“Merci, mon Père,” Sophie said, pressing his withered hand. “But that’s not the only problem. I worry about Tom. He’s so young . . . and stupid.”

“Tom Massot is not stupid.”

She blinked.

“He is stubborn and full of pride, but he is not stupid. Both his parents are intelligent, and so is he. You may rely on that, Sophie.”

“If he comes to his senses, it’ll be too late,” she said. “His inheritance is gone forever.”

Père Sabin shrugged. “Material things,” he said.

“With respect, Father, you are a priest. To most people, material things matter.”

The old man said, “Then they are shortsighted. But Tom is the head of the company now, is he not?”

“It’s window dressing.”

“I do not understand the term.”

“Ceremonial,” Sophie said. “He will have no power ... no influence . . . he’ll see.” She paused. “And I have another worry.”

“What?”

“He’s being ensnared,” she said, and anger balled like a fist in her stomach. “By a wicked, an immoral woman. An American ... an older woman. Who cares nothing for him and is motivated only by hatred of me.”

“We are not meant to judge, Sophie,” said the priest.

“I know this to be true about her. Because she told me so!”

“She told you she did not love Tom?”

“She implied it,” Sophie said, hotly. “And . . . she’s evil.”

“People are never evil,” said Fr. Sabin. “Although they may do evil things.”

“Oh, Father, spare me the psychology!” Sophie cried, agonized. She twisted her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, miserably. Now she was shouting at an old man. “But you don’t know her! She . . .” Sophie flushed. She couldn’t quite believe how humiliating it was to have to talk about this to another person. “She was, for many years, my husband’s mistress; make that one of his mistresses. But he favoured her above the others; he bought her a flat in the city.” Sophie glanced at her nails, to avoid having to look at her friend. “Her name’s Judy Dean, and she worked at Massot. When I arrived, Judy befriended me, but she hates me—she was trying to ruin me. She had something to do with this deal, I know it. And she told me she despises me. Next thing I know . . . she’s got her hands on my son.”

Sophie risked a glance; the story had hit home. Fr. Sabin’s rheumy eyes were grave.

“You tell me this woman has had intercourse with both father, and son?”

“Yes,” Sophie said. She pushed up out of the tatty armchair and went to look out of the window. She didn’t want Sabin to see the fear and rage that were pulsing through her, and, she was sure, would be written on her face. “Judy’s a bitch,” she said, coldly.