Daughters of the Summer Storm
Page 30
So, on the next day, Ruis left the city with a fragile and subdued Maranta, and his penniless cousin, Dona Isobel, who had suddenly aged overnight.
Through the long hours of riding in the canoe, Maranta relived the nightmare in the suffocating vault—the spiders crawling over her in the darkness, and her search for some place off the floor where she might avoid them. And then, finally, that feeling of lethargy that came over her body at the lack of air, causing her to rest full-length upon the slab that was reserved for the dead.
She could not comprehend her situation when she first became aware of the man's, mouth upon hers, drawing her back to life, making her lungs hurt at the forced in-take of breath. Then she had opened her eyes to see Ruis—his dark head bending over her, possessing her with those dark sapphire eyes—the man who had rescued her from death.
The canoe hit rough water, and Maranta gasped. "You are all right, amada?" Ruis called softly, shifting his body slightly to the side to accommodate the dip of the canoe.
"Sim, Ruis," she answered, and at her use of the Portuguese word instead of English, the man smiled and then faced ahead.
Once more, Maranta stared at the back of the arrogant conde. But she felt no antagonism at his blocking out her view. She felt comfort in his closeness instead—protection, by this man who had gone to great lengths to remove her from any further danger presented by Innocencia's brothers.
Honório—that was one of the names Vasco had given to little Paulo. And Ruis had said nothing in answer to Vasco's maliciousness in naming Ruis's own son after a man Ruis despised.
Sensing that Maranta was uneasy each time he disappeared from her sight, Ruis took care to keep her at his side as much as possible. But it was not difficult. Maranta made no more excursions to the riverbank on her own; she made no demur at Ruis's suggestions along the way. Puzzled over this new docility, Ruis, chided himself for not watching over her more closely in São Paulo.
"What are you thinking about, pequena?" he asked one night in a soft tone. The glow of the cooking fire burned low, framing her small serious face in its waning light. At his question, she looked up with a guilty expression.
"I was thinking of Paulo—and wondering if he is well."
"By this time tomorrow, Maranta, you will be able to judge for yourself when you see him."
"We are that close?"
"Yes. Only a few miles more and we will be on Monteiro property."
She slept better that night in the tent, by Dona Isobel's side—knowing that the child she thought never to see again would soon be in her arms.
The rain began that evening and continued through the next day, slowing them down. Each mile, each small delay filled Maranta with impatience. But then, the town of Hitû rose before them. Only a few miles more.
There was no palanquin available in Hitû. Dona Isobel decided to wait for transportation from the fazenda, with some of the servants to keep her company, but Maranta chose to ride the mare that Ruis had brought back with him from São Paulo—the same horse she had ridden to Penha, the shrine in the hills where she had once prayed for a miracle.
Over the terra-roxa the mare trotted, alongside Diabo. And behind them came two of Ruis's armed servants. Over the green hills they rode, with Maranta marking off every familiar point, every obstacle that separated her from her child, until in the distance, the fertile slopes dotted with coffee plants rose before her.
She met Ruis's gaze and smiled at him, the tension easing from her body. For the first time since they'd left the city of São Paulo, Maranta felt safe.
In the stables, Vasco waited for Patû to strap him to the horse. When that was done, the man spoke quietly to the servant.
"Bring the child to me, Patû. I shall wait here inside the stables. But make sure no one sees you take the babe from the nursery."
The Indian left the stables to obey, and Vasco waited, patting the horse and soothing him as he snorted and sidled nervously, eager for his daily gallop.
To perfect his game, Vasco had taken the horse daily to the falls and pitched a bundle into the river. Each day for a week he had watched the bright bundle disappear over the falls.
But today would be different. This time, there would be no bundle of clothes floating over the precipice. A much more valuable piece—at least to Ruis—would go over the falls.
Vasco could imagine the great cry when it was discovered that the child had disappeared with no trace. Kidnappers, stealing the child from the nursery. That's what they would probably think—with Naka and Sassia blamed for their negligence. He could see Ruis searching the countryside for weeks, with no reward for his effort, unless—Yes. He just might leave one of the child's shoes where it could be found. That would be interesting to watch.
Vasco laughed. The pleasure in planning was tantamount to that of the deed. How long he had lain awake at night, planning and plotting—ever since hearing Floresta's taunting words. And now it was time to fulfill the scheme. His brother would be home in a few days.
Impatiently, Vasco waited for Patû to return. What was keeping him?
The Indian, with the baby wrapped in a white blanket, looked back toward the house and then quickly slipped across the open space to the stable door.
"What kept you so long?" an irritable Vasco asked the Indian.
"The child was fretful and would not go to sleep for a time."
"Probably cutting another tooth," Vasco said. "Well, hand him to me."
He stared down at the sleeping child, his blue-black hair in small ringlets about his head, and his dark eyelashes long against his baby cheeks. "He could so easily have been mine," Vasco whispered. And then he thought of Ruis. The small twinge of regret vanished, and Vasco gave his horse the signal to leave the stables.
