Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  Marigold pulled away from Crane. "That isn't funny," she said, lifting her chin to glare at her husband.

  "It wasn't intended to be."

  Marigold gritted her teeth. How long could she stand being married to Crane—being forced to share his bed, when she ached to be in the arms of another man?

  She was trapped. Not only by the vows she had taken, linking her to the wrong man, but also by the river. What if she ever sought to escape Crane Caldwell and Cedar Hill?

  There was the business of the bell. Jake would not be the only one to hear its clang. And even if the ferry were on the right side of the river, Marigold knew she would not be able to handle it by herself, if she ever needed to do so.

  "Please, God. Don't let it ever come to that," Marigold whispered silently—one of the few times she had ever uttered a prayer; for Maranta had always been pious enough for the two of them.

  "Look, Marigold," Julie said, breaking into her thoughts. "Beyond the row of cedars, you will see the house any moment."

  Marigold leaned forward, peering through the golden autumn haze that had settled thickly on the land. With the last remnants of the sun framing the house, the structure came into sight. Cedar Hill—the sprawling country house, built upon the red clay earth—miles from her beloved low country and the man she had thought to marry. Cedar Hill, her home now—hers and Crane's. At its sight, Marigold felt no warm welcome, no respite from the long journey. Instead, a coldness invaded her body, matching the suddenly cold premonition that gripped her heart.

  To seek comfort, Marigold reached up, her hand clasping the golden locket around her neck—the talisman of her eighteenth birthday and her coming of age. With the metal growing warm in her hand, she felt some measure of confidence return. Cedar Hill would never get the better of Robert Tabor's daughter. That, she promised.

  7

  Maranta stood on the dock and waited for the dinghy to take her to the ship anchored in Charleston harbor.

  Her father was the only one to see her off; for Feena had been sent back to Midgard, and Eulalie was nursing the sick Robbie, who had suddenly come down with fever.

  The Condessa Louisa stood with Dona Isobel, her middle-aged companion. Drawing Dona Isobel into conversation, the white-haired condessa discreetly moved down the wharf to allow Maranta and Robert Tabor time to say goodbye.

  "You have not forgotten anything?"

  "No, Papa."

  He was ill at ease with this dark-haired child of his who so resembled his wife. And seeing her bite her lip, trying to keep the tears back, he was half inclined to put her in the carriage and inform the condessa that he had changed his mind.

  But the idea of having her shut away in a nunnery was galling to him. She was meant to be loved—to bear children. And the condessa had promised him that Vasco Monteiro would treat her gently. So he resisted the urge to wave the Portuguese woman on and instead, leaned over and kissed Maranta on the forehead. "Maranta. . ."

  The whistle sounded.

  "Papa?"

  "God go with you, daughter." He backed away from her, and with her vision blurred by the fullness of tears, Maranta walked blindly toward the condessa and her companion.

  Over an hour later, Robert Tabor was still standing on the wharf. The Beaufort was now completely out of sight, having disappeared over the horizon.

  Another part of him was gone, and he grieved for the loss of his dark-haired child.

  The ship traveled to the Bahamas, taking on fresh water and supplies in Nassau. Then, on through the West Indies and the Caribbean, past Venezuela and Guiana. Onward the ship sailed, through rough seas and placid waters, until finally, Brazil, the land of rain forests and deserts, mountains and valleys, diamonds and gold, sugar and coffee, was sighted.

  Yet, for Maranta and her companions the trip was far from over. For now the journey along the Brazilian coast began. Southeast, past the mouth of the Amazon, on to Fortaleza, and rounding the northeastern tip, the Beaufort headed southwest past Rio, the capital. Two months from the day it had set sail from Charleston, the Beaufort brought its steam-propelled paddle wheels to a stop—in a natural harbor with the blue mountains of the Serra do Mar hovering in the distance.

  To the constant beat of the music, they came—one after the other—with the heavy sacks of coffee beans over their shoulders. Black and strong, the perspiring slaves paraded from the warehouses to the dock. And everywhere the heavy, penetrating odor of coffee infiltrated the air. There was no place where Maranta Tabor could be free of it; for this was Santos, the port city of São Paulo, the coffee kingdom.

