She felt as if she were running a gauntlet. For each man, in turn, laid his cigar on the table and gave undivided attention to the progress of the small, dark-haired young woman with the green bird in hand. A murmur followed her—smacking sounds and conversation—and she felt the slow, pink blush cover her face as an insinuating laugh sounded directly behind her.
"Pay no attention to them, senhorita," Dona Isobel advised. "They have nothing better to do, it seems, than to point out your obvious attributes and to speculate on what you are doing in the conde's care."
It was worse than she had thought then—what the men were saying openly about her. Did they usually treat all women that way, even when they were adequately chaperoned? Or was it just Maranta?
What a failure she was—Maranta decided, with a sad expression giving poignance to the large, dark eyes—to have to rely on someone else to protect her. First, Feena, and now, Dona Isobel.
Men did not hesitate to insult her to her face. But her twin Marigold would not have taken it. With one quelling glance, Marigold would have stopped their bawdy remarks. Even Shaun Banagher's friend would not have dared speak to Marigold in such an abusive tone as he had used with her.
Shaun Banagher. Was the man Marigold had loved already buried in some obscure cemetery on the outskirts of Charleston? Maranta had no way of finding out if he was dead or not. That had made it so difficult to compose a letter to Marigold.
Aboard ship, in the long hours when there had been nothing to do, Maranta had attempted to write a letter to her twin—dozens of times—only to have the proper words elude her each time.
Would Marigold feel comforted, even if Shaun were dead, to know that he had not abandoned her that night after all? Or would it cause an irreconcilable breach when she realized that her husband Crane Caldwell had deliberately deceived her?
Maranta, absorbed in her dilemma, followed Dona Isobel through the massive brazilwood doors and onto the street where the heavy, ornate, black coach with the golden crest emblazoned on its side waited.
Ruis was standing near the carriage, his eyes fixed on Maranta as she approached. Remembering their earlier encounter, she blushed and lowered her glance to the birdcage in her hands.
Unintelligible words were spoken in low tones between Ruis and the black-clad woman, and to Maranta's consternation, Dona Isobel hurried back into the hotel, leaving her alone with the arrogant man.
"Are you ready to get into the carriage?" Ruis asked, as she stood hesitantly beside the footstool that had been placed by the vehicle.
"I. . . I think I'll wait for Dona Isobel. . ."
"It will be a long time to stand in the sun, menina," Ruis replied. And in a teasing voice he continued, "Vasco might not be pleased to have a freckle-faced noiva delivered to him."
"I don't freckle, senhor," she informed him, but already Maranta had switched Fado's cage to the other hand and placed one foot upon the stool.
Strong arms encircled her, and Maranta, lifted bodily into the coach, protested this close contact with the conde.
"Please, senhor," she said, "I can manage by myself."
"Can you, little one?" he said, his eyes taking in the pale yellow dress, the delicately shaped face, and the small hand that fluttered nervously in distress. "I wonder. . ."
He sounded almost sorry for her. And then, abruptly, his tone changed to the familiar disparagement. "This trip will be no delightful picnic excursion into the country, Maranta. Someone should have informed you, so you could have dressed appropriately."
"You do not approve of my dress, senhor?" she asked, meeting his bold, dark eyes with her angry ones.
"Oh, I approve, all right. Probably even more than my charuto-smoking friends inside. But that has nothing to do with it. You'll see what I mean before the day's over."
Fingering the delicate streamers of ribbon attached to the skirt of her yellow dress, Maranta turned to gaze in the direction of the ships in the harbor. The Beaufort was nowhere in sight. It had already sailed with its load of coffee. And that knowledge made Maranta forlorn.
The breach was complete. Despite her wishes, Maranta was in an unfamiliar land—a present for a man who would probably turn out to be just as arrogant as his brother.
In relief, Maranta saw Dona Isobel appear with the condessa at her side. And the conde's attention turned to the two women, leaving Maranta to nurse her bruised feelings.