Vasco frowned. The baby was heavier than he had imagined. As the horse galloped through the open gate, Paulo began to squirm in his confinement. Soon, his discomfort was voiced in a wail—something Vasco had not planned on, to call attention to himself.
Maranta was still thinking of Paulo as they neared the approach to the fazenda. Soon now, the house would come into view. Her eyes, eagerly searching the landscape, spotted a horse coming toward them.
"Is that Vasco?" Maranta asked.
Ruis looked in the direction that Maranta pointed. He slowed Diabo, and his face took on a displeased frown.
"He is going dangerously fast, is he not?" Maranta commented to the silent man, drawing her mare up beside Ruis.
Over the green hill the angry wail of the child pierced the still air. "Meu Deus," Ruis exploded, "the fool has the baby with him."
In an instant, Ruis had spurred Diabo and was racing toward the other horse. One of the servants riding behind them took off after Ruis, while the other, debating for a second what to do, stayed at Maranta's side as his master had instructed him before leaving the city.
The baby—Vasco was holding Paulo under his arm. Maranta gave a cry and pressed the mare into a gallop. The servant followed.
Vasco, furious at Ruis's untimely return, paused for a second, watching Diabo bearing down upon him. With a shout to his own horse, Vasco headed straight for the Tietê River.
38
The mud flew from Diabo's hooves as Ruis sped over the whirring green landscape, still wet from the recent rain. And at the thundering sound of the great horse behind him, Vasco increased his pace.
Did Ruis not know that he could release the baby at any moment he wished—to be trampled underfoot, just as he had been on the pampas? But no. Vasco had survived. Perhaps Paulo would also. And he could not take that chance. Holding the baby tighter to his breast, Vasco rode on toward the sound of the roaring falls. The deed must go as he had planned.
Ruis left the pathway, his jaw set in granite hardness, determined to cut off Vasco's route and turn him in the opposite direction—away from the river. But Vasco, looking to the side, saw what his brother was doing, and he headed for the more dangerous path, closer to the rocks themselves.
Blue sky and the green earth touched and merged, pinned together by shafts of sunlight falling from the sky, rippling through the trees, making an aisle of dazzling gold to blind the riders and their mounts. Vasco's horse stumbled, and the man, strapped to the animal, swayed dangerously before righting himself with a powerful arm.
"Vasco," Ruis shouted. "Stop! In the name of God, stop before it's too late."
"It is already too late, brother," Vasco shouted back. And then the sound of the cataract drowned out their voices.
The child who had wailed so loudly on the wild ride was now quiet—as if his experience had left no further tears. Small and helpless, he dangled from Vasco's arms, while the man urged his horse over the hazardous terrain.
In torrents, foaming and misting, the waters roared over the rocks, their rampant spray touching the sunlight, forming an arch of rainbows to bridge the chasm separating the oneness of the mighty Tietê.
The roar of the falls, the sense of foreboding greeted Maranta as she brought her mare to a stop on the same spot on which she had witnessed the New Year's Eve ceremony of the slaves offering their candles and gifts. Helplessly she watched and waited to see if her ultimate sacrifice—the life of her child—would be offered by Vasco to Iemanjá, the pagan goddess of waters.
Ruis dismounted from his horse and crept on foot toward Vasco. The man with the child in his arms edged his horse slowly over the loose rocks along the bluff—making for the very edge.
As Ruis reached out, a rock moved; the horse stumbled; and the terrified whinny of the animal rose in the wind and floated across the wild earth to combine with the never-ceasing noise of the waters.
Maranta gazed in horror as the side of the bluff gave way. The horse fell, and the white blanket drifted toward the rapidly rushing waters and then was drawn quickly out of sight.
She sank to her knees, great sobs racking her small frame. Her life was over. She had lost little Paulo.
Dazed by her bereavement and the horror of watching Vasco plunge from sight, still strapped to his horse, she was insulated from the happenings around her.
But an insistent voice demanded her attention. Through her tears, she gazed up at Ruis, his face bleeding from a cut across his cheek, his torn clothes muddy and disheveled.
But in his arms—in his arms—
"Your son, amada," he said, holding out the baby to her.
"Paulo," she screamed and grabbed the child to her, hugging him and kissing him. At her onslaught Paulo began to cry.
"I think you have frightened him, pequena," Ruis said, his voice filled with tenderness.
Maranta eased her hold on the child, and sitting on the ground, she rocked him back and forth until he quieted.
While he watched them both, a troubled Ruis heard Vincente's last words. For your sake and the girl's, I hope your brother Vasco remains in good health. And now, Vasco was dead.
Despite the servants' search, the waters had left no trace of Vasco da Monteiro. But his actions and those of Patû lived on in the memories of all those on the fazenda. Patû disappeared that night, and Floresta, too, abandoning her small son, Tefe.
"It is well that she abandoned him," Ruis commented. "Part of the inheritance will be Tefe's, as Vasco's son. And I would not have allowed the child to leave with her."
So it was that Maranta, dressed in widow's black, sat in the chapel with Ruis, Dona Isobel, and Tefe and heard the padre's prayers for Vasco's soul.
The child, Tefe, was moved into the nursery with Paulo to be watched over by Naka. And in the days that followed, Maranta would sit on the veranda with the two children by her side.
