‘You find yourself well, Senhorita Izabela?’ asked Gustavo, who was seated next to her.

‘Yes, I am well.’

‘Good, good.’

Bel racked her brain for a subject to discuss, having exhausted the obvious avenues of small talk with him on the previous occasions she had found herself next to him at dinner.

‘How long has your family lived in this house?’ she managed.

‘For two hundred years,’ Gustavo explained. ‘And I think nothing much has changed in that time,’ he noted with a smile. ‘Sometimes, I feel it’s like living in a museum, although a very beautiful one.’

‘It is indeed beautiful,’ Bel agreed.

‘As you are,’ Gustavo added graciously.

During the lunch, Bel caught Gustavo staring at her every time she turned her head towards him. His eyes were filled only with admiration, in contrast to his parents, who were not simply making polite conversation with the Bonifacios, but rather interviewing them. Bel saw her mother’s face across the table, strained and pale, as Carla struggled to talk to Senhora Aires Cabral, and shot her a sympathetic glance.

However, as the wine eased the tension of the diners, Gustavo in particular began to talk more freely to her than he had previously. During that lunch, Bel learnt about his passion for literature, his love of classical music and his studies of Greek philosophy and Portuguese history. Having never worked a day in his life, Gustavo had filled his time with cultural learning and it was while discussing these subjects that he began to come alive. As he shared her own love of art, Bel warmed to him, and the rest of the luncheon passed pleasantly.

‘I think you are a natural scholar,’ she said to him with a smile, as the party stood up from the table to take coffee in the drawing room.

‘It is most kind of you to say so, Izabela. Any compliment from you is worth a thousand from others. And you, too, are most knowledgeable on the subject of art.’

‘I’ve always longed to travel to Europe, to see some of the works of the great masters,’ she admitted to him with a sigh.

Half an hour later, the Bonifacios said their farewells.

As their car drew away from the house, Antonio turned and beamed at his wife and daughter sitting in the back seat. ‘Well, I doubt that could have gone better.’

‘Yes, my dear.’ Carla, as usual, acquiescing to her husband’s thoughts. ‘The luncheon went well.’

‘But the house . . . goodness! It needs razing to the ground and starting again. Or at least, a coffee fortune to restore it.’ Antonio grinned smugly. ‘And the food they served . . . I have eaten better at a beach-side shack. So, you will invite them to dinner next week, Carla, and we will show them how it should be done. Tell our cook to source the finest fish and beef and to spare no expense.’

‘Yes, Antonio.’

When they arrived home, Antonio left immediately, saying he must spend a few hours at his office. Carla and Bel walked through the gardens towards the house.