Whatever she did was wrong. But why should it matter to the conde about her dress? She would be sitting inside the coach, while he, in his rough shirt and pants and polished boots, would more than likely ride the large black stallion that was tied to the back of the carriage.
Maybe the conde would like it better if she were clad in black like the condessa and Dona Isobel. But she possessed nothing that color in her wardrobe. Besides, black was for mourning.
Perhaps it would be appropriate, Maranta thought, biting her lower lip unconsciously. For had she not lost everything now that was dear to her—her family and her dream? Despite the humidity and heat of the morning air, Maranta shivered.
Into the carriage, Ruis helped the condessa and then Dona Isobel. But to Maranta's consternation, he stayed inside the carriage, also.
Out of the port city they went, heading for São Paulo, fifty miles away. The ornate wheels of the Monteiro family coach rolled in a lumbersome motion over the rough road that constantly disappeared under green vegetation. With umbrella leaves blotting out the sunlight at times, the carriage moved through the rain forest. And the conde, his mind preoccupied, ignored the other three passengers and the constant bumping of the carriage, while Maranta, gritting her teeth, took care that she was not thrown into the arms of Ruis Almeida José da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba.
8
For almost an hour they rode, meeting no one. Then, suddenly, men on horseback appeared out of nowhere, blocking their path, and beside them were fierce-looking dogs, their spiked collars glinting in the sun.
Ruis, reaching underneath the carriage seat, casually took the gun from its hiding place as the carriage slowed and then came to a stop.
Maranta was frightened. But Ruis, displaying no outward fear, jumped from the carriage and walked forward to meet the men.
"Do you think they will harm him?" Maranta whispered to Dona Isobel.
At her question, the condessa laughed. And before Dona Isobel could explain, the condessa answered, "No, Maranta. They are some of Ruis' best gauchos."
"He. . . knows them?" she responded doubtfully.
"Of course. They take care of the Monteiro cattle on the pampas. But they have come to help with the carriage. It is very rough from now on until we reach the plateau."
"But the dogs. . ."
"Are an added protection," the condessa finished.
Now relaxed, Maranta leaned out the carriage window to get a better view of the lush, tropical growth. She reached over to touch the velvet-soft leaves just beyond the window, when a giant hand seized hers and pushed it away from the foliage.
"Keep your hands inside the carriage, Maranta," the man barked.
"But I only wanted to touch the leaf. . ."
"Meu Deus!" he said, slapping his forehead. "Do I have to show you every danger before you'll believe me?"
The leaves rustled as a large snake unwound itself from the tree trunk and slithered away.
"Senhora," Ruis directed to Dona Isobel, "kindly see to this child. And make certain she stays inside the carriage until I tell her she can get out."
"I will be more watchful," the woman promised. "Do not worry."
Muttering angrily to himself, Ruis rode away on his black stallion to catch up with the gauchos.
Despite the recital of supposed dangers each time they stopped, Maranta saw no dread venomous snake called the jararaca, nor a single jaguar—that sleek silent predator of the forest which Ruis had warned her about. Instead, she saw the tiny, green, harmless hummingbirds and beautiful flowers that decorated their journey.
H
undreds of variegated blossoms covered entire shrubs, and Maranta, unable to keep silent, exclaimed over their exotic beauty. "Oh, look at the flowers," she said, only to see the blossoms take wing and fly away.
"Not blossoms at all, Maranta," the condessa said, amused at her puzzled expression. "They are borboletas."
In amazement Maranta watched as they flew through the air to settle on another unadorned shrub, giving instant beauty to it, also.
"Butterflies," Dona Isobel said, translating for Maranta.
After that, the landscape began to change. The tropical coastal rain forest was left behind. With ropes attached from the carriage to the pommels of the gauchos' saddles, they began the climb over the Great Escarpment, or Serra do Mar. One misstep of the horses and the carriage could easily plunge over the precipice and be lost forever. And Maranta, for the first time, began to feel a physical fear of this uncivilized land.
