Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  The next morning, Maranta's arm was sore, but she tried to dismiss the unpleasant episode by thinking instead of the journey ahead. She went down to watch while the cargo was reloaded for their continued trip on the river.

  Maranta was now able to tell when they were approaching another cataract, with the distant rumbling of water growing gradually louder, and the canoes gliding more swiftly along the river without benefit of the long spear paddles. And even though she was conscious of the hazards, Maranta was glad to leave the canoe at intervals and walk on the banks while the horses and carts were unloaded.

  As she trudged behind a cart or sat inside with the other two women to be jolted over the terrain until the Tietê became navigable again, Maranta's mind turned more and more to Vasco—the unknown man she was to marry—who was waiting for her at the fazenda.

  When, finally, they left the canoe fleet near the falls at Hitû, Maranta realized she would never be able to find her way back to civilization. She was trapped by mountains and jungled forests, vampire bats and anacondas—insurmountable obstacles.

  With a shiver, she clutched the birdcage closer to her. Her one small consolation was the cheerful little green bird, Fado, who had miraculously survived the watery trip without losing a single tail feather.

  13

  With the condessa and Dona Isobel, Maranta sat in the garden of the café in Hitû. The town was a welcome surprise to her, for she had believed there would be no settlements beyond São Paulo.

  "There are many aldeas—Indian villages—scattered throughout the area too, Maranta," Dona Isobel explained. "The Jesuits were quite productive in converting the Indians to the faith."

  The condessa laughed. "That is a matter of opinion, Maranta. And when you meet Patû, you will understand. There never was a more pagan mameluco than he. Sometimes I wonder if he still shrinks heads as his grandfather did before him."

  "Patû?" Maranta repeated. "Who is that?"

  "The Indian servant who takes care of Vasco," answered Dona Isobel. And at her reply, the condessa frowned, as if the woman had been indiscreet.

  The white-haired condessa suddenly tapped her cane, and a waiter immediately poured coffee into their cups that were already half-filled with sugar.

  The beverage was much too sweet for Maranta, and she sipped little of it. But it went unnoticed, for Ruis soon returned with transportation to the fazenda.

  It was a palanquin, the shaded litter similar to the ones Maranta had seen in São Paulo and Penha.

  If it had not been for her increasing anxiety in meeting Vasco da Monteiro, Maranta would have enjoyed this new experience—sitting back on the soft cushions and feeling the soothing sway as the palanquin, attached by poles to the mules' harnesses, was carried along the shaded slopes of the terra-roxa, that purplish red earth that produced the finest coffee plants in all of Brazil.

  "You are very pale, Maranta. Is the swaying making you seasick?" the old condessa asked.

  She quickly shook her head, but her voice revealed its telltale tremor. "I am f-fine, Dona Louisa."

  "You may begin calling me 'Mãe,'" she said matter-of-factly, "for by this time tomorrow, you will be my daughter."

  The closer they got to the fazenda, the more alert the old condessa seemed, while Maranta grew visibly paler.

  By this time tomorrow. Maranta closed her eyes and rested her dark head against the pillow. So she was to be given no chance to get to know Vasco before she was pushed into being his wife. But she would not think of that now. She was so sleepy. . .

  The voices were low and near. Vaguely, she recognized the deep voice of Ruis, but not the words he spoke.

  "Sim, Dom Ruis," another male voice answered, and as Maranta opened her eyes, she gave a sudden cry, for a savage-looking man was bending over her. She moved quickly to avoid him.

  "Do not be afraid, senhorita," Ruis said. "Patû is merely curious to see what Vasco's noiva looks like. He did not mean to startle you." Ruis reached out to help the unsteady Maranta to her feet.

  "Shall I carry you to your room?" the conde asked.

  "I can walk," she assured Ruis and pushed herself away from him.

  He let her go and spoke again to the Indian, whose dark features revealed no emotion at Maranta's reaction to him.

  "Are we at the fazenda?" Maranta asked the conde when the Indian was no longer in sight.

  "Yes, menina. And Mãe and Dona Isobel have already gone inside." The conde seemed amused, treating her once more as he would a child.

