Free Witch's Harvest by Sara Craven

watch, then sat bolt upright in shock. It was nearly midday!
    She sank back against her pillows with a stifled groan. So much for all her good intentions, she thought grimly. She'd made all
    kinds of plans in her head for this first day at Riocho Negro, exploring the rest of the house, and visiting the kitchens among
    them. And she had hoped too that Vasco would offer to take her on a guided tour of the estate so that she could find out at least
    the basics of the cacao industry.
    The oddly subdued atmosphere which had hung over the household during the latter part of the previous day had shown her
    quite clearly that she had proved a disappointment in one way at least. Vasco's orders about the sleeping arrangements had
    been carried out to the letter, but Abby was conscious that, afterwards, the smiles from the servants were not as ready as they
    had been.
    A newly married couple who chose to sleep apart were obviously a total bewilderment to the household. Abby had no idea if
    Vasco had offered his staff any kind of explanation, but she suspected glumly that they would still regard it as some deficiency
    on her part.
    But she badly needed to make a good impression in other ways. If she could contribute to the running of the house, in spite of
    the language barrier, and take an intelligent interest in the work of the plantation, surely she could make up for the fact that she wasn't the girl her husband wanted in his bed, or his life.
    As she pushed back the cover the door opened slightly, and Ana peeped cautiously in. Abby's pantomimed regret at having
    slept so long was answered with a reassuring smile, then Ana went over to the massive carved wardrobe and opened the door.
    While she had rested, half-sleeping, the previous day, Abby had been vaguely aware of Ana moving about quietly, unpacking for
    her. Now, her attention fully alerted, she leaned forward, her jaw dropping.
    The modest selection of clothes she had brought with her would only have occupied a small percentage of the space available,
    whereas the hanging rail was crammed with garments. Cool day dresses in cotton and lawn, she saw incredulously, as well as
    silk and satin and an array of cotton jeans with toning shirts and tops.
    Ana was removing an ivory silk robe, which in no way resembled the simple cotton kimono Abby had packed in her case. As the
    girl held it out to her, Abby shook her head.
    ' Não ,' she protested as forcefully as possible, pointing to herself. 'Not—mine,' she enunciated carefully, trying to get her meaning across.
    Ana's face was blank with astonishment. She burst into a flood of excited gabble from which Abby managed with difficulty to
    elicit the words ' patrão' and 'Manaus'.
    Della's clothes, Abby thought bleakly, as she marched to the wardrobe and found her own dressing-gown. Vasco must have
    organised them as a welcome present for her, and forgotten about it in the aftermath of their separation. Well, she wanted no
    part of them. She might have stepped into Della's shoes, but she was damned if she was going to wear dresses chosen for her
    too!
    Deliberately she selected one of her own, a simple shirtwaister in a soft shade of green, and by no means as well made or
    stylish as the garments Ana was trying to persuade her into. But Abby shook her head with cool determination, indicating, as
    she put the dress down on the bed, that this was her choice, and no other.
    By the time she had bathed in the huge old-fashioned tub in the bathroom, and put on her clothes, she felt calmer. Ana was
    waiting anxiously in the bedroom with offers of breakfast, but Abby refused gently, asking carefully for just coffee.
    Left to herself, she made her way to the veranda at the front of the house and stood looking round her. The place seemed
    deserted, but her arrival yesterday had shown how deceptive that could be.
    She sat down on one of the cushioned chairs, nearly jumping out of her skin as a strident squawk rent the air.
    'Not deserted at all,'