to an end, as the mighty Tietê subsided into a huge lake outside São Paulo. Before evening, Maranta, with Ruis and Dona Isobel, traveled up the Avenida Paulista to the tall iron gates encrusted with the Monteiro family coat-of-arms.

  In early morning, Ruis set out to put his business affairs in order, leaving Maranta and Dona Isobel alone in the casa, to spend the day recuperating from the exhausting trip.

  The older woman remained in her room for the entire day, but though she slept late, Maranta was ready to get up by eleven. Pará, the Indian girl, brought a breakfast tray to her room, and soon Maranta left the confines of the bedroom.

  The casa was even more magnificent than Maranta remembered. Memories of the first trip returned, and as she explored the casa, she found herself before the door of the chapel. It was closed.

  She reached out to the double doors and pressed the handle. Slowly the door opened with a faint squeak, as if it had been closed for a long time. Inside, it was dark. No candle burned near the altar. And judging from the dust, no prayers had been said in the chapel for a long time.

  The chapel contained ghosts from the past, rising up to haunt her. Ruis—with his terrible anger—glaring at her with the cross at her breast. The condessa—ill with her heart malady—

  "Forgive her," Maranta prayed, kneeling in front of the unlit altar and oblivious to the dust and stuffiness of the chapel.

  For so long she had carried the burden of the vision engraved on her mind—the old condessa with the sweet cakes in her unsteady hand, offering them to Innocencia—the poisoned cakes that had removed danger from Maranta and her unborn son.

  The condessa had not known that Maranta was standing at the other door. No one else had seen the woman, she felt sure, for Dona Louisa had used the secret carved panel to slip from the nursery back to her room. And it was only later, when Innocencia was dead, that the condessa's actions took on a special significance.

  Maranta vowed she would never tell anyone about the condessa, no matter what happened. She would save Ruis from the pain of learning his own mother had murdered his mad wife so that his son would be safe from harm.

  Paulo. How she missed him. Maranta now felt impatience for Ruis to complete his business, and for the Intrudo to be done with, so they could all return to the fazenda.

  Her clothes did not reveal that she was in mourning. Dom Ruis dismissed Maranta's objections to the beautiful, frivolous Parisian fashions he had ordered in the deep, rich hues that so enhanced her coloring.

  "Mãe knows that you grieve in your heart for her, Maranta," he said in a gruff voice. "It is not necessary to proclaim it to others in the drabness of your clothes." Yet, both he and Dona Isobel were clothed in black.

  They started out in the family carriage that had once brought Maranta from Santos over the Serra do Mar to this city of São Paulo. It was early evening and the Intrudo had begun.

  Avoiding the crowds that had started to gather in the streets, the driver controlled the nervous horses and headed for the casa of friends, where they were to spend the evening.

  Maranta felt self-conscious in the new slate-blue silk dress, with the gigantic gigot sleeves falling from the shoulders to the narrowed wrists. Her shoulders were bare and revealed far more expanse of creamy skin than she liked. But Dona Isobel had approved earlier when she was getting dressed.

  "You are a married woman, Maranta," she had said, "and you are now allowed to wear dresses that would not be considered appropriate for a senhorita."

  In the carriage, Dona Isobel glanced at Maranta with pride and said, "Maranta looks quite lovely tonight. Do you not think so, Ruis?"

  He looked at Maranta and then at the older woman. "I think you are both very elegant tonight, Isobel."

  Dona Isobel, smiling at the compliment, patted the black lace of her own new dress and settled back in the carriage.

  If anyone were truly elegant, it was Dom Ruis, Maranta thought. Seated beside him, she was very much aware of his aristocratic bearing and the fine cut of his black evening clothes.

  Reaching their destination, Maranta was nervous at first. But the extreme kindness of the Almeidas helped her to relax. The affair was a small, intimate gathering—much like one within her own family circle in Charleston—with the family priest, the favorite uncle, and the daughters of the house. If one of them lapsed into Portuguese for too long a time, the host would respond in English in deference to Maranta. Yet, she was able to follow the conversation more easily than she had imagined.

