Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  Dejectedly she followed his order, walking behind him to the stallion that was tethered to the post. Before lifting her on the horse, Ruis examined the area under Maranta's eye. "It looks much better this morning, pequena."

  In silence they cantered along the trail, and Maranta, trying to avoid the conde's touch, sat stiffly away from him.

  "Relax, Maranta. I am not going to eat you," he said, taking his arm to draw her against his chest.

  A minute or so later he inquired, "Is that not more comfortable, hm?"

  She ignored his question and asked one of her own. "Who is Innocencia, Dom Ruis?"

  "You are not to call me by my formal title, Maranta. Have I not instructed you to call me Ruis?"

  The silence lasted for quite a while until Ruis finally answered her. "Innocencia is my wife. She is a cousin of the family that acts as regents for our child emperor, Dom Pedro II."

  "Child emperor? How old is he then?" Maranta inquired, forgetting about Innocencia for the time being.

  "He is five years old—which means Innocencia's family is assured of power for many years, unless they continue to squabble among themselves and kill each other off."

  The irony was apparent in his voice. The conde, seemingly unwilling to continue the conversation, rode in silence, and Maranta asked no more questions.

  After they had ridden some distance with the gauchos ahead of them, he said, "You were kind to think of Mãe's comfort and give up your seat in the carriage. Her illness is far more serious than she will admit. I only hope that Vasco will appreciate her sacrifice in finding you for him."

  The conde sounded as if he blamed her for the condessa's illness, and that hurt Maranta. She had not wanted to come to Brazil. And she would have been far happier if the condessa had chosen someone else.

  "I am sure anyone would have done equally as well, R-Ruis." Maranta stumbled self-consciously over his name. "I do not flatter myself that the condessa made the trip to Charleston specifically to. . . to interview me."

  "You are wrong, Maranta. It was precisely for that reason that Mãe changed her plans and sought you out."

  "But why?"

  "You are of the same religion, Maranta. That was important. And then, after she saw your little enameled painting that your brother Jason carried with him, Mãe's interest in anyone else subsided."

  "She saw the painting?"

  "Yes. And I have to agree with her—a beautiful little portrait of twins as opposite in nature as Oxalá is to Iemanjá."

  "But I don't understand. . ."

  "The sun from the dark moon goddess or 'mother of waters.' I keep forgetting, Maranta, that you are not familiar with our special Brazilian deities."

  "No, it isn't that. It's what you said about the painting. You saw it, too?"

  "Of course. I was with Mãe in Lisbon, at the home of friends. Your brother was invited to dinner one evening, and he had the miniature with him. He was proud of you for painting it for him. A talent you inherited from your French grandmother, I understand."

  "You mean—just one glimpse of an unknown girl's face, and the condessa. . .?"

  "Not quite so dramatic," Ruis corrected. "Mãe made a point of getting to know Jason during that visit. She questioned him very closely. And so, instead of returning to Brazil with me, she booked passage with Dona Isobel to Charleston."

  "I knew that the condessa brought a letter from Jason for Maman and Papa," Maranta mused aloud. But then, her thoughts turned inward. Maranta couldn't believe that the condessa had chosen her over Marigold. She must have come to Charleston because of her golden-haired sister. But once there, the woman had changed her mind.

  "You are noticing the landscape, sim? How it is now turning to reddish purple clay, with fewer trees? It will be good to store it away in your mind, so that on afternoons during the rainy season, you may have something to occupy your time. The pigments and brushes for you are already purchased and stored at the casa in São Paulo."

  At the thought of the paints waiting for her, Maranta did not know whether to be displeased or grateful. For it meant that the conde had already planned her leisure time, as well. But also, that she was the one, not Marigold, who had been selected as Vasco's noiva, even before she knew of the existence of the Monteiro family.

  Maranta frowned, trying to sort out her emotions. Her pleasure in the paints dulled as she realized that it had evidently not occurred to the arrogant Count of Sorocaba that the Condessa Louisa might have come back to Brazil without Maranta Tabor.

