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

the flowers on the mounded turf where the granite rock jutted from the earth. There was no fine monument; no iron-spiked fence—merely a common rock that Sesame had placed there with the name crudely chiseled, and cornerstones of smaller, white-washed rocks, worn smooth from the constant motion of the water in the creek bed.

"I have come to tell you good-bye," the voice said above her.

He helped her from her kneeling position and continued. "I will be leaving around noon tomorrow."

Marigold nodded, and with her sad eyes, she drank in the man's emerald green eyes, his dark auburn hair, the cleft in his chin, and the strong, craggy face that she loved and would never see again—

"I shall. . . miss you, Shaun."

He reached out for her hand, and in spite of her protest, kept it in his strong, warm one.

"Your hand is cold, Souci," he commented.

The bittersweet smile came to her trembling lips. "To match my heart," she said.

Shaun's face grew stern. "Leave him, Marigold. Crane Caldwell isn't worth it. Go home to your parents. They won't blame you."

She shook her head. "They have enough troubles of their own, Shaun. I cannot add to them."

He leaned over and kissed her gently on her forehead. And then he put into place the black shawl that had slipped from her golden curls. "If you ever need me, I'll come. You know that, Marigold."

She nodded and blinked back the tears. She wanted to cry out her need for him at that very moment, but her pride kept her from it. She watched him walk away and then turned to get her basket from the grass.

Crane, standing at the window on the upstairs landing of the plantation house, gazed toward the meadow, past the bare-limbed trees, and watched the two.

Shaun had waited until his men were gone, so there would be no witnesses, Crane decided. He clutched at the windowsill, his knuckles white from his intense grasp. He had only twenty-four hours to rid himself of his faithless wife and her lover. A pity that Feena had to interfere and keep the carriage from plunging into the river. Now, he would have to get rid of them both at the same time—Marigold and Shaun—a much harder deed to accomplish.

That night, a wary Crane locked his bedroom door and loaded his pistol to place under his pillow. He was prepared if Shaun should come for him in the night.

29

The old condessa sat in bed and sipped her hot yerba mate. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Maranta, who had come to read to her.

As soon as the woman had recovered sufficiently from her heart seizure on that day Ruis had brought Maranta back from the wilderness to the fazenda, she had made daily visits to Dona Louisa's apartment.

With unconcealed anticipation, Dona Louisa turned to Maranta. "I have a desire to hear Molière today, my daughter. It has been a long time since someone has read to me in French."

"You have the book, Mãe?" Maranta wondered which of the books that she had never been allowed to read, that the condessa wished to hear.

"Not in the apartment. You will have to borrow it from Ruis. He will not mind."

"But if he is busy. . ."

"You won't disturb him. Go now and ask for it. And you might select a few others while you are there. Take your time."

"Which book shall I ask for, Mãe?"

Petulantly, the old woman brushed aside her question. "Get Ruis to choose." And in Portuguese, she said, "Go with her, Jésus," to the little boy seated near the window, playing with the colored yarn from the condessa's embroidery basket.

Immediately he arose, and Maranta, hesitant to face the conde, yet wishing to obey Dona Louisa, walked out of the room with the child.

The heavy wooden door to the library was closed. Before she knocked, Maranta reached up to smooth the flyaway wisps at the nape of her neck and inspected the long, flowing blue silk garment that clung to her body in loose folds. It had been a matter of necessity, because of her pregnancy, to put away her own dresses with their tiny waists. But she suspected that the beautifully embroidered wardrobe that appeared one day in her apartment had been made for another, and merely altered to fit her own diminutive figure.

There was no reply at the first tap. Nervously, Maranta knocked again, this time a little louder.

"Come in," the deep voice commanded. And so Maranta turned the handle and walked inside.

Ruis sat at his desk, and his hair was ruffled—as if he had run his fingers through it time and again.

"Pequena," he said in surprise. He stood up and walked toward her. "Is something the matter?"

"No, Ruis. It is just that Mãe wishes to borrow some books from your library. If that is all right," she added hastily.

His eyes boldly drank in her appearance, with her rounded stomach, her swelling breasts now more noticeable than before.

"How is Mãe feeling?" he asked, still staring boldly at Maranta.

"She is better today," Maranta answered, her body and mind more aware of Ruis's encompassing gaze than her reply.

"She has a. . . preference?"

"What?"

"Mãe—does she wish a certain book, querida?"

Maranta flushed at his endearment. "Molière. She wishes Molière—and several others, if you do not mind."

"Why do you think I would mind, Maranta?"

"You are busy. I did not wish to disturb you."

Once again, his dark blue eyes pierced her. "It is a little late for that, is it not?"

His manner toward her made her nervous. Glancing at the child by the door, Maranta said, "Jésus has come to help me with the books."

Ruis laughed. "And you think he might understand English?"

"It is not. . . what you are saying, Ruis. It is your. . . manner."

"Then we shall give him something to occupy him, hm?" Without waiting for Maranta to respond, Ruis went to the shelves and quickly selected several books, taking them to the child.

"Be off with you, Jésus, and take