  Seated across from Ruis, Maranta looked up to see his amused glance as she was served the first course. Ruis leaned forward and whispered, "Be careful of the soup, Maranta. It's very hot."

  Maranta glanced at Ruis and back down at the steaming soup plate. When all were served, she lifted the round spoon and took a careful sip. But the second the mixture reached her throat, Maranta realized she had misinterpreted Ruis's warning.

  She gasped for air and reached for the goblet of water before her to drown the burning in her throat. Everyone at the table was amused.

  "Did I not warn you, pequena," Ruis said, "of our famous Intrudo soup?"

  "I didn't understand," she apologized, taking another swallow of water, "that you meant 'hot' with peppers and spices."

  "My apologies, senhora," the host said. "We tend to forget how startling it must be to one not accustomed to our ways."

  "I'll remember next time," Maranta said, managing a smile.

  Soon it was time to leave, and the three climbed into the waiting carriage to return to the Monteiro casa. The streets were crowded and noisy. Rough horseplay had begun, with people throwing flour on each other, disguising everyone's clothes and faces.

  In fascination, Maranta leaned toward the window of the carriage to watch.

  "You will soon find your face plastered with the stuff, Maranta, if you are not careful. I am not sure it will complement the rest of your attire," Ruis said.

  The carriage was jostled by the surging crowd, and Maranta lost her balance. Ruis reached out to steady her, while his low voice growled an angry epithet. The carriage was surrounded by the unruly crowd, and with a violent shudder, the vehicle suddenly crashed to one side.

  "Maranta, are you all right?" Ruis called to the stunned young woman who had been slammed to the side of the carriage.

  "I. . . think so," she said.

  "And you, Isobel?"

  "Yes."

  Ruis managed to get the door open, and he pulled both women from the wrecked carriage. The horses, frightened by the crowd, were acting up, rearing and snorting. As Ruis went to the driver's aid, he called back over his shoulder, "Isobel, stay on the walkway. Don't get caught up in the crowd."

  Dona Isobel reached for Maranta's hand. The curious stared for a moment at the disabled vehicle and at the two women and then drifted on. Suddenly, another wave of humanity descended, jostling and jolting, surging through the streets and engulfing the walkway where the two women stood.

  Someone threw flour in Maranta's face, temporarily blinding her. She reached up to wipe her eyes, and at the same time was shoved, torn from Dona Isobel's grasp and caught up in the wild, snakelike movement of the unruly mob.

  "Maranta," the woman called out, but when Maranta could finally see, Dona Isobel had vanished. Maranta's elegant new gown was now covered with flour, and she was as anonymous as the others in the crowd.

  A tall man beside her grinned and grabbed at her hand. Maranta drew back, suddenly afraid. On and on she was swept away by the crowd, and the distance from the disabled carriage grew greater and greater.

  Another man, whom she had seen near the carriage, appeared at her other side, and a sense of something terribly wrong assailed her. It was almost as if her separation from Dona Isobel had been planned.

  The stampede was relentless. Maranta twisted and turned in an
effort to escape, but the two men at her side blocked the way. As they neared an intersection, a hand clamped over her mouth, shutting off her protest. She was dragged from the crowd to the dark, narrow street at her right. Her muffled cry for help was obliterated by the noise of the revel-makers, and the crowd moved on without her, leaving her in the hands of her abductors.

  Despite her struggles to free herself, Maranta was lifted into a waiting carriage in the darkened, narrow street and covered by a heavy shroud that effectively curtailed her cries for help.

  Why was she being taken away? Was it for herself? Or was it because of Ruis—because the villains thought to ransom her?

  The carriage sped through the night—downhill, it seemed. Soon the noise of the paved streets gave way to the hollow sound of the viaduct, and then to the dull thud of earth beneath the wheels. Away from the praça, the Avenida Paulista, and the city of São Paulo, the carriage traveled, taking Maranta to a rendezvous of life-threatening violence.

