'She had a slave?'

'Yes, a gigantic Guinean Don Sebastiano had brought back from Accra on the Slave Coast. Lucinda made him her bodyguard, her dog and, I learned afterwards, her executioner.'

At this point, Mrs Crawford's voice seemed to flicker, like a lamp in need of oil. She felt in the reticule of black silk which hung always by her chair and, taking a pastille from a silver comfit box, sat sucking it with eyes half-closed while Marianne held her breath for fear of disturbing her contemplation. In a moment or two, the older woman resumed more strongly:

'In those days, I did think that I loved her. She dazzled me. But afterwards—'

'What was she like?' The question had been hovering on Marianne's lips for several minutes. 'I have only seen her statue—'

'Ah, that famous statue! Does it still exist? Well, it was certainly very like her as to face and form, but the colours, the subtle shades of life, it gave no idea of those… If I told you that Lucinda had red hair, I should be giving you a wrong idea. Her hair was like a flame, like liquid gold, her great eyes were black velvet and glowing coals and her skin ivory and rose petals. Her mouth was like an open wound filled with pearls. No, there was never anyone like her. Nor was there anyone so cruel and depraved. Anything, human or animal, that crossed her was in danger. I have seen her slaughter the finest mare in the stables in cold blood, merely because she fell from her saddle, I have seen her order Hassan to beat an ironing maid until she bled, merely for scorching one of her laces. My mother never went near her without fingering her beads in her apron pocket. Even her husband, Prince Sebastiano, was forced to fly from her to find rest and peace of mind, and he was thirty years older than she and had loved her and still loved her passionately. That was why he used to spend three parts of the year on his travels, far away from Lucca.'

'And yet,' Marianne said, 'there was one child, at least?'

'Yes, and she was prepared for that because she accepted that there must be an heir. But when she found herself with child, her temper grew so ungovernable that her husband went away again, leaving her sole mistress of the estates. And for seven months no one set eyes on her.'

'No one? But – why?'

'Because she could not bear to let anyone see her in less than her usual beauty. All those months she spent shut up in her own apartments, never going out, never letting anyone in except my mother, Anna Franchi, and Maria, Lavinia's mother, who were her waiting women. And she scarcely spoke even to them. I can still remember hearing my mother tell my father, in a whisper, that when darkness came Donna Lucinda ordered all the candles to be lit and made sure all the doors and windows were fast shut, and no one knew what was the reason for this nocturnal illumination, which lasted until the candles guttered out.

'One night, my curiosity got the better of me. I was ten years old and as quick and agile as a cat. I got out of my bedroom window when my parents were asleep and ran in my bare feet all the way to the house. The climbing plants on the walls made it easy for me to climb up to Donna Lucinda's balcony. My heart was thumping in my chest, for I was convinced that if I were caught my father and mother would never see me again alive. But I wanted to find out – and I did.'

'What was she doing?'

'Nothing. I peeped through a crack in the curtains and I saw her. She had the candlesticks placed in a circle on the floor and she was standing in the centre, facing the statue you have seen and stark naked also. The two figures must have been reflected over and over again to infinity in the mirrors, the white and the flesh pink, and Lucinda stood there for hours, comparing herself with her own marble image, searching for the slightest alterations and deformities brought about by her condition, with her hair all tumbled and the tears streaming down her cheeks… Believe me, there was something so hauntingly dreadful in the sight that I never went there again. Besides, when it came to the final weeks there was no more light of any kind. By her orders the mirrors were all veiled and the princess's rooms remained in darkness, day and night.'

Marianne, wide-eyed, had listened breathlessly to her hostess's strange tale.

'She must have been mad, surely?' she said at last.

'Mad, yes, about herself, without a doubt. But apart from that, apart from her insensate worship of her own beauty, she behaved more or less normally. The birth of her son, Ugolino, was the occasion for endless celebration. The servants and the local peasants were almost swimming in gold and wine. Donna Lucinda was quite obviously radiant – as much on account of recovering her old beauty as of having gained an heir! For a little while, we all thought that a new era of happiness had begun for the house. But then – three months later, Prince Sebastiano set out again for some distant land and met his death there. The building of the little temple was begun almost immediately after he went away. It was a little more than a year after Matteo Damiani had been brought to the villa.'

