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

the fazenda. She would never belong. Even if she should bear the child the condessa wanted, Maranta would still have no official place in the Monteiro family. She might even be sent away later.

Maranta thought of her little brother, Raven, so sweet in her arms. How she had enjoyed holding him and singing to him. And what a wrench of the heart to leave him. How much more heartache if Dom Ruis should be so cruel as to send her away after her own baby was born.

But Maranta was not with child. The night spent with Ruis had accomplished nothing but the taking of her maidenhead.

"Hello," the blond woman called out to Maranta as she passed through the sala. "You are Maranta, Dom Vasco's wife, are you not?"

"Yes, and you must be—Innocencia."

The tinkling laugh was musical and refreshing after the harsh, cynical laughter of her husband. "I have been so bored today, playing only with the pickaninnies. Come into my room and have tea with me."

Unable to think of an excuse not to do so, Maranta followed Innocencia through the sala and into the large room whose iron-grilled door stood open.

The draperies were drawn, shutting out the sun. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Maranta realized she was in the nursery. On the floor mat, several small black babies crawled.

Innocencia clapped her hands and said to the approaching servant, "Take them back to their quarters. I am tired of them."

The servant scooped up the babies under her arms and disappeared.

"Come sit down and I will ring for tea and cakes."

Maranta obeyed, fascinated by the beautiful young woman in her loose garment and bare feet. Innocencia sat on the ornately embroidered hammock and made room for Maranta. With one foot, she started the hammock into motion and then tucked both feet under her, as a child might do. The swinging back and forth was disconcerting to Maranta.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll sit in the chair," Maranta said. "I've been ill, and the swinging motion is making me dizzy."

Innocencia stopped the hammock for Maranta to get off. "Vasco said you were going to die, but you didn't, did you?"

"No."

The pale blue eyes stared at her in a curious manner, until the cakes and tea brought into the room diverted Innocencia's gaze.

"I have sweet cakes with cream every day," she confided. "All I can eat. Dona Isobel says it is not good for me to have so many, but I know why she tells me this. The black crow does not like me. But I do not care. I don't like her either."

Unaware of the shock her words produced, Innocencia tore into the cake, breaking it into small pieces. Her hands became sticky from the cream, and impatiently, she wiped them on the loosely fitting robe.

She was still a child—just like Robbie with his candied apple, thought Maranta. And yet, she was married to the Count of Sorocaba. And that made her the young condessa—the mistress of the household.

As soon as she could politely do so, Maranta stood up to leave.

Innocencia's voice was petulant. "Do you have to go?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so. Sassia will be looking for me. It's past time for me to rest."

Innocencia lay back on the hammock and pouted. "I'm beginning to get a headache, anyway." Then, she sat up. "But tomorrow. You'll come and see me again tomorrow?"

"If you wish," Maranta replied.

The smile lit up the angelic face. "We can have sugar cookies tomorrow. And I shall let you play with one of the pickaninnies. . ."

As Maranta disappeared, Innocencia scratched herself with the wickedly sharp three-inch fingernail on her little finger and reached for another sweet cake.

Two nights later, Maranta lay in bed. Moonbeams sifted through the soft, silken draperies and touched the gold band on her finger—the circlet put there by Dom Vasco in the chapel. But they had shared nothing more than a few sentences since that time. To Maranta it was a sacrilege to continue to wear a symbol of deceit and emptiness. Yet, she was afraid to remove it on her own.

She was exceedingly lonely. Innocencia behaved so strangely that Maranta could not depend upon her as a companion. And Dom Ruis had left the fazenda to see to the vast property that was his. From the conversation between Dona Isobel and the condessa at dinner, Maranta gathered that he had ridden southwest to the pampas where his gauchos watched over his cattle herds.

He had been away for two weeks, and each day he was gone emphasized his dominance over the Monteiro family. What a difference it made to all of them—the condessa and Dona Isobel included—to have Ruis absent from the coffee plantation. It was almost as if they were all asleep and waiting to be awakened at his return.

On one day, Maranta was grateful that he was away. And then, the next day, she had changed her mind. Puzzled at her ambivalent feelings toward this dark-haired man, a troubled Maranta finally fell asleep.

The breathing beside her bed awoke her. The moon no longer lavished its beams upon the bedcovers but, with a frugality, had nearly vanished, leaving the room in darkness.

Beyond the silken bed draperies, a shadow moved. Someone was in her room—watching Maranta as she slept.

How long had the person been there, staring at her? Had Dom Ruis returned from the pampas, and was he coming to her bed again?

Maranta shrank back against the pillow. Her voice, trembling with fear, called out, "Who's there?"

The shadow moved but did not answer.

Maranta sat up and again she called out, "Please tell me who you are."

The high tinkling laugh sounded at the same time the door opened, revealing Dona Isobel in the flickering candlelight.

"Come, Innocencia," the woman said. "It is time for you to go back to your room."

"No," the stubborn voice resisted. In the candlelight, Innocencia resembled a petulant angel with her beautiful blonde hair slightly awry.

"I have a sweet cake for you in your room, Innocencia. Go