“Now get the fuck out of here, Massot, or I’ll take you out myself,” Allston said to him with menace. “And stay away from her.”

Tom ignored him. He looked at Polly; she turned away, and he had to see her fingers stroking Allston’s arm reassuringly. She had done that to him, before, and he’d liked it.

“Polly—”

“Just go, Tom,” she said.

And he did; out through the bar, and the crowd of sniggering students, some even his drinking buddies, laughing at him. His eyes were blinded by tears; he angrily blinked them back, but of course there was no going to see Simon now. He stormed out of the front gate, under Tom Tower, ignoring the insolent porter who never tipped his cap, and walked quickly, stiffly up to Corn-market, where there was a taxi rank.

“The station,” he said.

Come, compose yourself, Tom thought. This weakness is inappropriate. He’d been wrong about Polly being the one. She was nothing, an easy lay; he’d forget her. He wrenched his mind elsewhere. There was a train leaving at quarter to seven; assuming no delays on the broken-down British railway system, perhaps the worst in Europe, he would get to London, and then on the last Eurostar out, tonight.

There was only one question, Tom told himself as he began to calm down. Would he book himself into a hotel? Or go straight to see Grand-mère?

But no, the hotel was wiser. It was hard enough to avoid detection during the day; at night, the sound of a car trundling up the château’s gravel drive would be unmistakable. He had no wish to alert Sophie—not yet. When the confrontation came, it would have to be on his terms.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Sophie woke to the sun streaming through the windows of her bedroom. Their bedroom; it had been Pierre’s and hers for many years, and he had thought it the finest in the château. At first she had found it overwhelming, the green silk wallpaper, the priceless antique furniture, Louis XIV and earlier; there were pieces from the 1500s in this room, and their magnificent canopy bed, draped in deep gold silks and carved with oak leaves and vines, he had told her, was from the reign of François I.

She had grown to love the room; it was incredibly rich, but so, so beautiful. Usually, waking in her bed, the whole expanse of it hers, was a glorious moment. Sophie would lie still for a few minutes, soaking in the light from the easterly windows, and plan the day, with baby Tom, and later, in her garden.

Today she felt nothing but unease. She groped for the reason, and as she stirred into full consciousness, it came back to her.

Gregoire. And last night.

The girl, the shirt, his impatient anger.