'Donna Lucinda did not mind his presence?'

'No, she simply tolerated it. But then, when her own child was born, she began to neglect it almost entirely and showed a curious preference for the little love-child. She would play with him like a puppy, she took an interest in the way he was treated, how he was dressed, but most of all, she seemed to take a kind of perverted pleasure in bringing out all the most savage instincts in the child. She would alternately tease him and caress him, always encouraging him to be cruel and bloodthirsty. Not that that was very difficult. The foundations were already there. By the time he was five years old, when I left the villa, Matteo was already a little devil, I can tell you, a mixture of brutality and cunning. And from what I have been able to discover since, his character has only grown in those respects. Now, if you please, child, be so good as to ring for tea. I am as dry as a bone and if you want me to talk any more…'

'Oh please. You told me just now that Donna Luanda was the cause of your going away—'

'It is not a story I care to recall, but you stand now in her place. You have a right to know. But – tea first, if you please.'

In a few moments a tray of china tea had been brought in by a soft-footed servant and the two women drank it in pleasurable silence. To Marianne, the fragrant brew, drunk in that comfortable, elegantly appointed sitting-room, brought with it a faint scent of time past. She saw herself as a little girl, and then as a young woman, seated on a stool by her Aunt Ellis's chair sharing in the daily ritual which Lady Selton would not have neglected for anything in the world. Now the old woman in her old-fashioned cap, the furnishings from a previous age, even the scent of roses floating in through the open window, all reminded Marianne of the happy days of her childhood and for the first time for very many days she was conscious of a sense of relaxation and well-being such as she used to feel when, at the height of some childish outburst of grief or rage, her Aunt Ellis had come and stroked her hair and said in her gruff voice: 'Come now, Marianne! You should know that there is nothing in this world that cannot be got over with courage and perseverance… oneself most of all.'

It had always worked wonders and it was both strange and comforting to find the same feeling now in a cup of tea in a strange house. Marianne replaced her flowered teacup on the silver tray and found that Mrs Crawfurd was watching her.

'Why do you smile, my dear? I fear the things I have been telling you were sad enough.'

'It was not that, Madame. It was just that, drinking tea like this, with you, I felt as if I were back again as a child in England. But go on, if you please.'

For a moment, the old woman's eyes lingered on her face and Marianne thought that she read in them a softness and sympathy which she had not seen before. But Eleonora Crawfurd said nothing and, turning her head to look out of the window, offered Marianne only the view of a profile half-hidden by the frill of her muslin cap. She resumed her story after a moment but in a voice so low that Marianne was scarcely able to catch the opening words:

'It is strange how the memory of one's first love can remain alive – and painful, in spite of all the years that have passed. It is something you will learn when you are old. When I think of Pietro, I feel as if it were yesterday I was running to meet him by the chapel of San Cristoforo, running through the purple twilight full of the smell of new-mown hay… I was fifteen and I loved him. He was seventeen. He was strong and handsome, and he lived in the village of Capanori, alone since the death of his father, who was a tinsmith… He wanted to marry me and we used to meet every night… until one night he did not come. One night… two nights… and no one in the village could tell me where he had gone, but all of a sudden I was afraid, although I did not know why – perhaps because he had never had any secrets from me. On the third night I could not sleep. I went out and wandered about the park, just for something to do. It was as hot as an oven, that night. Even the water in the fountains was warm and in the stables the horses were not even stirring… It was then, as I passed by the grotto, that I heard singing – if it could be called singing. It was more like a monotonous wailing, in time to a soft, rhythmic beating on a drum, with now and then a kind of cry. I had never heard anything like it before, but to have dared to walk so close to the house, and especially to the grotto, which was out of bounds to servants, I must have been in an unusual state of mind. Even now, I do not know what instinct made me follow the forbidden path to the clearing with the little temple. But go I did, feeling my way, stealthily, holding on to the rock and flattening myself against it as if I meant to make myself part of it. When the light from the temple fell on my face I drew back, instinctively, then, very carefully, I put my head out again – and then I saw!'