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

The girl's eyes indicated she was far away. "The forest—it is evil," she announced. "It frightens me. I have hidden it so it can't harm me."

When Maranta came closer, she saw that Innocencia had slashed the scene with black, ruining the careful color of the sunset that was beginning to take shape.

Aware of Naka coming toward her, Innocencia fled from the veranda, colliding with a servant who balanced the tigre on his head. It was lucky for both of them that he had already been to the river to empty the barrel that held the waste collected from the bedrooms, which was stored under the stairs until it was full. Innocencia shouted at the man as he retrieved the rolling tigre. And Maranta, wrinkling her nose, seated herself again at the easel and took a cloth to dip into the turpentine. Rubbing gently across the canvas, she removed the ugly black color. But in doing so, she could not save the beautiful hues of the river sunset. She would have to start over.

For the rest of the afternoon she worked, forgetting all sense of time, until a wave of nausea assailed her. Impatiently, Maranta brushed her hair back and surveyed the canvas. She had worked too long, sitting in one position. It had tired her. That was why she did not feel well.

Sassia, in her bare feet, silently approached. "It will soon be time for dinner, Senhora Maranta. I will bring your things inside for you."

The idea of food was repulsive to her. And she did not look forward to dressing or facing the family at dinner, especially Dom Vasco, with his amused expression each time he looked at her.

Maranta stood up and stretched, bringing her hand to rub the tense muscles at the back of her neck. A warm bath would make her feel better. "The canvas is easily blurred, Sassia. Make sure it does not rub against anything."

"I will be careful, senhora."

Later, as darkness overtook the fazenda, Maranta proceeded directly into the dining hall. The bell had already clanged, indicating it was late. But the only one ahead of her was Dom Ruis.

His eyes took in her appearance, the pale, ice blue dress that gave such contrast to her alabaster complexion and her liquid dark eyes. And his possessive look reached out to snare her.

Maranta put her hand up to her cheek in defense, but already, Ruis had turned to greet the condessa and Dona Isobel. Soon, Patû lifted Dom Vasco into his chair, and the meal began.

The conversation went on around her, but Maranta sat silently, toying with her food.

"You are not eating, daughter," the old condessa said, peering at the girl with curious, expectant eyes. "Has something happened to take your appetite?"

"No, Mãe," she assured her, spearing a piece of meat to put into her mouth. But the taste was not pleasant, and Maranta had difficulty swallowing it. She reached for the glass of wine at her place to help wash it down. The glass suddenly blurred in front of her, and in her awkwardness, the wineglass spilled its red liquid over the embroidered lace tablecloth.

Immediately a servant came to mop it up, and Maranta, lightheaded, pushed her chair from the table. Her one wish was to get to her room and lie down. "If you will excuse me, I. . ."

On unsteady feet, Maranta left the table. She did not know what was the matter with her.

"Ruis," the condessa's voice sounded. "The child is not well. I think you had better follow her."

She had gotten as far as the sala before her knees gave way. "Meu Deus," the deep voice proclaimed, while strong arms caught her before she reached the floor.

She was on the bed, with the cool cloth draped over her forehead. The odor of ammonia assaulted her nose, and Maranta moved her head to avoid it. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the man's face hovering over her.

"What. . . happened?" she asked, attempting to get up.

"Lie still, menina," Ruis ordered. And with an unfathomable expression, he stated, "You fainted, Maranta."

Indignantly, Maranta protested. "I. . . couldn't have fainted. I'm fine, I. . ."

"I assure you, pequena. You fainted, right into my arms—and it was not the first time. Only this time, I do not believe it was in fright."

"Is the fever returning?"

"No, Iemanjá. I think perhaps there is another reason. I think more than likely that you are with child."

Maranta's face paled even more, and unable to meet the dark sapphire eyes that held a satisfied gleam, Maranta pushed the cloth from her forehead and burrowed her face into the pillow.

For the first time in weeks, Ruis did not come to her bed that night. Maranta lay in the darkness—alone and unable to sleep. If it were true—what Ruis had said, that she might be with child—then it was no longer necessary. Dom Ruis Almeida José da Monteiro, Count of Sorocaba, would have his heir in less than nine months' time.

Morning sickness soon affirmed Ruis's suspicions. There was now no doubt. Maranta was with child, and there was no way she could keep it secret—from the servants, from Vasco, or Innocencia—

Innocencia improved, and Naka relaxed her constant vigil over her. The episode concerning the canvas was forgotten, and although Innocencia showed no interest in what Maranta was painting, at least she made no attempt to destroy it with the black paint.

One day, Maranta sat at her easel and occasionally glanced toward Innocencia who sat at the other end of the veranda. When Floresta brought refreshments and set them before Innocencia, the young woman called out, "Come and join me, Maranta. Sweet cakes and tea." She turned the porcelain cups upright and waited for Maranta.

Maranta realized she was hungry. She put her brushes aside, and removing the apron that protected her turquoise dress from the paints, she cleaned her hands and walked to the far end of the veranda. It was her pregnancy that gave her such an appetite,