Madame ushered Roy and Cleo to their places, side by side at the head of the table, facing the statue of the naked man with the marble drapes over his arm. There was another figure a short distance in front of the statue. Low down and motionless was a man in a wheelchair, wearing dark glasses. He was heavily bearded, with a mane of silver hair that covered his forehead and tumbled down to the shoulders of his velvet jacket. He wore a bright-yellow cravat.

The woman walked across, held out an arm towards him and spoke to them all in French. When she had finished, Cleo translated.

‘Madame says she would like to introduce her husband, the Vicomte Michel du Carne de Chabrolais, fifteenth Vicomte Joigny. She says he speaks even less English than she does. She is sorry that he is not able to get up from his wheelchair. He’s recovering from a stroke. But Madame says he is proud to be our host for our stay in his beautiful Château-sur-L’Évêque, and if there is anything we need, to please ask either of them.’

Roy filled Cleo’s glass with sparkling water, then raised his flute of champagne at the man in the wheelchair. Cleo and Kaitlynn raised their glasses, too.

‘Cheers!’ Roy Grace said.

The Vicomte, clearly struggling, managed to raise an arm a little in response.

Roy turned to the nanny. ‘Still no luck with Jack?’

She shook her head, looking very upset. ‘I’ve been outside and tried there, too. There’s just no goddamn signal.’

‘OK,’ Roy said. ‘Look, Kaitlynn, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Jack’s a big boy and he knows how to look after himself – he’ll have a perfectly good reason for this. But before I have anything more to drink, I’m going to drive back down to the road and see if I can get a signal there. If Madame serves the starter, don’t worry about me, I’ll have it when I get back.’

But before he could get up, Madame appeared as if from thin air with her most pleasant smile so far. She was carrying another huge silver tray, on which was laid out a generous platter of smoked fish. ‘For Madame and Mademoiselle,’ she said, smiling at the two women.

Their hostess left through a door and returned with another equally large silver tray containing the rich goose-liver pâté, called foie gras, sweet pickles and rich brioche buns. ‘For Monsieur Grace and Monsieur Bruno!’ she said, laying it down.

Roy had recently read about how foie gras was created and had vowed never to eat it again. He was only doing so now to try to be close to his son, who was already tucking in.