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

Ruis closed the door behind him, and Maranta, standing before the shelves, felt her neck prickle as the man returned to stand beside her. He was so close that she could feel his warm breath upon her neck.

"So Mãe sent you to me," he said, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips.

"Only for the books, Ruis. I think I had better go back to her."

"Relax, pequena. There is no hurry."

"But she is waiting for me to read to her."

Ruis laughed. "Mãe is not that fond of books. She much prefers to gossip and manipulate other people's lives."

Maranta's eyes widened. "You mean, she. . ."

"She wished to give me an opportunity to see you, without the jealous Vasco at your side."

"Vasco is not jealous." Did Ruis not realize Vasco paid attention to her solely to antagonize his brother?

Ruis lifted his eyebrows in a sardonic gesture. "You think not? Then you are even more of an innocent than I imagined. Come, menina, and rest awhile. It is not good for you to be on your feet overlong."

Despite her protests, he led her to the leather couch and sat beside her. "Is the child stirring?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "Particularly at night."

"He will be a strong, healthy son."

Ruis's pronouncement upset Maranta. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that. I'm already terrified that we shall both be a. . . a disappointment to you when the time comes."

His face softened at her admission. "You think I shall be unhappy if the child is a girl?" He reached out and touched her cheek with his hand.

"Vasco said. . ."

"Forget what Vasco has told you. I am sure he is the one hoping it will be a boy. For then, there would be no excuse for me to frequent your bed again."

Maranta pushed herself from the sofa. "I must go. The condessa is waiting."

She rushed toward the door. "Haven't you forgotten something?" Ruis asked.

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Molière. You have forgotten Mãe's book. What will she think if you return empty-handed? I wonder which she would prefer? The Imaginary Invalid? Or The School for Wives?"

"Maranta, where are you?" Vasco's impatient voice penetrated the closed library door.

"She is in here, brother," Ruis replied, opening the door, "getting the book Mãe requested."

Vasco wheeled his chair into the library and glanced first at Maranta and then at Ruis, who walked to the shelf to retrieve a book.

"Tell Mãe that I will be down to see her before I ride out to the fields."

Vasco, pushing his rolling chair, kept up with Maranta as she walked back to the condessa's apartment with the book in her hand. Ever since he had gotten Patû to bring his chair upstairs from his chambers each day, Maranta did not know when Vasco might appear.

"You are looking flustered, Maranta," Vasco accused. "Was Ruis forward with you?"

"He touched my hand as he transferred the book to me," she snapped. "Is that being forward, Vasco?"

"Probably just an accident," he admitted. "But I hope Mãe will send someone else to the library in the future. I shall speak to her about that."

What had started out as an effort to antagonize Ruis had developed into something much more serious. For now, Vasco paid almost no attention to Floresta, or his half-breed son, Tefe. And sometimes in the hallway, Maranta could feel the Indian girl's hate directed toward her.

Not only was Vasco monitoring Maranta's health, he had also taken it upon himself to teach her Portuguese. Each afternoon she was coached by the man in his rolling chair, most of the time in her apartment, but occasionally downstairs in the guest chambers that Vasco claimed as his own. Always in the background, Patû, the Indian, stood, his face emotionless, his eyes revealing nothing.

The season for the coffee harvest had arrived and additional workers were hired to pick the ripe fruit and extract the beans hidden inside.

Great baskets, brought by the mules and donkeys, were brought from the slopes of the terra-roxa to be emptied onto the ground and raked in symmetrical patterns so that they might dry evenly. When one side was dry, the beans were turned to the other side, to be baked in the brilliant Brazilian sun.

The beans were dumped in great mounds, and it did not seem to matter to either the animals or the men that the coffee was trampled underfoot by muddy shoes and hooves. Maranta, watching the activity from the veranda, turned up her nose. She much preferred tea, anyway.

Ruis was up early and did not return to the house until late each evening. The condessa still had her meals in her apartment, and Dona Isobel had taken to eating with her. So now there were only three at the dinner table each night—Ruis, Maranta, and Vasco.

Innocencia lived in her own world, with Naka as her keeper. At times, she seemed to be completely lucid. But when she was having one of her spells, the slightest variation in her day disturbed her.

No one mentioned the flowers torn from their vases in the sala and other rooms of the house and strewn over the floor. The servants, accustomed to the oddity, cleared the shredded petals almost as soon as they fell. And fresh greenery and flowers were quickly installed in the empty containers.

Maranta, on her way to the dining sala one evening, stopped to admire the flowers on the hallway table not far from her sitting room door. The beautiful old gilt mirror reflected the image of the flowers—making the mammoth bouquet appear to be twice as large as it actually was.

When she reached out her hand to touch a snowy white blossom to assure herself it was real and not made of silk, she was startled by the sudden opening of the library door.

Maranta drew her hand back and took a step away. "One moment, Maranta, if you please."

Reluctantly she halted in her flight and waited for Ruis to catch up with her.

"I have something that is yours," he