Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

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.

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