‘What a pair you are!’ Sophie said naughtily. ‘Mum won’t deal with Liam, and you think Philippe’s too busy to cook for our weddings. Well, I have no such qualms with Jean-Christophe. I think he should definitely put in a pitch!’

Twelve

Liam inspected the new growth in the vines with care. The buds were beautiful: the blossom delicate and pale, patterned almost like lace. His task this morning was to remove any excess buds or branches that could add too much weight and lessen the quality of the grapes it produced.

The vineyard, with its neat rows, looked satisfyingly tidy. Soon it would be time to spray any weeds that the spring warmth had encouraged into wild abundance in the spaces between the vines. He would have to hire a special attachment for his small tractor, designed to be pulled along the two-metre gap. Many vineyards had changed to three-metre spaces so that normal-sized tractors and harvesting machines could fit, but St Savarin had stuck to the old width of the horse-drawn plough. The thought gave Liam a deep sense of satisfaction, that the château had kept this link with the past.

He thought suddenly of his wife Anne-Marie, with her enjoyment of all things connected to the past, and how she would have loved living here. How unfair it seemed that she had died before they had children. At least if they’d been able to do that, he would have had a part of her with him still: a small reminder of the vibrant personality who had shared his life.

He turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. She had loved the sun so much.

He must stop thinking like this. She would not have wanted him to. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she’d joked in the last days of her illness. ‘There are plenty of desperate women out there, and you’re actually quite attractive.’