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

Maranta decided, especially after the morning sickness disappeared for the day.

Innocencia filled one cup from the teapot and pushed it toward Maranta.

"Are you not going to have some, too?" she asked, when Innocencia left her own cup unfilled.

"Later," she said, "when I have finished my sweet cake."

Between bites, Innocencia watched Maranta expectantly with her pale blue eyes. The liquid was not tea. Maranta could tell from its odor. Holding up the cup, she asked, "What is it?"

"Aguardente," Innocencia replied, giggling.

Maranta knew that the servants were partial to an alcoholic drink made from sugarcane juice, but she was not eager to try it. She wrinkled her nose at the odor.

"Don't be a prude, Maranta. Drink it," Innocencia urged.

Maranta took the cup in her hands but lowered it at the sight of Ruis riding in from his inspection of the slopes. He had seen them and was coming toward them on the veranda. A pretty sight for him, Maranta thought bitterly—his wife and his pregnant comadre having tea together. Only it was not tea.

Ruis's boots sounded on the stone floor, interrupting the chirp of Fado in his cage. The man was almost upon them when Maranta determinedly raised the cup to her lips.

Ruis lifted his head like some dark panther sensing danger and sniffed the air. That peculiar odor. Where was it coming from?

"Que Diabo!" he said, reaching out and knocking the cup from Maranta's lips. The liquid spilled on her dress, and the delicate porcelain cup tumbled to the floor where it shattered.

His violent action alarmed Maranta. With trembling hands, she jumped from her chair and tried to brush the liquid from her skirts.

"You—you had no right to do that," Maranta said, her voice as unsteady as her heartbeat.

"I have every right," Ruis corrected, with a fierce gleam overtaking his sapphire eyes. "Where did you get that drink, Maranta? I demand to know. Who gave it to you?"

He looked at the silent Maranta and then toward Innocencia. The blonde-haired woman put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle.

Ruis's gaze narrowed at her nervous gesture. "Was it you, Innocencia?"

She giggled again and nodded.

The thunderous look echoed in the man's voice. "Go to your room, Innocencia. At once!"

The woman got up from the table, and turning her back on both Ruis and Maranta, she snatched the rest of the sweet cakes, before running inside.

Maranta, now angry at Ruis's harsh treatment of both of them, defended Innocencia. "Surely, there was no need to frighten Innocencia like that, over a little harmless aguardente."

Ruis took the silver teapot and, opening the lid, stared at the remaining liquid. Flipping the lid back in place, he repeated, "A little harmless aguardente. Is that what you imagined it to be, Maranta?"

"Isn't it?"

"Poor little innocent. You did not drink any of it, did you?"

"You gave me no time to do so."

"Bem!"

"It is not. . . aguardente?"

"No, Maranta."

"Then what is it?"

She watched him empty the liquid onto the ground beyond the railing of the veranda and then hurl the beautifully engraved silver teapot over the surrounding wall. He stood at the railing for a minute before coming back to the table.

"You remember the day the Indian outside the gate frightened you?" Ruis asked.

"How could I forget—especially with the snake coiled up by the steps to frighten me, too."

"But the Indian, Maranta. You remember his appearance?" Ruis insisted.

"I am not likely to forget those horrible lesions on his skin," Maranta said, shuddering.

"The same deadly drink that caused his skin condition, Maranta, was in your teacup."

Her face turned pale, and she held onto the chair at her sudden dizziness.

"You are never to eat or drink anything that Innocencia offers you. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Ruis."

He walked with her into the house, his dark face still brooding. "Who served you, Maranta? Who brought the teapot to the veranda?"

Reluctantly, Maranta answered, "It was. . . Floresta."

The man's lips tightened into a thin line. "I shall have to speak to Vasco about that."

A subtle change spread over the fazenda, and Maranta became more of a prisoner than ever, with constant attention lavished upon her. She was waited upon, hand and foot—not allowed to lift the lightest pillow, move the easel one inch on the veranda, or carry Fado's cage up and down the stairs. Sassia remained at her elbow, seeing to her food, and Maranta, despite her scare with Innocencia, felt stifled at all the attention given her—from everyone, except Ruis. His duty was done. She was pregnant. And so he could afford to stay away for days at a time, seeing to his vast estate.

Ruis had been gone for over a week before Vasco deemed to speak to Maranta alone. He wheeled his rolling chair out onto the veranda and inspected the painting that Maranta had nearly completed.

"I understand that you are soon to become a little mother. Is that true, my faithless wife?"

Maranta, dropping the paintbrush at his question, marred the stone floor with the red paint. Vasco's harsh laugh mocked her attempt to clean it up.

"What shall I do, Maranta? Announce to the padre your terrible sin? Or keep silent and pretend that the child is mine? What would you have me do, wife?"

Maranta was voiceless. The blood drained from her face. "Dom Vasco. . ."

"Upon second thought, I think I might enjoy playing the role of a proud papa. Floresta has become too possessive of late. And then, too, it will bother Ruis, since he can never openly acknowledge the child as his. . . .

"Yes, that is what I shall do, Maranta. It will save you from being labeled an adulteress. And I will receive satisfaction, seeing Ruis denied something in his life. And what will be harder for him than to deny his own son?"

Maranta twisted the paintbrush in her hands. "The child may be a girl," she said in a timid, low voice.

"Oh no, my dear wife. Ruis would never allow that. It will be a boy, and to the world, I shall be its father—

"Do not look