  "It will not be long now," Dona Isobel assured Maranta. "As soon as the coffee is loaded and the slaves are gone from the dock, we will be allowed to leave the ship."

  Maranta, in a secluded part of the deck, nodded and watched while ropes drew their pungent load high into the air and then lowered the sacks onto the ship. The ropes sank out of sight and then swung the empty cradle back to the dock to repeat the procedure until all the coffee was loaded.

  Maranta's fears swung back and forth in rhythm to the ropes and the chant of the strange music coming from the wharf. She had been on the ship far too long and she ached to feel solid ground underneath her feet. But she was afraid to leave the vessel, for she would be that much nearer to the man who waited to make her his wife.

  What if he were disappointed in her, as he was sure to be? Would he send her back home on the same ship as his coffee beans?

  Frowning, Maranta picked at the small, downy, green feather that had floated through the air to lodge against her pale blue silk dress.

  For ten days, the ship had been in quarantine because of the death of one of the sailors. But no one else had become ill, so they were all being allowed to go ashore.

  During their time of forced quarantine, fresh fruit had been delivered to the ship and enough water, not only to drink, but to bathe in, as well. Even though she had washed her long, black hair the evening before and soaked luxuriously in the tub that the condessa had ordered aboard before leaving Charleston harbor, Maranta was already hot and uncomfortable.

  There would be no change of seasons for her. Now that she had survived another sweltering Carolina low-country summer, with its dangers of malaria and yellow fever, Maranta could look forward to no cold winter. She was destined to live through another summer season, this time in an uncivilized foreign country where seasons were turned upside down and the Brazilian heat had just begun.

  Dona Isobel, dressed in black from head to toe, began fanning vigorously. "This trip has been hard on the condessa," she confided to the girl seated beside her. "And the journey from Santos to São Paulo and upriver to the fazenda will be even more taxing for her." The woman's troubled face brightened, and in a kind voice she said, "But I know she counts her trip a success because of you, senhorita."

  Maranta's dark eyes became even more solemn, and she folded her hands listlessly in her lap and kept quiet.

  "It won't be long before we disembark. I think I had better see if the condessa needs me," the woman said, getting up from the makeshift seat. "I shall not be long and I know I can rely on you not to wander about. You promise to stay seated here on deck until I return, Senhorita Maranta?"

  "Yes, senhora," she replied, knowing it would be futile to try to run away. She knew no one who would help her. And the little of the Portuguese language she had learned from Dona Isobel on the ship was not enough. Fazenda. She had recognized the word for coffee plantation. That was easy. But all the other alien words. How would she converse with the man who was to be her husband if he did not speak English?

  A fresh wave of fright swept over Maranta, and for comfort she touched the golden locket she was wearing around her neck—that bit of gold that had been blessed by Father Ambrose on her birthday and presented to her by her maman and papa, now half the world away.

  At that moment, devastation overwhelmed her, and to keep the tears from becoming reality, Maranta shut her eyes.

 
The man's booted foot, perched carelessly upon the railing next to her, was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes again. She did not know how long the man had been staring at her. With a sudden start, Maranta stood up, ready to flee the arrogant, dark-haired stranger who met her glance boldly and continued to look her up and down as no gentleman in Charleston would ever think of doing.

  "Senhorita Tabor," he called when she had taken only a few steps from him. "There is no need to run away. I promised Dona Isobel that I would not ravish you here on deck."

  His laugh followed her as she fled to her cabin. He knew her—knew who she was. And that thought frightened her more than anything else.

  Breathlessly, Maranta closed the cabin door and sank onto the large cushion on the floor. She had left both her bonnet and reticule on deck. But she would not go back for them. She would willingly give up her new blue silk bonnet and all that she possessed never to see the man again.

  "What is it, Maranta?" the old condessa's voice questioned. "You look as if you have met with a ghost."

