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

The closer they got to the fazenda, the more alert the old condessa seemed, while Maranta grew visibly paler.

By this time tomorrow. Maranta closed her eyes and rested her dark head against the pillow. So she was to be given no chance to get to know Vasco before she was pushed into being his wife. But she would not think of that now. She was so sleepy. . .

The voices were low and near. Vaguely, she recognized the deep voice of Ruis, but not the words he spoke.

"Sim, Dom Ruis," another male voice answered, and as Maranta opened her eyes, she gave a sudden cry, for a savage-looking man was bending over her. She moved quickly to avoid him.

"Do not be afraid, senhorita," Ruis said. "Patû is merely curious to see what Vasco's noiva looks like. He did not mean to startle you." Ruis reached out to help the unsteady Maranta to her feet.

"Shall I carry you to your room?" the conde asked.

"I can walk," she assured Ruis and pushed herself away from him.

He let her go and spoke again to the Indian, whose dark features revealed no emotion at Maranta's reaction to him.

"Are we at the fazenda?" Maranta asked the conde when the Indian was no longer in sight.

"Yes, menina. And Mãe and Dona Isobel have already gone inside." The conde seemed amused, treating her once more as he would a child.

Eager and curious faces peeked around the corner of the fazenda. Maranta self-consciously brushed her skirts down to smooth them, and her hand went up to her disheveled hair.

The house was like a fortress, built on a high elevation—its walls of pisé, that clay-like white stucco, and its roof of red tile. And on the left, in front of the chapel, a tall crucifix shadowed the ground beneath it.

As Maranta stood on the sheltered veranda of the fazenda, she looked down upon miles of sloped terraces, with green bushes jutting out in symmetrical rows.

"I have never seen a coffee plant before," Maranta confided.

The conde, following her gaze, said, "It is a beautiful sight when they are all in bloom. Like a vast, endless field of snow." The pride in his voice was undisguised. "But you will have ample opportunity to see it, so we need not stand here any longer."

The conde clapped his hands, and a young black girl appeared.

"Sassia is to be your personal maid, Maranta. Go with her, and she will see to your needs."

"But how will I get her to understand me?"

"She speaks English. That is the reason I brought her here."

The black girl smiled and took a few steps, expecting Maranta to follow. But Maranta hesitated and looked back toward the palanquin. "Fado?"

"Is already in your room," Ruis assured her, his voice only slightly irritated.

Maranta followed Sassia through the reception hall and up the stairs to the second floor where the family's sleeping quarters were situated.

Maranta's room was in the center of the house. Almost like a prison, she thought. But she soon forgot that at the sight of the tub that had been loaded onto the Beaufort in Charleston. It was sitting in the corner of her bedroom, and Maranta looked longingly toward it.

"I will bring the hot water," the girl said, "and wash and brush your hair until it shines. Then, Dom Vasco will not be able to take his eyes off you tonight."

At the mention of Vasco's name, the same anxiety that she had felt earlier swept over her. Only a short reprieve—and then she would be face to face with her intended husband.

Silently, she let Sassia attend her, her mind on the dreaded evening ahead.

"And which dress will you wear tonight, yayá?" she asked Maranta, who stood in her petticoats beside Fado's cage.

Maranta shrugged. "I do not care. You choose one for me, Sassia," she said.

The girl's hands eagerly riffled through the row of dresses and stopped at the cream-colored silk, with its wide bands of brocade braid around the bottom of the skirt.

"I think. . . this one," Sassia said, shaking it to remove the last wrinkle. "And the tortoiseshell combs for your hair."

"But I have no combs."

"They are a gift from the sinhá-dona, the Condessa Louisa," Sassia explained.

And Sassia, taking over the arranging of Maranta's long hair, appeared satisfied with her work. As she led Maranta down to the main sala, Sassia's eyes shone with pride for her mistress, the girl who was to be Dom Vasco's wife.

But Maranta's eyes showed her dismay and nervousness. Everything was strange and alien—Sassia's calling her yayá, the parlor labeled by another name. Would she ever become used to the foreign words, the foreign food, and most of all, the foreigner who waited for her?

Maranta licked her dry lips and forced her hands to be still, for the condessa was walking toward her to draw her into the room. The white-haired woman's black dress was very formal, and her manner gave no indication of the long, hard journey she had suffered.

"Maranta, how lovely you look tonight," she said, taking her hand. "Vasco has been waiting impatiently to see you."

The man sat in a chair across the room—a younger version of Ruis, with his blue eyes, his hair that shone like satin. Yet, he was different, too, a paler version upon close inspection, like a reproduction of an original with lines not quite so well defined. He watched her hesitant progress with an amused look on his face.

Vasco made no effort to rise. Like a haughty king he sat and waited for Maranta to come to him. And when she stood before the man, he held out his ringed hand to her. He brought her delicately shaped fingers to his lips, but instead of releasing them, he grasped them tighter, so that Maranta could not step back.

"You have done well, Mãe. I compliment you on your selection."

And to Maranta, he spoke quietly. "My apologies for not rising, Maranta Tabor. But you see, my legs have been no