  The dogs began to bark excitedly ahead of them, and at this sound the conde said, "They have caught the scent of a jaguar. It is time, menina, for you to get back into the carriage."

  9

  Down the Avenida Paulista the heavy coach went, into the heart of São Paulo. The magnificent mansions belonging to the coffee barons stood on both sides of the street, framed in the dusk. Maranta shivered at the coolness of the evening air and cast a worried glance toward the condessa who sat upright with effort.

  The gauchos, with the dogs, had disappeared at the entrance to the city, and the coach, driven by Rico, possessed only one rider beside it as it crossed the viaduct, passed through the praca, with its fountain in the middle, and made its way to the Monteiro casa.

  The small wrought-iron balconies curved outward from the second-story windows, and the red, tiled roofs with ornate decorations at each corner—their curves and scrolls turning upward—proclaimed the wealth of their owners.

  It was before the largest house that the coach stopped, halfway down the street. And within minutes, the iron gates had been opened by servants with lamps in their hands. At last, they had reached civilization.

  To remove the dirt and grime from the journey in a tub filled with warm water—to sleep in a soft bed again instead of pallet and hammock—that was what Maranta thought of, until she looked at the condessa in the light.

  She could not hide her alarm, and the condessa, seeing her reaction, touched Maranta's hand and whispered in a weak voice, "Do not worry, my child. I shall be all right now that I am in São Paulo. The mineral waters have restorative powers, you know."

  "I trust you will feel much better, senhora, after you have rested."

  "Thank you, Maranta."

  The black stallion was covered with foam, and the conde, climbing from the saddle, handed the reins to a servant who led the animal away to be unsaddled and cooled down.

  Then, with the condessa and Dona Isobel taken care of, Ruis gave orders for the carriage to be moved—not realizing that Maranta had stayed in the courtyard and was now seeking to unfasten Fado's cage from the back of the carriage.

  As the vehicle rolled away, leaving Maranta alone on the pavement, she called out, "Wait, Rico," and hurried to catch up with the disappearing carriage.

  The conde's hand reached out and stopped her. "What is so important that you have to chase the carriage, menina?"

  "Fado," she gasped. "He is still tied to the back."

  "Your little bird will be rescued, Maranta," he said gently. "Go now with Pará. She will show you to your room."

  Much later they sat at the table in the huge dining room—the conde, Dona Isobel, and Maranta—with the empty chair at the other end of the table where the condessa should have been. Silver glittered under the candles' power, and dancing shadows appeared on the fine linen cloth with its inlay of delicate lace.

  Maranta sat in silence, toying with the doce da marmelo, the hard quince jelly that was served as the last course. She waited for the conde to indicate that the meal was over; for it was very late and she wanted to escape the oppressive air that had threatened to ruin her dinner.

  Surrounded by the accouterments of his wealth, the conde had subtly changed. He seemed more remote and restrained than ever. Gone were the rough clothes he had worn on the journey from Santos to São Paulo. Gone was the sense of camaraderie between them when she had ridden on the black stallion with him.

  A mere change of clothes, and Ruis had beco
me the imperious conde again, the proud head of the Monteiro family—and absolute ruler in his own domain.

  At last, Ruis moved his chair back, giving the signal that the meal was over. He stood up while Maranta with her white shawl draped over her shoulders followed Dona Isobel from the room.

  The man took his seat again, and as Maranta lingered in the hall, she saw the conde remove a charuto from the box offered him by the servant standing beside the chair, and hold it to his nose for a moment before lighting it with the candle. Seeing him in his gold velvet chair that almost resembled a throne made Maranta feel very small and insignificant.

  Pale silks and brocades draped the huge bed where Maranta was to sleep. Already, the covers had been turned down and a gown laid out for her.

  For a week, the conde had said. That was how long they would stay in São Paulo before leaving on the last segment of their journey—up the Tietê River to the fazenda. And if the condessa were not well enough to travel by then, they would remain in the city for a longer period of time.

