by Renee Ryan
Praise for the novels of Renee Ryan
“The Widows of Champagne is a standout among its historical fiction peers. The struggles, betrayals and fear of war-torn France is a moving backdrop to a story whose heart is centered around the complicated love between mothers and daughters, and the sacrifices one makes for survival.”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
“The Widows of Champagne is a riveting novel of WWII France. I held my breath many times as the three generations of widows negotiated the treacherous landscape of war. Highly recommended.”
—Robin Lee Hatcher, Christy Award–winning author of Make You Feel My Love
“With complex characters and a stunning setting, The Widows of Champagne will sweep you into a wartime story of love, greed, and how one should never underestimate the strength of the women left behind. I couldn’t put it down. Fans of Kristin Hannah will love it!”
—Donna Alward, New York Times bestselling author
“Exquisitely crafted, masterful storytelling. Do not miss this book!”
—Heather Burch, bestselling author of One Lavender Ribbon
“A story of valiant women, detailed in its research, moving and tense.”
—Natalie Meg Evans, author of The Dress Thief
Books by Renee Ryan
Love Inspired Historical
Charity House
The Marshal Takes a Bride
Hannah’s Beau
Loving Bella
The Lawman Claims His Bride
Charity House Courtship
The Outlaw’s Redemption
Finally a Bride
His Most Suitable Bride
The Marriage Agreement
Stand-In Rancher Daddy
Love Inspired
Thunder Ridge
Surprise Christmas Family
The Sheriff’s Promise
Village Green
Claiming the Doctor’s Heart
The Doctor’s Christmas Wish
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Multipublished award-winning author Renee Ryan grew up in Florida, where she spent her winters ballet dancing and her summers on the beach surfing and reading. She received a degree in economics at Florida State University and continued her education at the graduate level, working as a TA and focusing on religious studies, where she explored the Just War Theory in Shakespeare’s historical plays.
Renee left academia to teach high school Latin, AP economics and political science. With nearly thirty books published, she’s written for three publishers in several subgenres, including historical fiction, historical romance and contemporary romance.
She currently lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and a large cat many have mistaken for a small bear. To learn more about Renee, check out her website, www.reneeryan.com, or visit her Facebook page. Her Twitter handle is @reneeryanbooks.
The Widows of Champagne
Renee Ryan
To Veuve Clicquot, Pommery, Laurent-Perrier and Bollinger, the real widows of Champagne, who with their courage, their business acumen and their trailblazing innovations turned sparkling wine into the world-famous beverage it is today.
No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me, saith the Lord.
—Isaiah 54:17
“Remember, gentlemen, it’s not France we are fighting for, it’s champagne.”
—Winston Churchill
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Two
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Part Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Excerpt from The Cowgirl’s Sacrifice by Tina Radcliffe
Part One
Chapter One
Gabrielle
Reims, France. 3 September 1939
Beneath the creaking bones of the ancient château, clocks chimed from room to room, speaking to one another in a secret language all their own. Gabrielle LeBlanc-Dupree moved quickly through the darkened corridors, counting off each peal as she went. Twelve in total.
Not enough time. It had to be enough. Evil lurked on the horizon, prowling like a hungry lion. Tonight, Gabrielle would prepare for the unthinkable. That she had to act alone only heightened her sense of urgency. And pushed her feet faster. Faster.
Wrapped inside the thick folds of her cloak, she exited the house as soundless as a wraith. She’d taken this path hundreds of times, thousands, down the twenty-one stone steps, through the vineyard, past the champagne house, and into the miles of limestone caves cut beneath the chalky earth.
The frigid wind blew over her face, carrying the scent of rain and decay, a stark reminder that the Lord had taken His hand off her family long ago. History haunted the LeBlanc vineyard like an uninvited ghost at a christening. We are people marked by war, her grandmother said. The soil is drenched in blood and death. More was coming.
Gabrielle kept moving, never faltering, never stopping to wail against the unfairness of two enemies bearing down on her. The rain let loose, waging its relentless war on the vines her family had tended for two hundred years. The weather was proving a more immediate threat than the evil lurking on the other side of the Maginot Line.
One bad harvest would not ruin them.
The other enemy very well could. Hitler and his ravenous henchmen showed no mercy. They conquered. They invaded. And then, they looted. If France fell into Nazi hands, they would not get the best of the LeBlanc treasures. Not if Gabrielle succeeded tonight.
All but running now, she unlocked the heavy door and plunged into the wine cellar cut into the stone beneath the vineyard. She hurried past the racks of upturned bottles maturing under the 24-volt lights. This young wine, not yet champagne, was her family’s legacy. Their future.
Th
e bottles at the back of the cellar represented their past. Gabrielle had personally selected the most valuable blends from the last two decades. She’d also chosen from the previous century. Most notably the single-vintage 1867, and the infamous 1811, rumored to be of remarkable quality because a comet had crossed over Champagne that year. Finally, and not without much internal debate, she’d added five hundred bottles of the celebrated 1928.
When she’d first come up with her plan, she’d considered confiding in her grandmother and perhaps, in that moment, she would have, if the rain hadn’t started up again and pulled her attention to the vines. Now, she was glad for the interruption. What her grandmother didn’t know, she couldn’t worry over. Gabrielle alone would carry this secret, this burden.
Twenty thousand bottles were a mere drop in their stock, but enough to start over if the worst happened and the Nazis—
She did not let her mind finish the thought.
She went to work instead, constructing one horizontal row of stone at a time, bottom to top. Last week she’d instructed her vineyard manager to place the stones in this part of the cellar. He’d given her no argument. His loyalty had encouraged her to confess her intent. But he’d stopped her, hand on her arm, and said, “What is left unspoken can never be repeated.”