  Eager and curious faces peeked around the corner of the fazenda. Maranta self-consciously brushed her skirts down to smooth them, and her hand went up to her disheveled hair.

  The house was like a fortress, built on a high elevation—its walls of pisé, that clay-like white stucco, and its roof of red tile. And on the left, in front of the chapel, a tall crucifix shadowed the ground beneath it.

  As Maranta stood on the sheltered veranda of the fazenda, she looked down upon miles of sloped terraces, with green bushes jutting out in symmetrical rows.

  "I have never seen a coffee plant before," Maranta confided.

  The conde, following her gaze, said, "It is a beautiful sight when they are all in bloom. Like a vast, endless field of snow." The pride in his voice was undisguised. "But you will have ample opportunity to see it, so we need not stand here any longer."

  The conde clapped his hands, and a young black girl appeared.

  "Sassia is to be your personal maid, Maranta. Go with her, and she will see to your needs."

  "But how will I get her to understand me?"

  "She speaks English. That is the reason I brought her here."

  The black girl smiled and took a few steps, expecting Maranta to follow. But Maranta hesitated and looked back toward the palanquin. "Fado?"

  "Is already in your room," Ruis assured her, his voice only slightly irritated.

  Maranta followed Sassia through the reception hall and up the stairs to the second floor where the family's sleeping quarters were situated.

  Maranta's room was in the center of the house. Almost like a prison, she thought. But she soon forgot that at the sight of the tub that had been loaded onto the Beaufort in Charleston. It was sitting in the corner of her bedroom, and Maranta looked longingly toward it.

  "I will bring the hot water," the girl said, "and wash and brush your hair until it shines. Then, Dom Vasco will not be able to take his eyes off you tonight."

  At the mention of Vasco's name, the same anxiety that she had felt earlier swept over her. Only a short reprieve—and then she would be face to face with her intended husband.

  Silently, she let Sassia attend her, her mind on the dreaded evening ahead.

  "And which dress will you wear tonight, yayá?" she asked Maranta, who stood in her petticoats beside Fado's cage.

  Maranta shrugged. "I do not care. You choose one for me, Sassia," she said.

  The girl's hands eagerly riffled through the row of dresses and stopped at the cream-colored silk, with its wide bands of brocade braid around the bottom of the skirt.

  "I think. . . this one," Sassia said, shaking it to remove the last wrinkle. "And the tortoiseshell combs for your hair."

  "But I have no combs."

  "They are a gift from the sinhá-dona, the Condessa Louisa," Sassia explained.

  And Sassia, taking over the arranging of Maranta's long hair, appeared satisfied with her work. As she led Maranta down to the main sala, Sassia's eyes shone with pride for her mistress, the girl who was to be Dom Vasco's wife.

  But Maranta's eyes showed her dismay and nervousness. Everything was strange and alien—Sassia's calling her yayá, the parlor labeled by another name. Would she ever become used to the foreign words, the foreign food, and most of all, the foreigner who waited for her?

  Maranta licked her dry lips and forced her hands to be still, for the condessa was walking toward her to draw her into the room. The white-haired woman's black dress was very formal, and her manner gave n
o indication of the long, hard journey she had suffered.

  "Maranta, how lovely you look tonight," she said, taking her hand. "Vasco has been waiting impatiently to see you."

  The man sat in a chair across the room—a younger version of Ruis, with his blue eyes, his hair that shone like satin. Yet, he was different, too, a paler version upon close inspection, like a reproduction of an original with lines not quite so well defined. He watched her hesitant progress with an amused look on his face.

  Vasco made no effort to rise. Like a haughty king he sat and waited for Maranta to come to him. And when she stood before the man, he held out his ringed hand to her. He brought her delicately shaped fingers to his lips, but instead of releasing them, he grasped them tighter, so that Maranta could not step back.

  "You have done well, Mãe. I compliment you on your selection."

  And to Maranta, he spoke quietly. "My apologies for not rising, Maranta Tabor. But you see, my legs have been no use to me since the accident."