  Dona Isobel wept and twisted the handkerchief in her hands. "It was my fault. I should have held on to her more carefully."

  Pará soothed the hysterical woman and gave her the glass of warm milk laced with brandy. "Dom Ruis will find her, senhora. Wait and see."

  "But it might be too late," Dona Isobel cried. "O merciful Mother of Heaven, who could have done this? Who has Ruis offended enough to demand this heartbreak for us all? That sweet child has no enemies of her own, now that Innocencia. . ." Isobel's hand crept up to her mouth, and her face turned a sickly shade. "Innocencia's brothers," she whispered to herself and fell into a swoon at Pará's feet.

  37

  In the garden adjacent to the chapel of the deserted house, the two abductors handed over Maranta to a man whose face was covered by a monk's cowl.

  "We will have our money now and be on our way," one of the kidnappers said, glancing uneasily about him.

  "How do I know you two idiots haven't abducted the wrong girl? It's impossible to identify her with that mess on her face," the voice growled from behind the priestly garb. "Wait here—until I make sure she is the one we seek."

  With a cruel grasp, the man pulled Maranta with him inside the chapel. Holding onto her long, black hair that had become loosened in her struggles, he shoved her face downward into the font of brackish water that had once been holy.

  Maranta sputtered as her head came up. She heard the rip of her petticoats and she cried out at the harsh treatment.

  "Be quiet," he ordered. And Maranta, trembling, did as she was told. He took the remnant of the petticoat and wiped her face free of the flour mixture.

  In the dim light, the man scrutinized her features. "What is your name, senhora?" he demanded.

  Her weak voice responded, "M-Maranta. Maranta Tabor."

  He laughed at her answer. "Come now, you must have another name, as well. What is it?" he demanded, pulling her hair tighter.

  She winced. "Monteiro. I am the wife of. . . Vasco da Monteiro."

  Satisfied, he eased his hold on her hair and led her down the steps behind the altar. She screamed as he shoved her inside the cold, dank room. The sound of the key in the rusty lock terrified her. Maranta pushed at the door, but it was no use. She was locked inside a family burial vault with only the bones of untold generations to keep her company.

  The two brothers sat at the dining table, leisurely enjoying their late meal and congratulating themselves on their success. Outside the official residence of the magistrate, a ruckus developed, and the brothers frowned at the noise that disturbed the quietness of their evening.

  Suddenly confronting them stood Ruis da Monteiro, his dark, aquiline face showing its dangerous mood.

  "Brother-in-law," Honório greeted him. "What a surprise to see you. Sit down and have some wine with us."

  The man stood up and gestured to an empty chair. "I was just mentioning to Vincente here that I heard you were in São Paulo. We wondered if you would come to see us."

  Ruis remained standing, with a hand on the pistol showing from underneath his coat. "Where is she, Honório?" he demanded.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, Ruis," he answered in a mildly censuring tone.

  Honório turned to his brother Vincente. "Something seems to be disturbing our brother-in-law. Do you have any idea, Vincente, as to what it might be?"

  The amused dark eyes of Vincente, the smaller of the brothers, sparkled. "None whatever, Honório."

  "I am not here to play games with you," Ruis responded, with an icy chill to each syllable. "I know you have Maranta, Vasco's wife, and I will not leave without her."

  Honório, finally tired of pretending ignorance, said, "You led us to believe that she would never recover from childbed fever, Ruis—after bearing your child."

  Ruis gave a start. And Honório continued, "Oh, yes. We know that Vasco was incapable of siring the child. Maranta Tabor has borne the heir that, by right, Innocencia would have done, if you had not put her away from you. But the girl was not satisfied with that. She poisoned Innocencia so that she could take her place as the new Condessa of Sorocaba."

  "You are wrong, Honório," Ruis refuted. "Maranta did not poison your sister. And you forget, she is legally the wife of my brother Vasco."

  "I am sure you and she have made plans for him, too," Vincente said. "It would be so easy to get rid of a man who is already helpless. But it will never come to that. For if the girl survives the night, she will be brought to justice tomorrow for murdering Innocencia."

