He smiled. Pitting women against each other was his favourite spectator sport. His mouse of a wife would not object. He knew ways to psychologically break women. In Sophie’s case, he would pretend to discover Catholicism.

Guilt was an excellent tool.

“Katherine will hate that,” Judy said, licking her lips.

“Mother, like Sophie and Tom, will obey me.” Pierre shrugged. “I have had many years to plan this, Judy. I assure you, I have thought through every detail.” His lips twitched at the corners. “And I intend to enjoy it.”

Darkness had settled across the park. Sophie tugged her sweater tighter around her; through the open doors of the drawing room she could see the stars; there was a three-quarter moon, and the black surface of the lake glittered with its reflection, like a flash from a jet bead.

No cloud cover. The night was brilliant, but cold.

She tried to pray. But she could not feel God. Her anger was huge, and hard, inside her chest, a diamond that would cut everything, destroy every feeling. She wanted Hugh, and she might never hold him again. Never feel him inside her. Why had this happened to her?

Pierre must agree—agree that he never intended to marry her, not truly. He must speak the truth and let her go. Or else, she was condemned to a loveless, lonely life. There would never be another man for her but Hugh. Sophie knew it. She had been born to love him. And only him.

She still believed in God. And her faith. She would not go to Hugh, if she were truly married to Pierre. She would live alone, and see only Tom; she would obey God’s law.

And she would hate Him for it.

The huge fire hissed and crackled in the flagstone hearth. It was the largest one in the whole château; it took some of the chill out of the air, and sent the shadows dancing around the room.

Sophie gazed about: at the portraits on the walls, the fine damasks, the antique firearms, the Roman and Greek statuary; this glorious room had once been one of her favourites. Tonight, she loathed it. It was a prison.

God, how she wanted Hugh.

He had brought her, but he had not stayed. She couldn’t allow it. Tom was to meet his father again. This was for the Massots, and no others could be admitted.

“You are not cold, Sophie?” Katherine asked, solicitously.

Sophie glanced at her, tiredly. “No.”

Katherine smiled. “I am sure,” she hissed, “we are all lit with the fires of love. Especially those of us who had faith.”

Tom said nothing. He was staring into space, and Sophie watched his fingers grip the armrest of his chair.

She tried to muster some enthusiasm.

“Thank God, Pierre is alive, and well. It is a . . . great mercy.”

He was son, and father, to the two people here with her. They would always love him, just as she never could.