Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

so resembled his wife. And seeing her bite her lip, trying to keep the tears back, he was half inclined to put her in the carriage and inform the condessa that he had changed his mind.

But the idea of having her shut away in a nunnery was galling to him. She was meant to be loved—to bear children. And the condessa had promised him that Vasco Monteiro would treat her gently. So he resisted the urge to wave the Portuguese woman on and instead, leaned over and kissed Maranta on the forehead. "Maranta. . ."

The whistle sounded.

"Papa?"

"God go with you, daughter." He backed away from her, and with her vision blurred by the fullness of tears, Maranta walked blindly toward the condessa and her companion.

Over an hour later, Robert Tabor was still standing on the wharf. The Beaufort was now completely out of sight, having disappeared over the horizon.

Another part of him was gone, and he grieved for the loss of his dark-haired child.

The ship traveled to the Bahamas, taking on fresh water and supplies in Nassau. Then, on through the West Indies and the Caribbean, past Venezuela and Guiana. Onward the ship sailed, through rough seas and placid waters, until finally, Brazil, the land of rain forests and deserts, mountains and valleys, diamonds and gold, sugar and coffee, was sighted.

Yet, for Maranta and her companions the trip was far from over. For now the journey along the Brazilian coast began. Southeast, past the mouth of the Amazon, on to Fortaleza, and rounding the northeastern tip, the Beaufort headed southwest past Rio, the capital. Two months from the day it had set sail from Charleston, the Beaufort brought its steam-propelled paddle wheels to a stop—in a natural harbor with the blue mountains of the Serra do Mar hovering in the distance.

To the constant beat of the music, they came—one after the other—with the heavy sacks of coffee beans over their shoulders. Black and strong, the perspiring slaves paraded from the warehouses to the dock. And everywhere the heavy, penetrating odor of coffee infiltrated the air. There was no place where Maranta Tabor could be free of it; for this was Santos, the port city of São Paulo, the coffee kingdom.

"It will not be long now," Dona Isobel assured Maranta. "As soon as the coffee is loaded and the slaves are gone from the dock, we will be allowed to leave the ship."

Maranta, in a secluded part of the deck, nodded and watched while ropes drew their pungent load high into the air and then lowered the sacks onto the ship. The ropes sank out of sight and then swung the empty cradle back to the dock to repeat the procedure until all the coffee was loaded.

Maranta's fears swung back and forth in rhythm to the ropes and the chant of the strange music coming from the wharf. She had been on the ship far too long and she ached to feel solid ground underneath her feet. But she was afraid to leave the vessel, for she would be that much nearer to the man who waited to make her his wife.

What if he were disappointed in her, as he was sure to be? Would he send her back home on the same ship as his coffee beans?

Frowning, Maranta picked at the small, downy, green feather that had floated through the air to lodge against her pale blue silk dress.

For ten days, the ship had been in quarantine because of the death of one of the sailors. But no one else had become ill, so they were all being allowed to go ashore.

During their time of forced quarantine, fresh fruit had been delivered to the ship and enough water, not only to drink, but to bathe in, as well. Even though she had washed her long, black hair the evening before and soaked luxuriously in the tub that the condessa had ordered aboard before leaving Charleston harbor, Maranta was already hot and uncomfortable.

There would be no change of seasons for her. Now that she had survived another sweltering Carolina low-country summer, with its dangers of malaria and yellow fever, Maranta could look forward to no cold winter. She was destined to live through another summer season, this time in an uncivilized foreign country where seasons were turned upside down and the Brazilian heat had just begun.

Dona Isobel, dressed in black from head to toe, began fanning vigorously. "This trip has been hard on the condessa," she confided to the girl seated beside her. "And the journey from Santos to São Paulo and upriver to the fazenda will be even more taxing for her." The woman's troubled face brightened, and in a kind voice she said, "But I know she counts her trip a success because of you, senhorita."

Maranta's dark eyes became even more solemn, and she folded her hands listlessly in her lap and kept quiet.

"It won't be long before we disembark. I think I had better see if the condessa needs me," the woman said, getting up from the makeshift seat. "I shall not be long and I know I can rely on you not to wander about. You promise to stay seated here on deck until I return, Senhorita Maranta?"

"Yes, senhora," she replied, knowing it would be futile to try to run away. She knew no one who would help her. And the little of the Portuguese language she had learned from Dona Isobel on the ship was not enough. Fazenda. She had recognized the word for coffee plantation. That was easy. But all the other alien words. How would she converse with the man who was to be her husband if he did not speak English?

A fresh wave of fright swept over Maranta, and for comfort she touched the golden locket she was wearing around her neck—that bit of gold that had been blessed by Father Ambrose on her birthday and presented to her by her maman and papa, now half the world away.

At that moment, devastation