  "God's truth, Vincente. You, as a priest of the church, should know that what you are doing is wrong." Ruis's dark eyes filled with vengeance. "If you bring Maranta before a court of justice for a crime she did not commit, then I shall let the world know what your sister Innocencia did."

  Vincente looked up in surprise as Ruis went on.

  "Your sister murdered her own child—our son, who would have been the heir. When she discovered she was pregnant, she persuaded one of the Indian women to help her rid herself of the child. The mutilation made it impossible for Innocencia to conceive again. I have affidavits to prove this and will not hesitate to use them. If you wish notoriety and a slur against the Monteiro name, then be prepared for the disgrace of your own."

  Honório paced back and forth between the table and the window. Ruis's words had clearly disturbed him, as well as his brother Vincente.

  "Very well, Ruis," Honório finally said. "You know I cannot fall into disfavor at this time, with the Regency so shaky. The girl is locked in the burial vault at the Casa de Cabrals outside the city."

  Ruis's face turned white, and he immediately moved for the door, but Vincente cautioned him. "One moment, Ruis. For your sake and the girl's, I hope your brother Vasco remains in good health."

  Down the dark road Ruis spurred his horse Diabo, with his armed servants behind him. They thundered across the wooden bridge and down the hillside, with no time to spare. Maranta could last for just so long in the stuffy, airless vault.

  Through the grove of trees they passed, until, in the shadowy distance, the deserted old casa, with its tiles falling from the roof, appeared as a ghost rising out of the overgrown wilderness.

  Ruis rode through the garden without halting, and he urged the horse past the door and into the tiled corridor that led to the chapel.

  The sleepy old man on guard, with the lantern beside him, looked up at the avenging specter headed toward him—a black devil of a horse, with the devil himself astride the animal. It must be Exú, the wicked one, coming to punish him because of the girl inside the vault. The old man fled into the darkness, leaving his lighted lantern by the door to the chapel.

  Ruis jumped from the horse and, snatching up the lantern, hastened into the chapel. Down the steps he went behind the altar, until confronted by the heavy door secured by a rusty lock.

  Standing to the side, Ruis took his pistol from the waistband of his breeches. The sound of the shot reverberated throughout the chapel and heralded the breaking of
the lock.

  The door creaked open, and Ruis held the lantern high. "Maranta," he called, but there was no answer.

  Through the dank, stuffy stone room he walked, the lantern's light catching the white bones of some poor soul's remains upon a slab. He quickly lowered the lantern and searched the floor, in all the corners, and up and down the length of the long burial room, but there was no sign of Maranta.

  Had he come to the wrong house? Or had Honório told a lie as to where he had put the girl?

  Frantically, Ruis continued the search, holding the lantern higher. A white form, recently dead, lay on a slab, and in distaste, Ruis walked on. A deadly spider crossed his path, and he crushed it with his shoe.

  All at once, Ruis stopped and then retraced his steps. Again, he held the lantern high and took a closer look at the corpse covered with white mold. His hand reached out to touch it, but instead of the cold flesh of the dead, his hand felt warmth.

  It was Maranta, covered in the white flour from the Intrudo.

  With a cry he lifted her from the stone slab and carried her out of the vault and into the chapel. He knelt, breathing into her mouth, forcing her lungs to work, and willing her to live. And for the second time in her life, Maranta responded to the lifesaving breath of one who loved her.

  "Amada," Ruis whispered, as she moved her hand and opened her eyes.

  Ruis did not wait for the Intrudo to end. Concerned for Maranta's safety, he saw to the packing and arranged transportation out of the city. He would not wait for the scheduled canoe fleet. Instead, he hired his own canoes at considerable expense and manned them with guards and as many of his male servants as he could spare from the casa. His bluff had worked for the moment, but he did not trust either Honório or Vincente for long. He knew what Innocencia had done with Floresta's help—but he had no positive proof, no affidavits from the doctors. And Innocencia's brothers, well versed in law, could demand to see proof of his allegations.