Once, Maranta looked out, and then she immediately closed her eyes and gripped her seat, as if, by her actions, she could keep the carriage safe from harm.
Into the clouds they traveled, and the lightweight cloak that Maranta thought she would never use again she hugged around her body and was grateful for its warmth.
By the time they reached the estallegen, the crude inn where they were to spend the night, the hem of Maranta's delicate dress was in shreds. Her long, silken hair was knotted—tangled—and already she could feel the swelling underneath her eye where an insect had bitten her.
But they had stopped for the night, and Maranta was thankful to give her body a rest from the constant jolting of the carriage.
The odor of food cooking in the open air pervaded her senses, tantalizing her. She was ravenously hungry and she would make no protest over anything that was served. All day she had subsisted on fruit and nuts, but now she was ready for heavier fare, even the feijoada, the rice and black beans that seemed to be a part of every meal.
When the food, cooked by the Indian woman, was ready, Ruis and the gauchos, with the black driver of the coach, took their plates and sat apart from the women. It was only later, when the meal was over, that Ruis came toward the women. Probably to give them more instructions for the night, Maranta decided.
She knew there was no possibility for a bath. Ruis did not have to tell her that. And she had no desire to explore outside the estallegen either, because of the dogs and the remembrance of the gigantic snake wrapped around the tree trunk.
Maranta's hand went up to the area under her eye to trace the outline of swelling. The movement caught Ruis's attention, and before she knew it, the man was beside her, removing her hand to examine the swollen area for himself.
"When did this happen?" he asked in a displeased voice.
"I. . . I don't really remember."'
"And I suppose you don't remember," he added sarcastically, "that you were to inform me immediately if something like this happened?"
"A mere insect bite? I do not make a habit of complaining over something so small. I am used to the gnats and mosquitoes of my own country, senhor."
The sapphire eyes flashed their displeasure at her answer. But instead of responding to Maranta, the conde turned to Dona Isobel and the condessa. "I am taking the naughty pequena to the river to bathe her face in the cool water."
The two women nodded, making no protest. But Maranta pulled back, saying, "It is not necessary, senhor."
His grip tightened on her arm, and in a furious voice he whispered, "I am the one to decide if it is necessary, senhorita."
Prodded and pulled along, with no chance even to get her cloak, Maranta was propelled away from the rude hut and toward the distant gushing water.
It was still light, but the land had taken on an eerie glow. The mist around them resembled smoke from some witch's boiling cauldron, and the sky was brushed with streaks of carmine red. Having heard his whistle, the fierce dogs with their dagger-sharp collars obeyed the conde's summons and ran before him, their legs disappearing in the layers of mist that clung close to the ground.
The fury was still in the conde's voice when he spoke to Maranta. "Brazil is your country now, Maranta. And that I will not allow you to forget."
For a moment, she was puzzled. And then it came to her—what she had said about her own country. Fighting against the conde's domination of her, Maranta momentarily became brave. She pulled back from him, and with her dark eyes flashing, she said, "Vasco will be the one to instruct me. You have no jurisdiction over me, senhor—only over your own wife. And I pray that you will have no trouble remembering that."
His deep laughter destroyed her bravado, and she trembled at her own temerity.
"I see why the condessa was so entranced with you, Maranta. The small, pious São Joana going out to face her enemies, with her knees knocking together in fear."
The laughing eyes hardened, and in a sterner voice, the conde said, "Let me explain once and for all so that there will never be any doubt. You are wrong when you say I have no jurisdiction over you. As Vasco's intended wife, you are already a part of the Monteiro family, and I am head of that family. Do you know what that means, Maranta, here in Brazil?" He did not wait for her to answer, but continued. "I am the ruler of a vast area of land. The laws are ones made by me. If I should choose to have a slave whipped or even killed, that is my right, with no one to dispute it. If I should choose to have a member of my own family. . . punished, it is within my rights. I am the fazendeiro and king of my own land. And you, Maranta, are still subject to me. Now, do you understand why you must obey me?"