  Maranta walked about the room, touching the fine draperies and unconsciously rearranging the objects on the table beside the gilt chair. Next to her bed, her jewelry case lay, and taking off the locket from around her neck, Maranta opened the case to place the locket inside. On top lay the elaborate cross of pearls and diamonds that the condessa had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

  For the first time, a desire to try it on came over her. Would it make her look as imperious as the conde—with their fine family jewelry around her neck?

  Maranta unclasped it, and when she had put it on, she tiptoed to the small mirror to see the effect. The magnificence overwhelmed her. No—she still looked the same. She was Maranta Tabor. And the necklace looked as if it belonged to someone else.

  If she had become a nun, her cross would have been made of silver or some lesser metal—much more suitable—and she would be dressed in black, not white, as she was tonight—black like Dona Isobel and the condessa.

  Maranta wandered around the room, forgetting about the necklace, since her mind had returned to the sick woman. Hastily, Maranta put her shawl about her shoulders, and picking up a candle, she left the bedroom to seek out the family chapel that was attached to the house. She had seen it earlier that evening when she had lost her way to the dining room.

  No one was about in the hall to deter her or give her directions. Down the marble steps she went, intent on remembering the way she had gone earlier, walking through the maze of corridors toward the back of the house, stopping and then changing directions until finally she saw it—the door still ajar, and the candle burning upon the altar, with the Blessed Virgin smiling in welcome.

  Maranta took the shawl from around her shoulders and placed it over her long, black hair. Reverently she carried the candle and approached the altar where she knelt.

  Her lips moved in silence, and for a long time she remained, her knees sheltered from the cold marble floor by the velvet cushion. She prayed not only for the condessa, but for her own family as well. And with the recalling of each one dear to her, her heart grew sad and a tear escaped and dropped onto the velvet cushion.

  There was a noise behind her, and alarmed, Maranta quickly stood up, searching the shadows. She was not alone, and her dark eyes, resembling limpid pools, widened in fright.

  "You do not have to be afraid, menina," he said, coming to stand before her.

  In relief, she recognized the conde, who gazed at her in sympathy, taking in the tears that still clung to her lashes. But his sapphire eyes, latching onto the cross at her breast, underwent a sudden transformation. He took a step toward her, and in a hoarse voice croaked, "By what right are you wearing the Cruzamento da Monteiro? Take it off at once, Maranta. It is a sacrilege for you to have it on."

  He made as if to jerk it off, and in defense, her hand went to her breast as she backed away from him.

  "It. . . it was a gift—from the condessa," she answered in a whisper.

  Her words brought a tense, incredible look to his face. "Mãe gave you the cross?"

  "Y-Yes—before we left Charleston."

  The conde closed his eyes, and the pain that filled his face was unmistakable.

  Maranta realized then that the condessa had made some terrible breach in giving her the heirloom. Fumbling at the catch, she said, "I will gi-give it back, senhor."

  "No, Maranta. If the condessa gave it to you, she. . . meant for you to have it."

  He turned and fled from the chapel—leaving the puzzled Maranta alone before the Blessed Virgin.

  More unhappy than ever, Maranta wandered around the casa by herself. The doctor came often, and Dona Isobel seemed totally oblivious of the lonely girl because of her nursing duties with the condessa.

  And the conde. Ever since their encounter in the chapel, he had looked as if he hated her.

  The only time Maranta saw him was in the evenings at dinner, and she felt so self-conscious that she made no attempt to join in the conversation but stared at her plate throughout the meals.

  Maranta would like to have seen something of the city, but everyone was too busy for her to suggest it. It was almost like being confined to the ship again, with nothing to relieve her boredom. And she dared not go back into the chapel.

  It was mid-morning and Maranta sat on the bench in the secluded garden. With nothing to do, she made up a game, trying to imagine what each place that the condessa and Dona Isobel had told her about, looked like—the spa outside São Paulo where the hot sulphur springs bubbled and where people went to improve their livers—

  At the idea of some fat person flushing out his overindulged liver with glass after glass of sulphur water, Maranta laughed aloud and then quickly turned her head to make sure no one had heard her.

