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

"Is this the portion of the fazenda where Dom Vasco lives?" Maranta asked, retracing her earlier steps when Ruis had escorted her to the chapel.

"No, senhora. Dom Vasco sleeps in the guest chambers on the ground floor. He has a rolling chair that he can push onto the veranda when he pleases. He is carried upstairs only for meals."

"Then n-no one else is in this part of the house?"

"Dom Ruis spends much time in the library across from your apartment. That is where he works—and reads. He has many fine books, senhora."

"But at night. . ."

"Do not be afraid, senhora. The fazenda is well guarded at night."

Maranta, walking into the apartment, was so entranced at its beauty that she forgot her fear. The fine, heavily carved furniture gleamed in its waxed luster. And the silken draperies, of pale lilac, matched the sofa before the ornate fireplace that was now filled with greenery.

She opened the door to the bedroom and sank almost to her ankles in the luxurious white fur carpet. The massive bed of dark wood took up a major portion of one end of the room. Like a mammoth version of the palanquin, it was oriental in character, its fretwork reaching to the ceiling, where the thin white silk draperies hung, ready to be closed against the drafts, protecting the one who slept there.

The only contrast in color came from the clutter of pillows—mauve and aqua, pale lemon, and deep pink—that invited Maranta to lay her head against their exquisite softness.

"It is beautiful," Maranta whispered, awed by the magnificence of the room.

So different in design from the rest of the house. So different from the nun's meager cell that Maranta had thought to occupy in the Convent of Our Blessed Lady.

"Was this the Condessa Louisa's apartment, Sassia? Have I taken it from her?"

"No, Senhora Maranta. The young conde had it redone for his wife, Innocencia, but she never slept here. She preferred. . . another part of the house."

The eyes, blue as a summer sky—and hair the color of moonbeams. Yes, Maranta could see how it would suit a woman of that coloring. The knowledge that it was originally intended for the conde's young wife caused Maranta to lose part of her pleasure in being given the beautiful apartment.

"But the room suits you much better, senhora," Sassia said, as if she could tell what Maranta was thinking. "For you are like the 'mother of waters'—with your skin made of pearl and your black hair."

But Maranta shook her head. Marigold—or Innocencia. The apartment was meant for a golden-haired woman, not for someone whose tresses were black like the night with no stars shining.

Maranta sighed. It had been a long day and she was tired.

"Shall I help you with your dress?"

"Yes, please."

Maranta started to protest when she saw the lace gown and peignoir that Sassia laid on the bed. The set had been designed for her trousseau—her wedding night—and purchased by her own maman.

She had no need to look beautiful tonight, for she would spend her wedding night by herself. But was that not what she had wanted? Why then this feeling of loneliness and isolation?

With her long hair loose and flowing down her back, Maranta walked to the jewel case where Sassia had placed the locket. Once again, Maranta pulled out the cross of pearls and diamonds and examined it. Why had the condessa been so lavish with her gift? Surely, even then, on her birthday, the senhora had known that she could never be a true wife to her son.

Carefully, Maranta returned the gift to its case and knelt by the bed for her evening prayers. She heard the steps past her apartment—once and then twice. Maranta lifted her head from her prayers and listened. But then a door opened and shut—the library, more than likely. Relieved, she closed her eyes again and continued with her prayers.

The candles burned low, and Maranta, ready for bed, stood up and removed the peignoir to place it across the chair near the bed.

A dark shadow in the doorway moved, and the startled Maranta recognized the tall, masculine figure of Dom Ruis staring at her with his strange dark sapphire eyes.

"R-Ruis, what is the matter? What are you doing—in my room?"

She drew her arms across the thin lace gown to hide the outline of her young, high breasts.

"Have you not guessed, Maranta," he said, his voice bitter and cold, "why the condessa brought you here?"

"To. . . to marry Dom Vasco," she replied, her face now the same color as the white silk draperies that lined the massive bed.

Ruis gave a harsh laugh. "Do you think Mãe risked her life for that? No, Maranta. It was for the sake of an heir to the Monteiro fortune—a child to be worthy of the proud Monteiro name. You were selected as the mother of her grandson."

"But Vasco. . ."

"Can never sire another child. He has only Tefe, the half-breed, the mameluco, by the Indian girl, Floresta."

"No," Maranta said, backing away from him.

"Yes, Maranta. The only reason you have been brought here is to bear my son."

"But you. . . you are already married, senhor."

"Do you think I do not know that? Do you think that it has not haunted me that I am tied for the rest of my life to a wife who is barren—and insane?"

"Please, Dom Ruis," Maranta said, her trembling hand pushing back her long, black hair from her cheek. "There has been some mistake."

"There is no mistake, Maranta. Did I not see with my own eyes the Cruzamento da Monteiro about your neck and hear your confession that it was the condessa who gave it to you?"

His hand grasped her arm, and he stared fiercely into her frightened eyes. "The cross is always given to the mother who has borne the Monteiro heir. My father gave it to Mãe the day I was born. And I had hopes of presenting it to Innocencia—"

His voice was filled with pain and a