The words numbed her. It was worse than she feared. Not only Vasco to please, but also this. . . this arrogant lord who stood above her, demanding obeisance.
With one last rebellious action, Maranta curtsied before him, and in a soft, muted voice answered, "Sim, Dom Ruis."
His white teeth flashed as his hearty laugh echoed over the land. "You do not have to address me in that manner, Maranta. You may reserve that title for our own Dom Pedro, emperor of all Brazil. As a member of the family, you will call me Ruis. Now, let us see to your face before the eye closes."
The river was within sight, and Ruis led her to the bank where the water splashed noisily over the rocks. Motioning for her to sit on the rock that projected out of the water onto the bank, Ruis took the wicked-looking knife from his side. He swished it in the water several times and with a lightning motion, he caught her face to hold it toward the sun, while the knife point flicked the skin under her eye.
Maranta took one look at the knife. "No," she whispered. And that was all she remembered—that and his dark sapphire eyes. . .
The distant sound of voices bothered Maranta. She wished they would go away so she could sleep. With a tiny moan, she moved, trying to find a position to relieve the ache in her body.
"She is coming around, Ruis," Dona Isobel's voice sounded next to her.
But when she opened her eyes, only the conde stood over her, his tanned face showing a sympathy and something else that Maranta could not fathom.
"Do not look at me like that, pequena. I intended no harm to you."
He sat beside the pallet on the floor where she lay, and in the dim light of the fire, she saw the hesitant movement of his hand as he brushed the tangled black hair from her forehead. As if soothing a frightened child, he talked in gentle tones, explaining, "I had to use the knife, Maranta—for it was no ordinary insect bite. A beetle had burrowed under the skin, and it was imperative that I remove it."
A regretful tone crept into his deep voice. "I can understand how frightened you were, after my speech, to see the faca de ponte coming at you. But I have not marred your porcelain face. The tiny imperfection will be healed before Vasco sees you."
Maranta closed her eyes. She was too tired to respond.
Gently, Ruis covered her with the blanket, and as he left her side, he whispered softly, "You should be the one named Innocencia."
The next morning, Maranta changed clothes. She worked with her long
, tangled hair, brushing it furiously until, at last, it was smooth. There was no need to place the tattered yellow dress in the valise. It was ruined, as Ruis intimated it would be. So she balled it up and discarded it instead of packing it.
But the dress was of no concern. It was the condessa who required attention. Her drawn, ashen face was almost the color of her snow-white hair, and Maranta was worried that she might not survive the trip.
Her offers to help were negated by Dona Isobel, who followed behind the conde. He carried the frail, old condessa gently in his arms. Placing her in the carriage, he turned to Dona Isobel and inquired, "You have her medicine, Isobel?"
"Sim, Ruis. It is here in the brocade bag. I will give it to her when she needs it."
"Obrigado, Isobel."
"Não tem de quê, Ruis."
Maranta's attempt to translate the polite exchange caused her brow to wrinkle.
"Is there something bothering you, menina?" the conde asked.
She blushed, as if she had been caught eavesdropping. Hastily Maranta said what had been on her mind previously.
"If the condessa wishes to lie down, Fado and I could ride part of the way up front with. . . with the driver. That would give the senhora more room."
Her subdued rust-colored dress peeked from under the cloak and came under his scrutiny, the sturdiness of material seeming to meet with more approval than the flimsy yellow dress of the day before.
"We will tie the cage to the back of the coach, Maranta," Ruis announced. "Rico has enough to do, without watching out for some worthless bird."
"But I would watch out for Fado, senhor. It would not be necessary for. . ."
"You will not be riding beside Rico. You may ride on the stallion with me this morning."
"But. . ."
His sharp look quelled her protest. The last thing she wanted to do—to be near him. Miserably she waited while he tied the cage securely and then spoke through the window of the coach in the nasal language that she found so hard to follow.
"Come," he said in English to Maranta.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 7