During this hour before sundown, the house and the terrace were one. The lilting music from the Viennese trio he had installed in the salon wafted out through the French windows, the jasmine and wisteria climbing his walls laid their heavy, scented branches almost into the rooms themselves. The moment darkness fell he would relinquish his garden to the moths and night birds, close the windows and lead his guests to a dinner as formally served and elaborate as any banquet of state. But this present time was for wandering at will, for letting Follina work its spell, and he intervened only with the lightest of hands — introducing shy Mrs Bennett to the glamorous Maximov; removing the misanthropic conductor, Kaufmann, to the library with its collection of operatic scores.

Yet, though no one could have guessed it, Rom, as he wandered among his guests, was fighting down disappointment. He had been absolutely certain that he would recognise the swan who had sneezed so poignantly at the end of Act Two; it seemed to him that the serious little face with its troubled brown eyes was entirely distinctive, but he had been mistaken. A casual question to Dubrov when the girls arrived elicited the information that all members of the corps had come. ‘No one could miss such an honour,’ Dubrov had assured him, adding that he himself had personally counted heads as the girls came aboard the Amethyst. Therefore she must be in the group of Russians with their dark homesick faces, for she was not with Marie-Claude nor the pale-haired Swedish girl receiving, with evident indifference, the compliments of the Mayor. Well, people looked different without their make-up, he reflected, and shrugging off the matter as of no importance, paused by Simonova’s couch to add his homage to her circle of admirers.

‘Never!’ the ballerina was declaring, throwing out her long, thin hands. ‘Never, never, will I return to Russia! If they came to me crawling in the snow on their hands and knees all the way from Petersburg, I would not come!’

She fanned herself with the ends of her chiffon scarf, and looked at her host from under kohl-tipped lashes. What a man! If only she had not been committed to her art — and of course to Dubrov, though that was more easily arranged… One must go where there is fire, Fokine had once said to her and this devastating man with his deep grey eyes and that look of Tamburlaine the Great was certainly fire. But it was impossible: a night with such a man and one could hardly manage three fouettés, let alone thirty-two…

‘Ah, Madame, what a loss for my country,’ sighed Count Sternov.

‘It is a loss,’ agreed the ballerina complacently. ‘But it is one for which they must take the blame. And in any case soon I am going to retire.’ She waited for the groans, the horrified denials… and when they came, proceeded. ‘Dubrov and I are going to live in the country in absolute simplicity with goats and grow vegetables. I have a great longing,’ she said, spreading tapering fingers which had never touched anything rougher than Maximov’s silvered tights, ‘to get my hands into the earth.’

‘You must allow me to show you over the kitchen gardens,’ said Verney, concealing the smile that had flickered at the corners of his mouth.

‘Yes. Later,’ said Simonova. The plants she had seen on the way up to the house had seemed to her excessive, altogether too much there and looking in some cases as though they might contain insects, which were not in her scheme of things. And she leaned back more comfortably and allowed a servant to refill her glass with champagne.

But Marie-Claude now detached herself from the besotted gentlemen surrounding her and said something to Dubrov, who turned to his host.

‘Marie-Claude is a little concerned about our newest member of the corps. Apparently she decided to walk up from the jetty, but that was quite a time ago and she isn’t here yet.’

‘She is English,’ explained Marie-Claude, turning her incredible eyes on Rom and repressing a sigh. If things had been different… even without moustaches… But they were not and resolutely she continued, ‘And it is impossible to keep her inside. You know how it is: the fresh air, et tout ça. And naturally one would not wish her to be eaten by a boa constrictor.’

‘English!’ said Rom, amazed. ‘You have an English dancer?’ No wonder he had been unable to visualise her in St Petersburg or Kiev.

Dubrov nodded. ‘She only joined us just before we left, without any stage experience; she’s done very well. Last night was her debut.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Rom. ‘I’m sure she’s perfectly all right. But I shall send someone to fetch her.’

This, however, he did not do. Briefing Lorenzo and his assistants, he slipped silently away and made his way down the steps.

She was not on the main avenue, not on any of the terraces, not in the arboretum, not by the pond…

He continued to search, not anxious but a little puzzled. Then from behind the patch of native forest he heard the great Caruso’s voice.

‘Your tiny hand is frozen… is frozen… is frozen…’ sang the incomparable tenor, for the record — the first he had ever bought his Indians — was badly cracked.

Che gelida manina… a record valued even above the ‘Bell Song’ from Lakmé, but seldom played now owing to its fragile state. They had a visitor, then, and one they wanted to honour. With an eagerness which surprised him, Rom made his way between the trees.

The village was bathed in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Hammocks were strung between the dappled trees; a monkey scratched himself on a thatched roof… a small armadillo they had tamed rooted in a patch of canna lillies.

In the circle around the horn of the gramophone sat the women with their children, together with the few men too old to be busy in the plantations or helping at the house. Someone knowing them less well would have assumed that this was just the usual evening concert, but Rom — seeing the fruit set out on painted plates and the cassia juice in gourds on the low carved stool — knew they were welcoming a valued guest.

Only what guest? And where?

At first he could see no one unusual. Then, searching the listening faces, he saw a girl he had at first taken to be one of the tribe, for she wore a dress such as the missionaries forced on their converts and she was holding a baby, cupping a hand round its head — Manuelo’s three-day-old baby whom they were taking to Father Antonio at dawn to be baptised.

