A faint breeze blew a wisp of her thick, dark hair across her forehead, bringing with it the delicate scents of the guava and lemon trees that grew in the garden below her window. Even though the clock by her bedside told her it was only half past six in the morning, already she could feel the heat of the day to come. She looked up and saw there was not a single wisp of cloud marring the rapidly lightening sky.

Loen, her maid, wouldn’t knock at her door for another hour to help her dress. Bel wondered whether she should finally pluck up the courage to creep out of the house while everyone slept and take a swim in the cool water of the magnificent blue-tiled swimming pool that Antonio, her father, had just had built in the garden.

The pool was Antonio’s latest acquisition and he was very proud of it, as one of the first of its kind in a private house in Rio. A month ago he had invited all his important friends to see it, and everyone had stood dutifully on the surrounding terrace and admired it. The men were attired in expensively tailored suits, the women in copies of the latest Paris designs bought from the exclusive stores of the Avenida Rio Branco.

Bel had thought at the time how ironic it was that not one of them had brought their bathing suit, and she too had stood fully clothed in the burning heat, fervently wishing she could strip off her formal dress and dive into the cool, clear water. In fact, to this day, Bel had never seen anyone actually use the pool. When she had asked if she could take a swim in it herself, her father had shaken his head.

‘No, querida, you cannot be seen in a bathing suit by all the servants. You must swim when they are not around.’

As the servants were always around, Bel had quickly realised that the pool was simply another ornament, a grand possession her father could show off to impress his friends. Another stop on his never-ending quest to achieve the social status he craved.

When she asked Mãe why Pai never seemed to be content with what he had when they lived in one of the most beautiful houses in Rio, dined often at the Copacabana Palace Hotel and even had a brand-new Ford motor car, her mother would shrug placidly.

‘It is simply because, no matter how many cars or farms he owns, he can never change his surname.’

During Bel’s seventeen years on earth, she had gleaned that Antonio was descended from Italian immigrants, who had arrived in Brazil to work on the many coffee farms on the verdant, fertile land surrounding the city of São Paulo. Antonio’s own father had been not only hard-working but clever, and he had saved hard to buy his own parcel of land and begin his own business.

By the time Antonio was old enough to take over, the coffee farm was thriving and he was able to buy three more. The profits had made their family rich, and when Bel was eight years old, her father had bought a beautiful old fazenda five hours’ drive outside Rio. It was the place she still thought of as her home. Tucked away high in the mountains, the large plantation house was tranquil and welcoming and contained Bel’s most precious memories. Free in those days to roam and ride across the estate’s two thousand hectares as she pleased, she had experienced an idyllic, carefree childhood.