  The adjoining door was open, and the condessa stood, looking down at the small, frightened figure fighting for her breath.

  "Not a ghost. I. . . I think it was a devil, instead," she managed to answer.

  The puzzled expression on the condessa's face cleared when the deep laughter sounded behind her.

  "Ruis, what a bad boy you are—to frighten Maranta so. And what are you doing with her bonnet and reticule?"

  "The frightened child with the sorrowful eyes left them on deck," he answered nonchalantly, walking into the room to rid himself of Maranta's belongings.

  "Maranta," the condessa said, while the girl struggled to her feet, "I wish to present my elder son, Ruis Almeida José da Monteiro, the Count of Sorocaba. He has come to help us disembark. Ruis, my son, this is Vasco's noiva, Maranta Tabor."

  He took her small hand in his and, bowing before her, he brought her hand to his lips. As quickly as she could, she withdrew her fingers from his grasp. Her dark eyes betrayed her relief. He was not Vasco, but his older brother, the conde and fazendeiro, master of the plantation.

  "I. . . am sorry to have been so frightened on deck," the girl apologized. "It was just that. . ."

  "And I, too, am sorry, menina. I should not have startled you—especially when you had been dozing in the sun."

  "I was not asleep, senhor," she protested. "I had merely closed my eyes for a moment."

  His white teeth were in contrast to his bronzed skin as he smiled at her answer.

  "You are ready, Mãe?" he asked, turning to the white-haired woman.

  "Sim, Ruis. We are more than ready to leave this ship."

  Maranta, with her blue silk bonnet now covering her dark hair, felt foolish as she walked beside Dona Isobel. For Ruis da Monteiro watched their progress with an undisguised amusement.

  The little green bird chirped loudly in its swinging cage, held gingerly by Maranta—almost as if it were protesting the disparaging glances of the important fazendeiro standing impatiently to help them across the plank.

  The condessa had already been ushered across and into the open carriage, where she sat with her spine stiff as a farthingale. When their turn came to cross onto shore, Maranta hung back to let Dona Isobel go first. The woman required little help in negotiating the gangplank. But when it came Maranta's turn, the swinging cage overbalanced her, and had it not been for Ruis, she would have fallen into the water.

  His arms enclosed her and steadied the cage, while a green feather floated upward to land on his lapel.

  "Th-thank you," Maranta uttered in an embarrassed voice.

  Ruis, still with one arm holding her, took his other hand and disdainfully flicked the stray feather from his immaculate coat. "You must have much regard for this silly, molting bird—to risk falling into the water for it."

  Maranta's eyes immediately darkened into a stormy glint. "Fado is not molting," she declared. "He was merely shaken up by the sudden movement. And I do have much regard for him, since it was the captain of the ship who gave him to me."

  "So you are not quite so meek as I had thought," Ruis said, still laughing. Then he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Does the condessa know how quick and fierce you are—to defend another?"

  "Ruis," the voice sounded from the carriage, "don't keep the child standing there. I am in a hurry to get to the hotel."

  "We are coming, Mãe."

  "Is. . . is Senhor Vasco at the hotel?" Maranta inquired on her way to the carriage.

  Ruis frowned at her question and took his time in answering. "Vasco has not been well. We thought it best for him to remain at the fazenda."

  His look discouraged any more questions that she might have had concerning her future husband, and besides, they were at the carriage.

  "If you will trust me with Fado," he said, reaching out to take the cage, "I will see that he is securely placed."

  There was nothing to do but hand over the little green bird. But Maranta's eyes remained on the cage until it was safely wedged in the seat beside the driver.

  Ruis followed Maranta into the carriage and eased himself beside her, in the seat facing the Condessa Louisa and Dona Isobel.

  "Would you like to swap places with me, senhorita?" Dona Isobel asked Maranta. "You cannot see anything of the city when you ride backward."

  "Oh, yes, please," Maranta answered eagerly, not so much from wanting to view the city as to escape from the conde's side.

