Her mother-in-law pursed her lips, and Sophie glanced outside the tall, narrow windows of the eighteenth-century house. They afforded a beautiful view of the park, across the lake, all the way up to the main house, the Château des Étoiles. The castle of the stars. Pierre’s house. And now, hers.

“If I had the slightest hope that he was alive . . .”

“I have not the slightest doubt he is,” the old lady said, fiercely.

“Based on what?” Sophie asked. “Have you some new information?”

Oh, how she hoped she did. Then she would not have to go through with all this. Then she could retreat to the familiar comfort of the château and go on doing what she was good at: being Pierre’s patient, obedient wife, keeping the home fires burning and their son’s hope alive. Instead of having to face everything. Starting, but by no means ending, with Katherine Massot.

“I have not felt it. When a man like Pierre dies, you know. You sense it. Men like him do not pass unmarked.”

She looked at Sophie scornfully, as though to ask for the millionth time what Pierre had been doing to unite himself to such a mouse.

“I understand. It is a mother’s love,” Sophie said.

The old lady turned away in a rustle of silk.

“What do you know of love?” she said.

“I loved Pierre.”

“I wonder,” said her mother-in-law.

Sophie felt anger for the first time, but it was drowned out by her fear. Katherine scared her; she always had. It had taken weeks, months even, to screw up enough courage to do this. And, of course, she would take whatever Katherine threw at her. In this, as in everything else, Sophie would behave as Pierre had demanded she do. With impeccable dignity—with the bearing Sophie hadn’t acquired by birth, but which she had been aping for so long it was now part of her.

And besides—this was Pierre’s mother. And she was in pain. Imagine if it were Tom, and I were hearing this from Tom’s wife, she thought.

“This is a dreadful thing for you,” Sophie said, kindly. “I hope you will come and see me in a few days. And Tom,” she added, trying to sweeten the deal with the promise of her grandson. “He should be over from Oxford for the weekend.”

“What does Thomas think of what you are doing?” Katherine demanded.

She pronounced the name in the French way, just to let Sophie know what Pierre would have wanted.

Sophie’s face paled a little.

“He is very fond of his father. And, like you, he still hopes.”

“He disapproves,” Katherine said, triumphantly.

Sophie sighed. “It has been too long. It is time to put an end to it. As much for Tom’s sake as anything. He must learn to move on, to have his chance to grieve.”

Katherine stared at her, then gave a brittle laugh.