  "Vasco—"

  The young man interrupted his mother. "Better for the girl to know now, so that she can back out if she does not want a cripple for a husband."

  Pity rushed into Maranta's heart at the sight of the handsome man, so young and so tragic. And the pity was mixed with relief. The marriage would be in name only, and for the first time since her departure from Charleston, Maranta was at peace.

  "I will not back out, senhor. I have already given my promise."

  A sudden noise from the shadows at the far end of the sala caused Maranta to look in that direction. And she stared into the cynical eyes of Ruis da Monteiro as he walked forward into the light.

  Patû picked up Vasco and carried him into the dining room, where Dona Isobel joined them for dinner. And Maranta, forgetting her shyness, talked with Vasco to show him that she did not care that he was not so healthy as his brother Ruis, the arrogant fazendeiro.

  There was only one thing that disturbed Maranta. Ruis's wife, Innocencia, had not made an appearance; and yet, no one bothered to explain her absence.

  When dinner was over and Maranta was again in her room preparing for bed, she questioned Sassia about Innocencia.

  "Dom Ruis's wife was not at dinner tonight, Sassia. Is she away?"

  Sassia stopped brushing Maranta's hair for a second. "She doesn't eat with the rest of the family very often. The young senhora is delicate and has headaches much of the time."

  "Is she very. . . beautiful?"

  "Oh, yes. Pale eyes like a summer sky—and hair like moonbeams."

  Maranta did not know why that knowledge pained her—that Innocencia was beautiful. Of course she would be—chosen by someone like Ruis da Monteiro.

  "Does she. . . do they have children?"

  "They were expecting one at one time, according to the Indian girl, Floresta. But something happened, and Dona Innocencia lost the baby. Floresta says she doesn't think the senhora can ever have another child."

  "How sad."

  "But Dom Vasco—" Sassia stopped abruptly and began to brush Maranta's hair more vigorously.

  "What were you going to say about Dom Vasco?"

  Sassia, looking confused, acted as if she could not remember. But Maranta had a feeling that the black girl had merely changed her mind about confiding in her.

  "There are so many people here, Sassia, and so many names. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to learn or remember them all."

  Sassia nodded. "Anyone who is born in the fazenda can remain for life. That is the custom, yayá. But it makes it awfully crowded sometimes," she said. "Especially when the fazendeiro has a black wife as well as a white wife, with two sets of children."

  "What? You mean Dom Ruis. . ."

  Sassia laughed and shook her head at Maranta's incredulous expression. "Not Dom Ruis. But some of the others on the neighboring fazendas. Is that not true in your own country where there are slaves?"

  "No," Marenta refuted. "A man can't have two wives in my country. It's true that a man may have a. . . a mistress, but if she has children, they are not. . . acknowledged."

  Maranta blushed, but Sassia did not notice. "Then Brazil is better than your country, senhorita—for here, all the children are acknowledged and share in their father's estate, even when he is not married to their mother."

  "It is a. . . a disgrace to be illegitimate. I feel sorry for any child who is born of such. . . such sinful parents."

  When Sassia was gone, Maranta knelt by her bedside for a long time before she finally laid her head on her pillow to go to sleep.

  Even the morals were different in this strange land. To think that a man would have the effrontery to keep his mistress in the same house as his wife. But at least with Vasco da Monteiro as her husband, Maranta would never be subjected to that disgrace.

  14

  Late the next afternoon, Maranta stood in the middle of her bedroom, while Sassia placed the white lace mantilla over her dark hair.

  Maranta wore her birthday dress—that voluptuous-skirted white moiré silk that Mrs. Windom had made for her eighteenth birthday. Little did Maranta and Marigold know at the time that those dresses would also serve as their wedding gowns.

  The mantilla had been delivered to her room with the message that the priest had arrived and was waiting in the family chapel to perform the ceremony that would link Maranta Tabor forever with the Monteiro family.

  She thought of Marigold in an identical dress, saying her unwilling vows to Crane Caldwell. And now, it was her turn. But somehow, things had not worked out so badly for her, as they had for Marigold. At least, Maranta would be spared the indignity of sharing her bed with her husband.

