“That, and . . .” Sophie shivered. “they have access to a significant block of stock. I checked with our lawyers. Fifteen percent, if you combine them.”

“But you have more. . . .” The old man scrunched up his face. “Business bores me, Sophie, I’m afraid. I am more concerned with your son. With your whole family. It seems to me, my dear, that if you reconcile with your son, the danger in your business will also go away.”

“There is still Katherine.” She wanted to add “that bitch,” but he was a priest. “I’ll never convince her.”

“Mme Katherine has . . .” he chose his words, “a highly developed sense of propriety. With your son and you in harmony, she would not dare to vote against you, because it would cause talk.”

“You might be right.”

“And do not be too hard on her, Sophie. We must love our enemies.”

Sophie gritted her teeth. It was easier said than done.

“Besides, you have only lost a husband. She has lost a son. You are a mother—you must feel for that. You will not stop loving Tom when you are eighty.”

“I suppose,” Sophie said, softening marginally.

“Without Pierre, Tom is her only blood. It is true he is your son and only her grandson. But he is Pierre’s boy. Consider that she may feel he is all she has left.”

Sophie tried. She really did. But all that would come out was, “She is a spider.”

Fr. Sabin smiled. “You know, you’re changing. I see it in you, ever since you went to the office. You’re more independent—more confident. Happier underneath, even with the stress.”

Sophie was surprised. “Thank you.”

“You’re finding out that you have a brain, and you are enjoying using it.”

“There may be something to that, Father.”

“You can handle this situation. Now, more tea?” Fr. Sabin looked at her rapidly cooling and almost full mug. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Oh—it was lovely. But no thank you.” She looked at his cup of rich, creamy coffee. “Maybe some coffee, for a change?”

“Oh no. Too much caffeine is bad for you.” Fr. Sabin went triumphantly into the kitchen. “I got some decaffeinated Tetley. From Cardiff. I’ll make you a cup of that.”

Sophie went home an hour later. The priest had turned the conversation to other topics—her garden, the village’s new mayor, the August fête for the Assumption. But Sophie’s mind had never left Tom.

Of course he was right. He usually was. She had been afraid to reach out, since Tom was so obviously here to plot against her—coming in behind her back and going to Katherine.

But that was stupid. Tom was her baby. He was throwing a tantrum, that was all. She would only be playing into Katherine’s hands if she let it escalate. She had to find out where he was living and speak to him, right away.