They smiled at each other, like children sharing a secret, and Sophie started to feel very strange, almost spellbound; something was gradually stealing up on her; she thought that maybe it was hope.

They probed each other over the food; Sophie ordered moules marinière, a speciality of the house; they were delicious, faintly scented with garlic and parsley, in a white-wine broth she mopped up with crusty bread; Hugh, who didn’t care what he ate, chose a plain Dover sole with lemon and butter; it was excellent, and his salad was crisp and full of summer herbs.

It was easy to talk. Sophie felt as though she’d known Montfort forever. He instictively understood her; he didn’t belittle her, or say flowery things; he listened gravely and made her feel that what she had to say mattered.

He seemed interested in Tom, and when her love overwhelmed her, and she started to cry, there was no awkwardness; he merely said, “I’m sorry,” and waited for her to calm herself.

“It’s because he loves his father.” Sophie dabbed the tears away. “I know that. Whatever Pierre was, he was Tom’s father. But I’m the one who’s always been there. Even when Pierre was alive, he was out—always out.” She thought briefly of Judy. “I never wondered why, and maybe that was wrong. I was at home playing with our baby.” Her shoulders hooped again. “And yet it seems that he prefers his father to me . . . it’s almost as if I didn’t count.”

“I doubt that.” Hugh took a slow sip of his wine. “Tom doesn’t love his father; he hardly knew his father. Rather, he loves the idea of his father, which without the man there to contradict it, is a stupidly rosy picture.”

He put his large hand over her small one, and Sophie didn’t pull away.

“It’s not a unique situation. Divorced women all over the world go through it. The children, when they grow up, realize the falsehood of the image. Tom has nothing more sinister than a longing for two parents.”

“But what he said about me . . .”

“He’s still young enough to feel repulsion at the idea of his mother as a sexual creature. He’ll grow out of that, too.”

Sophie flushed. “My gown wasn’t sexual . . .”

“Indeed it was.” Montfort winked at her. “Although perfectly modest. But Tom is not quite done with his adolescence. He’s still at the stage where he would prefer you in a burka.”

Sophie laughed weakly. “I suppose so. You’re very good at making me feel better, Hugh.”

“I hope I am,” he responded seriously.

“And you.” She turned those shining brown eyes to him. “Why haven’t you remarried? Are you . . .”

Sophie’s voice trailed off.

“Am I what?”

“I’m sorry.” She twirled the stem of her wineglass. “I was about to say something impertinent.”