Then they saw him; someone took off the needle from the record and as they came towards him, chattering in welcome, she lifted her head and looked directly at him… and over her face there spread a sudden shock of surprise, almost of recognition, as though he was someone she knew from another life.

‘You must be the last of the Company’s swans?’ he said, coming forward. ‘I’m Romain Verney, your host.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, getting to her feet. ‘I’m Harriet Morton.’ The voice was low; scholarly. Old Iquita took the baby from her and he saw how hard it was for her to part with its soft warmth; how she drew her fingertips across the round dark head until the last possible moment, just as Simonova had drawn her fingertips down the arm of her lover before she bourréed backwards into the lake. ‘God must be very brave,’ she said, ‘making babies with fontanelles like that. What if their souls should escape before they’ve joined? What then?’

‘Oh, God is brave all right,’ said Rom lightly. ‘You see Him all the time, chancing His arm.’ But he was startled, for she had smiled as she spoke and everything he had thought about her gravity and seriousness was suddenly set at nought. There was nothing wistful or tentative about that smile. It came slowly, but ended in a total crunching up of her features as though a winged cherub had just flown by and whispered a marvellously funny joke into her ear.

They made their farewells and he began to lead her back.

‘They’ve been so kind to me,’ she said, still not quite in the real world after her hour in the garden and the conviction which had burst from her as he stepped from the trees that this was Henry’s ‘secret boy’. ‘Look what they gave me!’ She took out of her pocket a small carving of a margay and held it out to him.

‘They like to give presents.’ But Rom was surprised, for the carving was one of old José’s, their best craftsman; it was a lovely thing. ‘How did you make yourself understood?’ he asked curiously.

‘I think if you want to, you can always understand people, don’t you? And the ones who had grown up in the mission could follow a little Latin.’

‘Ah, yes; Latin,’ he murmured. ‘A usual accomplishment in ballet dancers?’

‘My father taught me,’ she said briefly and a shadow passed over her face. But the next moment she was entranced again: ‘Oh, that tree! That colour… and the way the flowers grow right on the trunk like that!’

‘Yes, that’s Aspidosperma silenium — pollinated by opossums, believe it or not!’

She liked that, wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s lovely that you know the names. I kept asking and asking, but nobody did.’

‘Is it important that you know the names of things?’

‘Yes. I feel… discourteous if I don’t know. As though I’ve failed them somehow. Is that stupid?’

‘No, I understand. But it’s the devil naming things out here. There are literally hundreds of species of trees and only a handful have been classified. I was like a child in a sweet-shop when I first came out, not knowing where to begin.’ He described briefly his discovery of Follina and her eyes grew wide at the wonder of it.

They had reached the edge of the arboretum and a great urn in which there grew a magical orchid — delicate, yet abundant with an overpowering scent.

‘That’s the Queen’s Orchid. The caracara, the Indians call it. Some people find it a bit overwhelming.’

‘Oh no, not against those dark bushes; they cool it.’ She was running her fingers softly along the edge of the petals, tracing lightly the intricate shape of the stamens. He had never seen in a European such a physical response to things that grew. ‘And over there, in the pool? That blue? That’s not a water hyacinth, is it? They grow in drifts?’

‘No — it’s a kind of lobelia. An incredible colour, isn’t it? The water gardens are a perpetual headache; you have to keep the water running all the time, otherwise the mosquitos breed, and that’s the devil. I’ve installed a kind of cataract there…’

He explained, led her here and there. She was utterly enthralled and both of them had completely forgotten the time.

‘I thought it would be all dark,’ she said wonderingly. ‘A dark forest and rows and rows of rubber trees.’

‘There are rubber trees — thousands of them, mostly wild. I’ve made plantations too, but this garden is my folly.’ And as she stood waiting for him to continue, he said, ‘I fight a battle like some idiot crusader against the Amazon disease — the disease of all South America, if it comes to that. I call it the Eldorado illness.’

She turned to him, her eyes alert. ‘The belief that there is a promised land?’

‘Yes. Partly. Everyone here searches… the Indians, the Portuguese settlers, the people who came later. For gold, for coffee, for the green stones that the Amazon women gave their lovers… for groves of cinnamon trees — and now for rubber. They search and they find because the country is so abundant. But then someone comes along from some other country who is not content just to search. Someone who plants coffee or hardwoods, who mines gold systematically instead of picking the nuggets off the ground. And then the searchers are bankrupt, the villages become derelict and the people starve. It will be the same with rubber; you’ll see. I’ve diversified; I run a gold mine at Serra Deloso, I export bauxite and manganese, I’ve organised a timber business. I shall be all right, but if the price of rubber really drops — and it is dropping as they bring it in from the East — then God knows how many of my friends I shall be able to save. Not enough.’

‘It’s always been so, hasn’t it?’ she said quietly. ‘All through history. Solon trying to warn Croesus… don’t lean back on your riches, he said, but no one listened. People don’t.’

You do, Rom wanted to say. You listen as I have never known anyone listen. And he remembered how as a small boy at Stavely walking along the gravel paths absently scuffing the stones, he would suddenly — for no reason that he knew of — bend down to pick up one pebble, just one, and keep it in his pocket. He had never found it hard to share his toys, but no one had been allowed to touch such a pebble; it became his treasure and his talisman.