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

chapel and hang it on one of the statues for safekeeping. And there it could remain forever. She would never wear it again. She could not bear to have it in her sight, to remind her of her humiliation.

Clasping the peignoir around her body, Maranta ran barefoot down the deserted hall, across the gallery, and down the steps into the chapel itself.

The white flowers near the altar were wilted—a sad reminder of what had taken place less than twenty-four hours previously.

She could not even kneel to pray. She felt too unworthy.

The row of saints stood in silent splendor before her. Maranta walked among them until she came to the Dolorosa, the sad-eyed madonna that echoed her own hurt and sadness. Standing on tiptoe, she hung the cross around the statue's neck.

As she made her way back up the stairs, her shoulders drooped and her steps were slow. A door closed nearby, and Maranta, aware of her scanty attire, hid in the alcove until the heavy steps grew lighter along the marbled hallway and then made no further sound.

With a sudden urgency to get back to the safety of her room, Maranta rushed from her hiding place, her dark hair flying behind her, her small, silent, bare feet sprinting along the cold, black-and-white tiles of the hall.

At her suite, she grasped the golden handle, pushed open the door, and then, leaning against the closed wooden panel, she struggled for her breath; for she had run as if the devil's legions had been on her heels.

The breakfast tray lay where Sassia had left it—on the table beside the pale lilac sofa. The tea was already cold, but Maranta gulped it down to assuage the terrible thirst that had come upon her. She left the rest of the breakfast untouched.

From the bedroom door, Sassia appeared, and Maranta, seeing the black girl, put down the delicate porcelain cup and asked, "Is my bath ready?"

"Yes, senhora. It is ready."

Suddenly shy at undressing before the servant, Maranta said, "I. . . I do not need any help, Sassia. Just put my dress on the bed, and then you may go."

"Yes, senhora," the girl replied.

Maranta went behind the screen and removed her gown. As she climbed into the tub of warm water, there appeared to be no telltale signs that her body was any different from the day before. Yet, Maranta knew that was not true. The spots of blood on the silken sheet acknowledged that she would never be the same again. She was no longer the virgin bride brought to the fazenda to marry the younger brother of the conde—but a woman taken by the wrong man on her wedding night. Yet, she had meant nothing to him. She was a means to an end. Without any emotion or love, she had been selected to bear the heir of the Monteiro family.

Now she knew why Marigold had not been considered a suitable candidate by the condessa. Her sister would never have allowed such a thing to happen to her.

But with Maranta, it was different She was too shy, too intimidated by the entire family to assert herself. Perhaps now that the conde had had his way with her, he would leave her alone.

Maranta, feeling suddenly ill and weak, decided not to put on the dress Sassia had laid out for her. Instead, she put on a fresh gown and barely brushed the tangles from her long, black hair before climbing again into the dreaded bed that she had shared with Dom Ruis. The soiled sheets had been removed, and in their place, fresh white silken ones covered the mattress.

For the rest of the morning, Maranta remained in her room—too tired and disheartened even to see about Fado, who chirped in his cage by the window. When the bell signaled that luncheon was served, Maranta did not respond. Too embarrassed to face Dom Ruis and his family, she drew the bed draperies around her and hid in her cocoon of thin, gossamer silk.

Later, Sassia came into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. "Are you not feeling well, Senhora Maranta?"

"I. . . I have a headache, Sassia."

"Do you wish me to bring some food to you?"

"No, thank you. I. . . am not hungry. But I am very thirsty. Could you please bring me some water to drink?"

The girl left the room and soon returned with a glass, holding it for Maranta as she drank. When the glass was drained, Maranta asked, "May I have more?"

The servant's troubled eyes stared at Maranta, and then, backing away from the bed, she took the empty glass with her.

But it was not Sassia who entered the room later. It was the conde, Dom Ruis. He thrust back the curtains, and Maranta, just on the edge of sleep, opened her dark doe eyes, and at the sight of the man, she gave a cry.

"Be still, menina. I will not hurt you," he said in a stern voice.

His face was solemn—almost angry. And in a commanding tone he said, "Let me see your right arm."

Obediently, Maranta held it out, and Ruis bent over, examining the faint teeth marks left by the vicious bat. His hand ran up her arm, and she protested, "Please, Dom Ruis. There is no cause for concern."

His frown denied her affirmation. To her forehead his hand moved and then brushed back the slightly damp tendrils that clung to her perspiring skin. Under his breath he muttered words that Maranta could not understand. And in English he said, "You are running a fever, Maranta. Do you have a headache also?"

"Yes," she replied. "And. . . and my throat hurts." She swallowed painfully.

At her confession, Ruis became terrifying to see. Never had she seen his face so angry, so filled with wrath, his eyes flashing with a malignant light. He swept out of the room like a whirlwind, but before Maranta could stop shivering from fright, he was back again, thrusting something toward her.

Leaves—of some unknown