‘He has his own way of communicating, believe me. He just makes a joke about being a henpecked husband, and they all look at this great big bloke and roar with laughter, and after that he has them eating out of his hand. The real joke is that he is a henpacked husband!’

‘Sophie, Steph’s niece Nicola wants to fly over with her mother and have a look. Is that OK with you?’

‘Of course. That’s usual. At real weddings they show two or three prospective couples round on the big day.’

‘What, at the actual wedding?’

‘Don’t worry, they don’t pretend to be wedding crashers. They just look on from afar.’

‘Sounds rather rude to me. Given how much people spend on weddings these days—’

‘. . . or their parents,’ cut in Jo tartly.

‘I’m not sure that’s true any more,’ Sophie commented. ‘A lot of couples pay for it themselves, so they get control. Sometimes they actually charge their guests if they’re getting accommodation too.’

‘No!’ Jo protested, scandalized.

‘I’ve just been reading about it online. You wouldn’t believe how many wedding websites there are now. And quite a lot of them are in France.’

‘Should we be discouraged by the competition?’ Jo asked anxiously.

‘Nah,’ Sophie grinned, brimming with youthful confidence. ‘Our château’s going to be the best!’

It had just struck midday and a few hundred yards away, at their new home, the duke and duchess of St Savarin were having their first drink of the day.

One reason Margot had been keen on moving to this single-storey residence was that at any time after one’clock in the afternoon, the duke had a tendency to fall over if not carefully watched. They both liked a drink, but the duke liked it more than most.

‘So how are they doing up at the château?’ he enquired.

‘Ruining my décor, for a start,’ replied the duchess tartly. ‘Can you imagine? Introducing modern furniture into a seventeenth-century setting? Sacrilege!’

‘Calm yourself, my dear, have another glass.’ Margot watched him beadily as he topped up the mere half-inch she had consumed and more or less filled up his own.

‘Louis! Buvez plus lentement!’ she reprimanded. ‘You will finish the bottle and it is only just midday. I could hear the Angelus sound from the convent in the village.’

The duke looked at the bottle with fascination, as if by some reverse miracle it had emptied itself.

The duchess sipped her wine and smiled. ‘Mark my words, Louis. They are amateurs. They will make a mess of it, wait and see.’

‘Margot, my love –’ the duke held up his rapidly emptying glass as if in a toast – ‘anyone who didn’t know you better would think you sounded pleased.’