Sophie ordered that lunch be served in the conservatory; it was her favourite room in the house, the least intimidating. They had to walk through the immense stone hallway, past the portraits and the tapestries, and through the Yellow Room, with its silk wallpaper and elegant divans, to get there; but once she had led him through the small wrought-iron door, they were surrounded by the scent of growing things, and the odd drowsy butterfly. There was Victorian rattan furniture from the British Raj and giant cushions from Pakistan, in a silken rainbow of colours, heaped round a glass-topped table. Despite the glass and stifling heat outside, it was cool; Sophie had added modern air-conditioning, because without it the place would be unusable from late spring until autumn.

“This is delightful!” Gregoire said.

“I’m so glad you like it.”

Bernarde, one of the maids, appeared in uniform. “Could you ask cook to send in . . . an assiette,” Sophie said, searching for something simple. “Just some ham and cheese and bread and tapenade. And a fruit salad. What would you like?”

“What is on the menu today?”

Sophie laughed. “Anything you want, as long as you don’t have a hankering for roast peacock or something.”

“Would a cheese soufflé be too much trouble?”

She shook her head, pleased. Perhaps he was going to relax after all. Soufflés took a little while to prepare. “Lionel’s soufflés are outrageously good.”

“And for dessert, Monsieur?”

“A poached pear,” he said, decisively. “And some wine. Anything white.”

“And water. I’ll have tea when we’re finished.”

“Yes, Madame,” said Bernarde. She smiled radiantly at Gregoire, and at her mistress, then disappeared. I suppose it’s been a long while since I’ve had a man to the house, Sophie realized—just one man, unaccompanied by a wife, anyway. She kept a proper distance from her staff, in obedience to Pierre’s wishes, but she had always been friendly and pleasant, and paid very well. They were all fond of her, and knew how to make their feelings known.

“I am glad you are going to enjoy your lunch,” Sophie said.

Gregoire brushed his hand across his face, as though to get rid of cobwebs. “When I am with you, it is difficult not to be happy,” he said.

Sophie blushed.

These past few weeks, she thought, have been the happiest of my life.

The idea shocked her. But it was true; well, always excepting the time she had spent with Thomas, when he was younger. But as a woman, aside from motherhood . . . yes. She could not recall having been happier.