  "And what jewelry will you wear, yayá?" Sassia asked, adjusting the mantilla in graceful folds over Maranta's creamy white shoulders.

  "The locket, I think," Maranta said.

  Sassia walked to the open jewelry case. "The cross is beautiful. . ."

  "I will not wear the cross, Sassia. Please put it back."

  "Yes, yayá."

  Maranta waited for Sassia to fasten the golden chain around her neck. She did not see the black girl as she pulled the figa, the tiny amulet resembling a closed fist, from her apron pocket to stick it to the underside of the locket before placing it about her neck.

  When the knock sounded on the door, Sassia went to answer it.

  "Is the senhorita ready? I have come to escort her to the chapel."

  "Sim, Don Ruis. She is ready."

  The man surveyed Maranta from head to toe, much as he had done with his bold eyes on the ship, the Beaufort. Once again, Maranta felt the staining of her cheeks and the swift flutter of her heart.

  Ruis did not speak but held out his arm for her hand. Maranta walked with him from the bedroom. But instead of going down the stairs, Ruis led her through the second-story parlors and the library to the gallery above the chapel—opposite the bedroom wing of the house.

  "It is more private this way, menina," he finally said. "The priest is waiting to see you before the ceremony."

  Maranta nodded. To hear her confession, before she received the marriage sacrament. That was the custom.

  And when that was done—when she had confessed her anxieties and her mild displays of temper on the long, hard journey—she met Vasco at the altar. While she knelt, Vasco sat beside her in a chair, with Patû directly behind him.

  Vasco placed the heavy gold band on her finger and the bracelet upon her arm, showing his ownership. And Maranta knew then that she was no longer the same. She was a married woman—no longer the yayá, the pampered young daughter of the household.

  The statues glittered with magnificent jewels—emeralds, diamonds, and gold—for the chapel of the fazenda was not only a place for prayers and sacraments. It was the repository for anything of value that belonged to the family. Hidden under the marble squares of the floor was the strong box that contained the Monteiro money. And the jewels, in plain view, were completely safe, guarded over by the saints that no one would
dare to rob, upon pain of eternal damnation.

  In vain, Maranta searched for Innocencia, but she was not present. The only ones to witness the ceremony besides the conde were the condessa and Dona Isobel—they and the barefoot Indian girl who fled when Maranta saw her hiding in the gallery above.

  "Welcome to the Monteiro family, my daughter," the condessa said, kissing Maranta on both cheeks.

  "Th-thank you, Mãe," she answered with affection. And the condessa's face showed her pleasure in Maranta's acceding to her wishes in calling her mother.

  Dona Isobel kissed her and wished her well. Dom Ruis stood apart from them all, offering no words of congratulations to his brother, Vasco—no words to indicate he was happy to have Maranta Tabor as a member of his family, living in his fazenda, perhaps for the rest of her life.

  His attention focused on the priest instead, who was anxious to return to an old man who lay dying in the hut at the northern boundary of the Monteiro property. Ruis ignored the wedding party to accompany the man to the carriage waiting at the steps of the chapel.

  The quiet celebration came at dinner late that night, with the wine and the love cake that had been specially prepared in the kitchen.

  Vasco, with Maranta at his side, watched as she spied the marriage symbols made of sugar and cinnamon and manihot flour that decorated the top of the cake. When she recognized what they were intended to be, Vasco laughed at her obvious embarrassment.

  He leaned toward Maranta. "Do not blush, my beautiful bride. It is the servants' way of saving they wish a happy marriage for us—with many children." Again he laughed and tweaked the loose curl at her neck.

  "You must cut the first piece and give half to me, wife." He handed the silver knife to her. Obeying him, Maranta closed her eyes while she sliced through the suggestive decoration.

  Was she mistaken? Was Vasco capable of being a real husband—of sharing her bed and siring children?

  At the thought, her hand trembled, and she dropped part of the cake. No one seemed to notice, with the exception of Dom Ruis, who sat at the head of the table and sipped his wine, while his dark sapphire eyes remained on Maranta.