Father Jerome was the kind of man who believed in castigation and praise in equal measure, depending on whether it was before or after his midday cognac. He had a drinker’s bulbous nose, large and intimidating, but Isaac was no longer the gangly youth who used to mess about in the back row. He was a fully fledged docker.

‘I’ll curse when and where I like,’ Isaac said, ‘without a by-your-leave from God.’

‘Did I not teach you not to take our Holy Father’s name in vain?’ the priest demanded.

‘I have one unforgiving father already. I don’t need another.’ Isaac started walking towards the door, but he swung round to look over his shoulder with an unexpected half-smile for me. ‘I will ask,’ he said. ‘About the stables.’

‘Thank you. Goodbye, Isaac.’

I let my brother take his anger back out on the street.

*

‘Eloïse, wait one moment.’

Father Jerome held up his hand as though stopping traffic. He blended in with the church as naturally as the pews or the organ.

‘What is it, Father?’

‘A word about your brother.’

‘He meant no offence when he spoke.’

‘Of course he meant offence. Offence to God.’

I let it pass.

‘But I didn’t mean that brother,’ he continued. ‘Your other one.’

‘André?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about him?’

‘How is he?’

‘He has crippled legs. How do you think he is?’ I drew a steadying breath. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I am shaken by . . .’ I waved a hand towards the great arch of the door. Let him work out whether it meant Isaac or the vehemence of the demonstrators, whichever he chose. ‘André is as well as can be expected.’

There. Better.

‘He wasn’t at Mass this morning, so I was concerned.’

My mouth dropped open. I shut it quickly. ‘Does he usually come to church on a Sunday?’

‘Oh yes.’ His eyes grew gentle. ‘God would welcome you here too, Eloïse. It might bring you the comfort you seek.’

I stared at him. My mind jammed. Still trying to absorb what he was saying. ‘You mean my brother André comes to church here in Serriac every Sunday.’

‘Yes, he does.’

I remembered the hymn book at his bedside. The midnight cry for help in the darkness.

‘How does he get here?’ I asked.

He looked at me perplexed. ‘Your father drives him.’

I bit down on my tongue to stop it from telling him he was lying.

‘My father comes to church as well?’

‘No. Not Aristide Caussade. He drops André here and picks him up when Mass is finished. But he will always be welcome too.’

I nodded. I had no words. I made quickly for the door, blinking away tears. More than anything in the world I wanted André to find his own peace of soul.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR