I saw Yara’s eyes dart uncertainly around the room. ‘Yes.’

‘Just one?’

‘There was another, a boy, but he died in infancy. So yes,’ she agreed, ‘one.’

‘A girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her name was Cristina?’

‘Yes, Senhorita Maia. It was I who helped bring her up.’

I paused, uncertain of what to say next. The words that had poured out of Yara like a babbling brook for the past hour had suddenly dried up too. I looked up at her expectantly, willing her to continue.

‘Senhorita, I don’t believe I have done damage by telling you the past, but . . .’ she sighed, ‘I do not think it is my place to say any more. The rest is not my story to tell.’

‘Then whose is it?’ I begged her.

‘It is Senhora Beatriz’s.’

Desperate as I was to press her further, I could see that Yara had begun to look anxiously at the clock ticking on the wall.

‘I have something for you,’ she said, putting a hand into one of her voluminous pockets and handing four envelopes to me. Almost, I felt, as a peace offering for being unable to tell me more. ‘Those are the letters sent via my mother by Laurent Brouilly to Senhora Izabela, when they stayed at the fazenda in Senhora Carla’s last days. They will show better than I ever could the feeling that existed between the two of them.’

‘Thank you,’ I said as I watched her stand. I suppressed an urge to hug her, so grateful was I to finally hear of my ancestry and the tragic story that lay behind it.

‘I must return to Senhora Beatriz,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I said, rising too, stiff after sitting so tensely while trying to catch every word Yara had spoken.

‘I will show you out, senhorita,’ she said.

‘It would be easy for us to drive you up to the convent,’ I suggested to her as we walked along the corridor, across the entrance hall and Yara opened the front door. ‘I have a car waiting for me outside.’

‘Thank you, but I still have things to do here.’ She looked at me expectantly, as I hesitated beside her.

‘Thank you for all you’ve told me. Is it possible that I might just ask you one last question?’

‘It depends what it is,’ she said, as I felt her eyes willing me to cross the threshold and leave.

‘Is my mother still alive?’

‘I do not know, Senhorita Maia,’ Yara sighed. ‘And that is the truth.’

I knew that the meeting was at an end and she would say no more.

‘Goodbye, Yara,’ I said as I reluctantly made my way down the steps. ‘Please send my best wishes to Senhora Beatriz.’

She did not reply as I began to walk away, and it was only as I was passing by the crumbling stone fountain that she spoke again.

‘I will speak to her, senhorita. Goodbye.’

I heard the front door being shut and rebolted as I continued down the drive. My hands touched the hot iron of the rusting metal gate and as I opened then closed it behind me and crossed the road, I looked up at the heavy sky and saw there was a storm brewing.