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

lay in the chapel, with multitudes of candles and mounds of exotic flowers guarding her bier. The long white gown embroidered with gold—similar to the one Maranta had worn—was draped in graceful folds about her body. And her long slender hands lay folded across her breast.

No one seeing the girl—her blue eyes, pale as the summer sky, closed forever—would have suspected her of a single unkind thought, much less a malignant deed. Yet, Maranta knew differently. But she would keep silent. It would not do to speak ill of the dead.

Because of the warm weather, the funeral could not be delayed for Innocencia's family to arrive. And so on the next day, the rites took place. The old condessa, supported by Dona Isobel, Vasco, Ruis, and Maranta gathered in the chapel, and the padre began the service.

As Maranta sat in the chapel, her dark hair covered by the black lace mantilla, she stopped hearing the words the padre spoke. Her mind and eyes were on the Cruzamento da Monteiro, still hanging around the Dolorosa's neck—that and the head of the distant, formidable Ruis, who sat in the pew in front of her. His black suit was austere to match the severity of his posture.

A fly buzzed about the ceiling, and the sickening sweet fragrance of flowers and myrtle wax candles bombarded Maranta's senses.

The nagging ache in her back, that had begun that morning, increased, tightening its ribboned pain around her stomach. A small gasp escaped her lips and she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

Vasco frowned at her and whispered, "What is the matter with you, Maranta?"

She shook her head and did not answer, for Dona Isobel was gazing in their direction with a censuring look.

The service continued, and Maranta, feeling the pains coming on, twisted the handkerchief tighter and tighter. Small beads of perspiration formed above her lip, and her skin took on the pale milkiness of the white candles burning.

Now, Vasco looked worried. "Maranta?" he inquired again softly. "Is it the baby?"

Her dark doe eyes, filled with pain, rested on Vasco's face. Her lips formed the word silently. "Yes."

"You mean—the baby is coming? Now?"

"I. . . think so," she whispered, and tightened her hands on the limp handkerchief in her lap.

Vasco immediately turned and motioned for Patû, who came silently to his side. "Carry my wife to her room," he ordered, "and then return for me."

Now beyond protest at the scene she was making, Maranta was lifted into the strong arms of the Indian and removed from the chapel.

The casket closed and the dead Innocencia was lowered into the family vault, while upstairs, Ruis's child struggled to be born.

Vasco stayed by her side, letting her grip his hands as the pain worsened. Then he was sent from the room, and Sassia with Naka, took over. Finally, a strange man with a red beard and dark robe put in an appearance—the doctor summoned from the town of Hitû to preside at the birth of the heir to the Monteiro fortune.

In her pain, Maranta forgot every Portuguese word she had ever been taught. And there was no one who understood her cry for help. The man answered her in the strong, nasal language that meant nothing to her.

Dona Isobel—the condessa—Ruis—all ignored her as she traveled through hell and back again.

Far into the night, the travail continued, but the baby did not come. There was something wrong. It was in that man's eyes, and Maranta feared that she was going to die—that she and the unborn child would join Innocencia underneath the stone floor of the chapel.

Would Ruis grieve for her, too? Or would he be furious with her for allowing the child to die with her?

Maranta, through the white silken draperies of her bed, was only partially aware of another figure who stood and watched her—Ruis, with tears in his dark sapphire eyes—grieving for his dead wife, and for his son who refused to be born.

The strong hand gently touched the long black hair, wet from the ordeal of a fruitless labor.

"Amada, you cannot die," he whispered, his deep voice alien in its emotion. "I have greatly wronged you. But I do not ask that you pay for my sin. Live, amada," he whispered with a desperate urgency, "for the sake of my son—and for me."

White feathers lay on the table beside Fado's empty cage—with the beads, the bowl of rice, and the plaster saint. The candles glowed in the night. The room took on the same odor as the chapel.

"No, it's pagan," Maranta protested, "just like the figa. Take them away," she urged, thrashing deliriously in her bed.

"Marigold," she called out. "I never told you. Shaun loved you. He didn't desert you. . . The blood," she moaned, "So much blood."

Maranta held her hand to her face. "I do not make a habit of complaining over something so small, senhor. I am used to the gnats and mosquitoes of my own country. . .

"Fado, you are a beautiful little bird—not silly and molting. Forget what the arrogant conde has said."

Ruis suddenly changed into the man with the red beard, who leaned down to take her hand in his. Had Ruis come to see her? Or had the strength of her wish given the man in the robe the appearance of Ruis for a short time?

She was so tired. She wished to rest, but the man with the red beard would not allow it. "Senhora," he called, over and over, slapping at her, pinching her, and never leaving her alone.

"Please," she whimpered, but he paid no attention to her entreaty. He was intent upon punishing her, making her bear the pain—the pain that would not stop.

With an agonized scream, Maranta felt her body torn apart. Before she lost consciousness, she heard a familiar voice. Sassia's—"Rest, yayá. No one will stop you now."

32

Maranta awoke to an empty room. The white silken bed draperies were drawn and the shutters at the windows kept the room in darkness. Was it