  She must be more careful—especially with the condessa lying sick in the massive bedroom upstairs.

  The frown soon disappeared as Maranta's mind skipped to Ypiranga—where Dom Pedro I had given the cry of freedom, separating Brazil from Portugal, the mother country. There would have to be a fountain in the square, of course, where the people came each day for water. And perhaps there would be a statue of Dom Pedro, himself, astride his horse.

  Maranta closed her eyes, attempting to conjure up a suitable statue, but instead of the emperor, her imagination gave her Ruis da Monteiro on his black stallion.

  Suddenly a feeling of terror swept over her. If the condessa died, then Maranta would be entirely at the mercy of the conde, with no one to protect her from him.

  Her lip quivered and her trembling hands folded in supplication. She immediately thought of Penha—the shrine in the hills where miracles were made. If only she could go there, she would pray for a miracle. But Dona Isobel was too busy, and there was no one else she could ask to take her to the shrine.

  Maranta sighed and she hid her troubled face in her hands. The long, black strands of hair hung over fragile shoulders.

  "There is something wrong, senhorita?" the voice behind her asked.

  A startled Maranta jerked her head up, and she turned in the direction of the voice, to see the man who had evidently been watching her. His eyes were narrowed, and Maranta could see the same antagonism, with no hint of pity or concern for her. It was the same as it had been since that night in the chapel.

  "Penha," she whispered, not realizing she had said the word aloud.

  She could not move. His glance pinned her against the garden walls as effectively as if she had been one of the captured borboletas, skewered to its velvet casket.

  "You wish to view our famous shrine in the hills?" he asked politely.

  Maranta quickly nodded. "To. . . pray for the condessa," she said in a distressed voice, barely audible.

  Again his eyes narrowed and Maranta dared not move.

  "If you wish to go, I will take you, senhorita. And while you are there, I think it would be wise to pray for yourself, as well as for Mãe."

  He turned his back to her, but halfway down
the path, the conde stopped. Facing in her direction, the dark-haired man ordered, "Be ready in a half-hour."

  "Yes, senhor," she replied to his back, for already he had turned and was disappearing toward the stables.

  10

  She saw the conde reach out and take the basket from Pará, the Indian girl. Maranta hesitated at the edge of the courtyard, but Ruis, seeing her, placed the basket on the mosaic-tiled pavement, and with bold steps, walked toward Maranta.

  "Are you looking for the carriage?" he asked, standing before her with his long, black cape swinging over his shoulders.

  Maranta nodded.

  "A wheel is being repaired," he explained. "Besides, the road is too narrow for the carriage. We will take Diabo instead."

  At the sound of his name, the black stallion snorted in impatience. Maranta took a step backward, but the conde's hand reached out to guide her to the horse. "You object?" he asked, gazing down at her with his superior, haughty mien.

  "Yes," Maranta answered defiantly. "If. . . if we are to go by horse, then I wish to have one of my own. It is degrading to be treated like a. . . a sack of coffee beans, hoisted in front."

  "My apologies," he said, the coldness still evident in his eyes. "I was not aware that you rode."

  "We are still strangers, senhor, so there are many things. . ."

  ". . . that I have yet to learn about you," he finished. "Well, today, it will be how well you can follow a donkey path up the hillside.

  "Xangu," he shouted. And when the boy appeared, the conde said, "Saddle the mare with the condessa's saddle, immediately. The senhorita wishes to show off her horsemanship."

  Even his choice of words antagonized her. But she would not let him know it. Instead, Maranta would show the superior, arrogant conde just how good she was at sitting a horse.

  When the mare was brought out, Maranta was perplexed. No sidesaddle, as she had been used to, but a smaller saddle similar to the conde's had been placed on the mare's back. Maranta looked down at her blue dress, and then to the saddled mare. Inadvertently, she caught the glint in the conde's eyes.