“Just a moment.”

Sophie stared out of the window at a heavy foxglove, a fat bumblebee burrowing inside one of its bells. She could feel herself calming down.

“Here we are,” Fr. Sabin said, reappearing triumphantly with a chipped mug full of black tea, a Tetley tea bag still inside it.

“Perfect,” Sophie lied brightly, as she fished the tea bag out and discreetly dropped it into a waste bin. Fr. Sabin prided himself on his tea-making skills, even getting the Tetley sent over once a month from a nun friend of his in Cardiff.

“You have been to Pierre’s company,” the priest said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I wanted to check that all was well. It’s Tom’s inheritance, you know,” Sophie said, a bit defensively. Though from whom? She had no need to defend herself against one of her oldest and kindest friends. “And I think Pierre would have wanted me to make sure all was in order.”

“No, you don’t.”

Sophie started. “What?”

“No, you don’t think that,” Fr. Sabin said patiently. His green eyes were rheumy and bloodshot with age, but the mind behind them was still perfectly agile. “Your husband would never have wanted you to be involved with his business, Sophie, never.”

She put down the tea, shocked. His words echoed Katherine’s, and Tom’s. And maybe because he was the one saying them, she understood that they were true; they both knew they were true.

“Pierre had decided ideas about his wife; you getting involved with the company is the last thing he would have wanted.”

Her face fell. Now, she thought, I know why I feel so guilty all the time.

“Then you think I am doing the wrong thing, Father,” she said, miserably.

“Certainly not. You’re not stupid, girl, whatever Mme Katherine has been saying to you lately.”

“But you said that Pierre—”

“Your husband was a fool. May he rest in peace,” the priest said, crossing himself. “A fool, and—,” he checked himself. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum. What he wanted is irrelevant. He is dead, and you have the responsibility now. I only say, my dear, that you should not delude yourself. You are doing this because you should, for Tom. But also, you are doing it because you want to.”

“Because I . . .” Sophie’s voice trailed off. Because she wanted to?

Duty, honour, preservation, motherly love . . . all of those she could accept as motivations. But not that. . . .

Sophie was so used to doing what she was asked to—being compliant and true to Pierre, the only way she knew how, which was to follow all he had asked her to do.

Except, her friend and confessor was now telling her, for this. Taking control of House Massot. Pierre would absolutely have hated it.

“You think I am acting selfishly?”