“And I don’t?”

“No. You don’t.” Celine was firm. “But you might have been able to learn.”

Stockton’s moans rose up from behind the closed door.

“He’s crying,” Tom observed.

“Like all bullies, he is a coward.” Celine sniffed. “I’m going home.”

“Can I drive you somewhere?”

“I have a car. Tell me, M. Massot. Did Madame explain to you about Judy Dean?”

Tom froze. “She told me she didn’t approve.”

“Nothing more?”

“Is there something more?”

Celine considered for a long moment.

“Non,” she said finally. “It is not my place. But take my advice, Monsieur. Call your mother. There is much, I think, you have to learn from her. And not just about diamonds.”

Chapter 44

Chapter 44

“Nothing will change his mind, darling.” Hugh put an arm around her shoulders—there wasn’t much else he could do. “Nothing but time. I’ll speak to him, but I think he needs a little distance.”

“Yes.” Sophie stared, dry-eyed, at the Alps, rising beautifully above them. She hadn’t actually cried since Monday. That was something.

“And don’t forget that it wasn’t like last time. He said he loved you.”

She nodded. “That is true. But it’s so frustrating—my own son thinks I’m betraying Pierre. Not the other way around.”

“Then just tell him the truth.”

“You know I can’t.”

Hugh was silent. He agreed; Sophie could not expose the father’s mendacity and contempt for marriage to the son. The boy loved a dream, and the Sophie he knew would never take that away from him. It was that strength of character that proved to Hugh how right, how perfectly and utterly right he was to love her.

“In which case, our plan is the right one. Your old priest, he’s fairly canny.”

“You would say that.” He was gladdened to note a very small smile. “Because you just want to get me into bed. . . .”

Hugh, never religious, thought some God talk had been called for. After all, as much as he loved her, Hugh was the obstacle between Sophie and her Tom. He couldn’t help that, and watching Sophie cry was impossible.

So Hugh thought he would leave the comforting to a professional.

And he’d been surprised, pleasantly so. The priest, wearing a splendidly ratty nightgown, had ushered them into his overcrowded, messy little cottage. He pumped Hugh’s hand, patted Sophie lightly on the back, and then forced a large brandy on her. He wasn’t maudlin, and didn’t offer platitudes. Instead, Sabin suggested applying to his bishop to waive the six months.

“I have, after all, been your spiritual director for the last sixteen years,” he said, adding dryly, “and for the most part, you haven’t given me concern.”

Père Sabin had then fixed Hugh with a warning eye. Hugh felt a bit guilty; it was as if the chap could see into his bedroom. He coughed.