  As soon as the switch was made, Ruis nodded for the driver to leave the wharf. Already sent ahead were the many trunks belonging to the condessa and two belonging to Maranta and Dona Isobel. All that she possessed was in that one large trunk, the last tie with her life in the Carolinas, with the exception of the small valise tied to the back of the carriage.

  In the evening, Maranta sat at the little table near the window of her bedroom. She picked at the food on the tray that had been sent to her. Finally she gave up trying to eat the unappetizing, hot food, and with her fingers, she crumbled the bread into small bits to set inside the cage for Fado.

  "Poor Fado. I know how you feel," she said aloud to the little green bird. "A prisoner too—just like me."

  Maranta stood up and peered out the balcony window. The gaiety in the street was disturbing, and she longed for the quiet of the chapel she had seen on the way to the hotel, where she could have prayed without being disturbed.

  She would be glad to leave Santos early the next morning; for Dona Isobel had promised that the weather would be more to her liking, once they left the coastal tropical city and climbed upward onto the plateau where São Paulo was built among the clouds.

  The condessa was not well, and Maranta, kneeling to say her evening prayers, remembered to pray for her and her weak heart—and to be thankful that Ruis Almeida José da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba, already had a wife. With his dark blue eyes, resembling black sapphires, still haunting her, Maranta's mind wandered from her prayers. He had left Dona Isobel the responsibility of attending to the ailing condessa and even now was somewhere in the city, enjoying the gaiety. Suddenly, the uneasy thought struck her. What if Vasco were a carbon copy of his brother? "No, please let him be different," she whispered, returning to her prayers.

  Finally Maranta stood up, her knees stiff from the time spent by the bedside. Her legs had not seemed to want to obey her ever since she had left the ship that afternoon. Even now, Maranta steadied herself by holding onto the giant post of the jacaranda bed. Then, she blew out the light and climbed into bed, making sure to close the mosquito netting.

  And outside, the noise continued, until Maranta's tired brain finally filtered out the noise and she drifted to sleep.

  As the tap at her door became more insistent, Maranta sat up, brushing the long tresses from her face. She yawned and rubbed her eyes and, in a husky, small voice, called out, "Come in."

  The door remained closed and the knock sounded again. Maranta frowned, pushing the mosquito netting
out of the way. Of course. Whoever was at the door did not understand English. She slipped out of the bed and, in her bare feet, she walked silently to the door to open it. It would be a servant with her breakfast tray, more than likely.

  The quick intake of breath alerted the man to her distress, but he paid no attention after a summary glance at her state of undress. With the tray in his hands, Ruis walked into the room and set it upon the table where, the evening before, Maranta had eaten her lonely meal.

  "Do not continue hiding behind the door, pequena," he admonished. "The carriage is outside, waiting to leave the city before the heat of the day. You have little time to dawdle."

  "B-but I am undressed, senhor," she replied. "I did not expect you to b-bring my breakfast to me. Please leave the room, and then I will come from behind the door."

  The small bare foot, partly visible below the long white gown, made no attempt to move. Impatiently, Ruis said, "Do not be so modest, Maranta. In that long shroud of yours, you are safe from even the most lecherous of eyes."

  Ruis removed the cover of Fado's cage, and the bird stirred and gave a tentative chirp. "Fado is hungry this morning," he announced. "Don't you think you'd better attend to him before he loses all his feathers?"

  Smiling, Ruis left the room and closed the door behind him. Later, when Maranta spied the small sack of seed beside her tray, her attitude toward the man softened.

  She fed Fado first, and then Maranta hurried through her own breakfast, eating little more than she had the evening before. She quickly dressed, for her mind was on the conde's words. He was waiting impatiently, as usual, for them to leave the hotel.

  "Are you ready, senhorita?" Dona Isobel asked, coming into Maranta's room just as she finished tying the pale yellow silk organza bonnet under her chin.

  "Yes, senhora," Maranta replied. She lifted the birdcage from the table and followed the dark-clad woman in her voluminous skirts down the hallway to the lobby that was already filled with cigar-smoking men.