“I’ll get out!” Tom said eagerly. He jumped up, and Sophie rushed to swaddle him in a thick, fluffy towel. Pierre gazed, fascinated, at his son. Tom had his features, and it was strange—endlessly so—to see the joy that was written there, the love—like watching himself as a child, in an alternate universe, where his father had loved him.

Tom was himself, altered. He wanted to believe it. The one corner of his heart that was not wholly closed he had given to his son. Perhaps because he saw himself, at eleven, but different—but better.

“You’re all red. Like a Breton lobster,” Sophie said, and kissed him; she covered him with kisses, and Tom squealed, pretending to be annoyed, but his eyes lit up.

“Papa,” he said eagerly. “Papa. Will you read me a story? Will you put me to bed?”

Sophie looked up, anxiously, meeting Pierre’s eyes; putting Tom to bed was her job, and she was well aware, by now, that Pierre hated deviations.

“Of course, my darling. I’d love to.” He bent down and gathered the boy in his arms, towel and all; to his wife, he said, “I’ll meet you in the drawing room.”

She only hesitated a second. She loved to put Tom to bed, but she would not begrudge her husband the time.

“Very well. God bless, sweetheart.” Sophie kissed Tom’s wet cheek, and then vanished noiselessly from the room.

“Come on.” Pierre held out one hand to the little boy. “Let’s find your best pyjamas.”

When his son was asleep, he came downstairs to find Sophie waiting. As he had expected, she had changed; she was wearing a pleasant dress of canary yellow silk with a pattern of green and white across the skirt, and some yellow South Sea pearl earrings he had given her for Easter. She hurried across the room to hand him his drink, but he set it aside. Alcohol had no place in his plans for the evening.

“How are you, darling? How was your day?”

“Fine.” He smiled at her, but without warmth. “Is all as it should be in the house?”

She shrank back slightly, as ever, fearful of his disapproval.

“Darling—what do you mean?”

He shrugged. “The gardeners. The grounds . . . the servants . . .”

“Everything is perfect—exactly what you wanted.” Sophie looked worried. “Why, have you noticed anything wrong?”

He shook his head. Yes, he could safely leave her in charge. She would change nothing.

“Have you visited my mother lately?”

“I went to see her this morning, for tea,” Sophie answered, promptly. Pierre knew how she hated the visits to Katherine, but she kept them up all the same; she understood the concept of family. That pleased him.

He came over to her and kissed her on the cheek; his wife looked up at him, surprised.

“Come to the door with me. See me off,” Pierre said.