Eva Ibbotson

At first there was just the feeling that the jungle here was less dark, less pressing than elsewhere. Then, wandering along the edge of a sand-bar, he had come across a ruined jetty and in growing excitement found as he edged along it a clearing on which the sun shone as benignly as if it were England—and in the clearing, half-ruined but with its walls still standing, a house. Only not a house, really: a small, Italianate, pink-washed palazzo with a colonnaded terrace running its length; the remnants of carved pillars and stone statues still lying where they had fallen.

It had taken Verney nearly a year to trace anyone who could authorize a sale, but at last he found the descendants of Antonio Rinaldi, the visionary or madman who had come to Brazil at the beginning of the previous century, struck gold in Ouro Preto and come north to the Amazon to build—six thousand miles from Italy—the palazzo of his native village, Follina.

Rinaldi had planted the avenue of jacarandas, the grove of hardwood trees. Verney—excavating, replanting, clearing—had achieved in eight years what in a temperate climate would have taken him eighty.

Before ever he came to Brazil, Verney had read the great Cervantes’ description of the New World and what it stood for to those settlers who came there first from Europe. “The refuge of all the poor devils of Spain, the sanctuary of the bankrupt, the safeguard of murderers, the promised land for ladies of easy virtue… a lure and disillusionment for the many—and an incomparable remedy for the jew.”

Verney had been one of the few. Fleeing his homeland, heartsick and savage, he had indeed found this country an “incomparable remedy.” He had succeeded beyond his childish dreams; neither the heat nor the danger from disease nor the enmity of those whose policies he opposed troubled him, and the jungle which others feared or loathed had showered him with benisons. Yet now, passing the creeper-dad huts which housed his generators and ice-machine, he put up a hand to pull down the heavy yellow pod of a cacao tree—and in an instant everything before him vanished and he was back in the orchard at Stavely. It was late October, the frost had turned the long grass into silvered spears and he was reaching out for one last apple hanging on the bare bough: an Orange Pippin with its flushed and lightly-wrinkled skin.

Once they came, these images of England, it was best to let them have their way… to let himself walk through the beech copse where the pheasants strutted on the russet leaves… to ride out between Stavely’s April hedges or climb, wind-buffeted, up the steep turf path to the Barrows while the black dog played God among the scuttling rabbits.

And soon it was over—this sudden burst of longing, not for England’s customs and manners, but for the physical look of her countryside—and he was aware again of the heat on his back, the whirr of the cicadas and the coati peering at him expectantly from a dump of osiers.

“Yes, you’re quite right; it’s time for breakfast,” said Rom, and turning away from the river he made his way back to the house.

He had been christened Romain Paul Verney Brandon, but the Frenchified Christian name had been too much for the locals. He was known always as Rom—and for the first nineteen years of his life the woods and fields of Stavely were his heritage and his delight.

He was the son of General Brandon by the General’s late second marriage to the beautiful foreign singer, Toussia Kandinsky: a most unnecessary marriage, the County thought it, having planned for the General—who was already well into middle age—a decorous widowerhood. He was, after all, not alone—there was his five-year-old son, young Henry Alexander, a sensible child who would make Stavely an excellent heir.

But the General, a distinguished soldier who had shown enormous personal courage during the bitter Afghanistan Wars and risked his life even more spectacularly during his leaves while pursuing rare plants in the cracks and crevices of the Karakorum mountains, failed to oblige them.

Eighteen months after the death of his wife, he went to a flower show in London and afterward allowed a musical acquaintance to take him to a concert where a half-French, half-Russian singer was giving a recital of Lieder. The General did not care greatly for the Lieder, but for the woman who sang them he conceived a romantic passion which ended only with her death.

Toussia Kandinsky was in her thirties—a mature, warm woman with sad dark eyes, an extraordinarily beautiful mouth and one feature which made her face spectacular: hair which since the age of twenty had been as white as snow.