Sophie breathed out, relieved, and got to her feet. Father finished the last prayers, asked them to bow their heads, and gave them God’s blessing. As soon as he had pronounced the final “amen” of the dismissal, Sophie quietly slipped from her pew, genuflected, and hurried from the church.

She emerged into the dazzling sunlight blinking back tears, and looked around for her driver. Where was he? She didn’t want anybody to see her crying. The family breach was all over the village, and this would only make it worse.

Sophie couldn’t see Richard. There wasn’t a parking spot to be had anywhere in the street. She supposed he was circling the village. Inside the church the sounds of the last hymn were dying away. Sophie started to walk hastily in the other direction. She had to get away; she could call Richard on the mobile, have him pick her up outside Café Marianne. The walk would distract her long enough to regain some composure.

“Sophie.” Fr. Sabin, old and out of breath, had rushed out to catch her, soutane flapping, one bony hand on his hat. “Sophie. Where are you going?”

“Excuse me—excuse me, Father. I can’t stay.”

“But you must, indeed. Go round to the rectory. The door’s open.”

“Not this Sunday—”

“Certainly this Sunday.This is about young Thomas, ma chère?”

“I—”

She couldn’t manage it. The lump in her throat resurfaced, too thick to be swallowed, and a fat tear trickled down her cheek.

“Just go,” whispered the old priest. A fat lady trundled from the vestibule, eyes narrowing as she saw Sophie crying. She moved animatedly towards her, but Fr. Sabin intercepted her with an expert grace.

“Mme Estelle—how nice to see you again. Where is monsieur this morning? Sick? I am sorry to hear it . . .”

Sophie fled through the priest’s garden to the safety of the house.

“Where is your driver?” Fr. Sabin said, handing over her mug of stewed Tetley.

“He’s parked up the street. I called him. He’ll wait.”

“Sophie,” the priest scolded. “It is very bad that you have him work on the Sabbath. You must stop it immediately. You can drive your own car, for once.”

“I never learned.” She hadn’t gotten around to it as a teenager, and then Pierre found her, and there were always drivers. Sophie had broached it once, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Mme Pierre Massot did not drive; she was driven. “Anyway,” she went on, since Father had opened his mouth again, no doubt to tell her to walk, “Richard is Jewish, Father; he takes Saturday off.”

“Oh. Humph. Very well, then. I keep an eye on these things, you know.”

“I know.”

“How is your tea?”

“Delicious,” Sophie lied.

Fr. Sabin took a sip of his own coffee. It smelled wonderful. Sophie looked at it wistfully.

“I heard about your son’s return,” he said.