“And you, Grandmother,” he replied. He took a deep breath, drinking it all in. Relief flooded him: to be speaking French again, to be announced properly, as a man of stature. Everything in the dower house exactly as he recalled it—his grandmother, elegant as ever, ladylike in every particular.

It was as though the last few months had never happened. The house was a sanctuary for him.

“Do sit down,” Katherine Massot said. “Let us have some refreshments. Tea?”

He shook his head. “Too English.”

She smiled at that. “Of course, darling. Then coffee and petits fours.”

As he had gotten older, Tom had lost his childhood sweet tooth, but he would not have dreamed of contradicting her. His grandmother was still formal, and despite her words, possessed a detachment, a distance when she spoke to him; but today he was inclined to see that as a virtue. She had not changed one degree. His father had always approved of Grandmother, always been proud. If only Maman would imitate her—then there would be no need for what he was about to do.

“That sounds delicious. Thank you,” he said.

“Come closer to me.” The old lady patted the chaise longue beside her with one wizened hand, and Tom rose obediently and sat beside her.

She smelt of Violette de Parme, exactly as she always did. Katherine had used the same scent since he was a child. It was blended especially for her on Faubourg St.-Germain, and now the memories, rosy ones, rushed in on him. Tom squeezed her forearm.

“Dear Grandmother,” he said, with feeling. “You’re not going to scold me for leaving Oxford?”

The old lady tilted her head subtly.

“Oxford is your mother’s concern, my dear,” she said coolly.

Tom sensed the disapproval. He felt supported.

“Your destiny is with Papa’s estate, here. Not in some English town among dusty books,” Katherine pronounced.

“And with Papa’s company,” Tom said, carefully.

Katherine sighed. “I do not know if there will be much of the company left, Thomas. You will need to content yourself with the château. Of course, there is plenty here to occupy a young man; the grounds need supervision, and the lake must be restocked every year. And the staff managed . . .” she shook her head slightly. “I had hoped, of course, to see you working with Papa, at House Massot, if he would return, and carrying on his legacy if not.” She shrugged. “But as it is . . .”

One of the maids materialized with the coffee and petits fours and served them. Tom helped himself to a tiny macaroon, even though his appetite had entirely deserted him; he was concerned not to upset Grandmother any more.

“But what do you mean?” he asked when the woman had gone. “Surely Maman can’t have done that much damage. It has only been a couple of months.”

“You have not heard?”