‘Yes, senhora. Press the bell if you need anything,’ Yara said as she left the room.

While mistress and maid had been conversing, I‘d taken the opportunity to study Beatriz. And after what Yara had said about her, I attempted to see her in a new light. Certainly physically, she didn‘t resemble Izabela, her mother, without doubt leaning more towards the paler, European features of her father. I also noticed for the first time the still vivid green of her eyes, huge in her emaciated face.

‘Firstly, Maia, I want to apologise to you. Seeing you walk into my garden, looking as you do – the living image of my mother – was a shock. And of course, the necklace you wear . . . I, like Yara, recognised it immediately. It was left to me by my mother, Izabela, and is the same one I gave to my own daughter on her eighteenth birthday.’ Beatriz‘s eyes clouded suddenly with pain or emotion – I wasn‘t sure which. ‘Forgive me, Maia, but I had to take some time to decide what was best to do about your sudden arrival, so close to my own . . . departure.’

‘Senhora Beatriz, as I said to you before, I‘m not here for money or an inheritance or—’

Beatriz held up a shaking hand to silence me. ‘Firstly, please call me Beatriz. I think, sadly, that it‘s a little late for “grandmother”, don‘t you? And secondly, although I was aware that the timing of your visit seemed rather too convenient to be a coincidence, that did not worry me unduly. If necessary, it is possible these days to take tests to prove a genetic link. Besides, your heritage shines out of every feature. No,’ she sighed, ‘it was something else that made me hesitate.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Maia, every child who is either adopted or loses a parent young is able to place their biological creator on a pedestal. I know I did with my own mother. In my imagination, Izabela became a madonna, a perfect woman. Although I‘m sure that in reality, she had many faults, as we all do,’ Beatriz admitted.

‘Yes, I suppose you‘re right,’ I agreed.

She paused for a moment, studying my face thoughtfully. ‘So, when I saw your understandable desperation to know of your own mother and the reasons why she had put you up for adoption, I knew that I wouldn‘t be able to lie to you if I agreed to answer your questions. And that if I told you the truth, then I would sadly destroy any image you had naturally built up about her in your mind.’

‘I‘m beginning to see what a dilemma it must have been for you,’ I said, trying to reassure her. ‘But perhaps I should tell you that up until my adoptive father died, I‘d rarely thought about who my real mother was. Or my father, for that matter. I had a very happy upbringing. I adored my father, and Marina, the woman who brought me and my sisters up, could not have been more caring. And still is,’ I added.