It was late afternoon when the little green bird appeared on the veranda. At the sight of the familiar little bird, Maranta smiled. "Look, Tefe. It's Fado," she said. "He has come home." They watched as he hopped about as if not quite sure of his welcome. "I wonder if he is hungry."
Together, they took the cage and filled it with seed and left it on the table where the bird was used to sunning himself as Maranta painted. And then, they went inside the house.
The next day, the seed was gone, and Maranta and Tefe replenished it. Now bolder, Fado flew into the cage as they watched, but Maranta made no effort to close the door. She had given Fado his freedom to come and go as he pleased.
Through the next few days, Maranta was aware of Ruis watching her. Now that Vasco was dead, she was free to leave, like Fado—but she could not. Paulo was the link that chained her to the Monteiro fazenda.
The mourning time for Innocencia was over, and a man like Dom Ruis would surely wish to marry again. What should she do? Maranta had never been a real wife to Vasco. She had no claim on the Monteiros. Each time that Ruis looked at her in his penetrating way, she was frightened that he would send her away.
As she sat on the veranda at the end of one day and gathered her paintbrushes to take inside, she heard: "Maranta, I wish to speak with you."
She looked up at Ruis, standing over her. "I must take these inside, if you don't mind, Ruis."
She stood up, gathering them in her hand, but Ruis took them from her and placed them on the small table where her palette lay. "No, pequena. You cannot continue to avoid me. There are words that must be spoken."
Maranta swayed. The discussion she had dreaded was being forced on her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
"You are not happy, Maranta," he said. "I have watched you closely for these past weeks, and not once have I seen a smile on your face, except with the children. Do you wish to return to your family in the Carolinas? If that is what will make you happy, then I shall not stop you."
Maranta stared at the tall, dark man before her, and her heartbeat suddenly quickened. Tears came to her eyes, and she cried out, "Please, Ruis. Don't send me away. I could not bear it—being separated from Paulo. . ."
"I would never send you away, amada," he corrected.
But she did not hear him. In anguish she continued, "I. . . I know that you will wish to marry again someday, Ruis—now the mourning time for Innocencia is almost over—but if you will let me stay in a little cottage somewhere, not too far from the fazenda, I promise—I won't be a burden to you. Just to see little Paulo occasionally—that's all I ask."
She had no pride left. Her voice broke, and she turned her head and stared unseeing toward the coffee slopes in the distance. Ruis's hand reached out, touching her arm and drawing her to him.
"You are not a burden, amada," he said tenderly. "You are my blessing, instead." He looked searchingly into her dark, tearful eyes as he went on, "As for marrying again, there are many obstacles to overcome. But for me, there is only one woman I love and wish for my wife—and she is the mother of my son."
Joy transformed Maranta's delicate features. "Ruis," she whispered, hardly believing his words as his lips met hers.
"Maranta," he breathed. "I love you so."
At length, he put her away from him and left the veranda. Maranta lingered, watching Fado hop about, flying to his swinging perch and then flitting to the feeder, chirping as he went.
Maranta clasped the Cruzamento closer to her breast, savoring the feel of the pearls and diamonds against her flesh, reminding her of the fulfillment of her destiny. Soon, the stars appeared in the sky, and she spied the constellation of the twins—Castor and Pollux—looking down on her, in the same manner as in Carolina. With a sense of peace she realized the fazenda was now her real home.
39
The holiday season at Midgard was clouded by the tense political climate in the state. But Marigold was stunned to see that another relationship had taken a turn for the better—Shaun and her father were sitting in the same room, sharing a brandy and conversation. Where was all the old animosity that Robert Tabor had once exhibited at the mere mention of the Irishman's name? Her father actually seemed to enjoy his discussions with Shaun. Marigold, sitting at the far end of the drawing room, only half listened as she waited for Robbie and the sixteen-month-old Raven to appear.
Robert Tabor, with the rest of Charleston, waited to hear how John Calhoun would fare in Washington upon his return. Although his name had never been attached to the articles of nullification, it was common knowledge that he had been the author.
But one afternoon in January, when Marigold was returning to the house from her usual daily walk, she saw a man on horseback riding up the avenue of magnolias. He seemed to be in a hurry, and Marigold suspected the man had news for her father.
"Uncle Arthur," she said, smiling when she recognized her godfather. He jumped from the horse and handed the reins to a boy waiting at the front.
"Marigold." He hurried up the steps toward her. "I have some good news. Where is your father?"
"In the library, I think."
Arthur went into the house and Marigold followed. "John has been allowed to take his seat in the Senate, Robert," the man said as soon as he saw his friend.
"Thank God," Robert Tabor replied and clasped Arthur's hand.
Henry Clay and John Calhoun began their work on a new tariff bill. The nullification act was scheduled to go into effect on February the first. If a compromise could not be worked out in the one month's time left to them, then the nation would be divided against itself.
Clay introduced the new bill, calling for a gradual reduction of the excessively high duties over the next ten years, with the proviso that after that date, no article would be subject to more than 20 percent of duty leveled on it. It passed.