Pierre was not wrong, but Gabrielle could have used his help tonight. Her unschooled methods proved full of error. And wasted precious time. Beads of sweat trickled into her eyes. She wiped at her face with her sleeve, hardly noticing how the dirt coated her hands and dug under her cracked fingernails.
Her muscles cried out from fatigue.
One hour turned into two, two into three. Then, she stepped back and her stomach swooped from satisfaction to despair in an instant. Her construction was faulty at best.
Someone will notice the wall. Only if she let them in this part of the cellar.
She kept building. Until one gruesome task remained. Teeth gritted, she retrieved the jar she’d left hidden in a nearby wine barrel. Dozens of spiders crawled over their fellow prisoners, each attempt at escape a miserable failure. Gabrielle could not feel sorry for their plight. She hated spiders. Nevertheless, they would serve their purpose.
Hands shaking, she released the little devils. They scattered across the wall, invading their new home with focused, frightening precision. The creatures would spin their webs. They would capture their prey, eventually creating an archaic façade over the freshly laid stone.
Feeling as old as the champagne house, Gabrielle exited the cave and stepped into the dark nothingness before dawn. A moment of utter aloneness laid siege on her tired brain. She nearly stumbled under the weight of it but managed to keep moving toward shelter, toward home. The rain still fell, slow and steady, stippling the puddles at her feet.
Back in her room, she tossed her clothing in the basket with the other muddied garments she’d worn in the vineyard the previous day and the one before that.
Promising herself she would take a short rest—a few minutes, nothing more—Gabrielle collapsed atop her bed. She fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of crumbling walls and giant spiders. The grotesque bodies marched across a bloodred field, their eight legs becoming four then morphing into Nazi swastikas. They circled around her, round and round, spinning, spinning until her arms and legs were trapped and she could no longer move. No longer breathe.
She woke gasping for air, her heart battering against her ribs. Only a dream, she told herself, not real. She blinked into the predawn light, again and again.
But the terrifying images of spiders remained.
From that day forward, the eight-legged little monsters would remind Gabrielle of war.
Chapter Two
Josephine
In the still moments before dawn, Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc wandered among the sodden vines she’d tended the past sixty years, first with her husband, then with her son, and now with her beloved granddaughter whose name she couldn’t quite recall. It was there, just on the edges of her cluttered mind. If she concentrated hard enough. Just a little harder...
Gabrielle. Yes, Gabrielle. The younger woman was the heart of the vineyard now, as Josephine had once been. Her granddaughter would usher Château Fouché-LeBlanc into the second half of the century, not Josephine.
The end of her struggle drew near. The Lord wanted her home. She could hear Him calling her to Glory. Antoine would join her there. Or would she join him? The latter, of course. Her husband had been gone for many years.
Her mind wanted to play tricks on her this morning, the battle stronger than usual. She was ready to succumb. Once the harvest was complete. Then, only then, would she submit to the irresistible whispers swirling in her head. The dark, seductive lure was always there, like a breath in a stillroom inviting her to simply let go.
So very tempting.
A light drizzle accompanied her as she slogged along a path her feet remembered, even if her mind did not. The world was eerily quiet, neither dark nor light but a blur of muted grays. The solitude helped her think, to sort through the creeping chaos in her mind.
Josephine treasured these moments alone with her darling vines, as precious as children. She knew each vine intimately. The sense of recognition was a physical ache in her chest.
She paused, looked around until she had a better sense of where she was. On a clear day, standing in this very spot, she could see across the sweeping hills peppered with Fouché-LeBlanc vines and their immature grapes. The vineyard stretched to a point beyond where the eye could see, all the way to the very edges of the world. It was a whimsical thought, and Josephine was anything but a woman prone to whimsy. Those days had died with Antoine, then been permanently sealed in their son’s coffin.
A bird cried in the distance, jerking Josephine out of her painful memories.
She’d lost track of time.
Much had to be done before she welcomed Champagne’s finest citizens into her home. The party celebrating Château Fouché-LeBlanc’s two-hundred-year anniversary would be her last. Josephine was too old for parties. Nevertheless, this one would be spectacular. For the sake of the ones she’d lost too soon.
She began retracing her steps.
The château rose in the distance, three stories high, the ivy-covered marble hidden within the morning shadows. The windows appeared menacing as they stared down at her, like black, hollow eyes in a condemning face. A trick of the light. Still, she shivered.
The air hung heavy, bloated with the earthy scent of the rain-soaked soil. Josephine shivered again. Would today be full of sunshine and optimism? Or would the sky continue its watery attack? She wanted to cry over the invasion of such an unpredictable enemy. She usually disliked submitting to emotion, but, today, she allowed the tears to come. The drizzle chose that moment to turn into rain, sliding down her cheeks. A silent collaborator, as if knowing she wanted her tears camouflaged, even from herself.
Lord, call me home. I am ready. But that wasn’t true. Too much left undone.
Josephine paused midstep and wiped at her cheeks. She felt a pang of déjà vu so strong her mind leaped over forgotten decades, the individual years immaterial in the bittersweet journey.
Past folded over present, stopping at a single moment. The first time she’d met these vines she’d wept as she did now, but in awe and wonder.
Antoine had taken her hand and leaned in close. “Tell me, ma chère, what do you think of your new home?”
Hopelessly naïve, Josephine had shifted from one foot to the other. Behind the tangle of blushes and schoolgirl innocence, she’d been desperate to impress her husband of a few hours. She’d wanted him to think of her as a woman, not the wide-eyed ingénue he’d married to merge his champagne house with her father’s. And yet, she’d answered with the truth spilling from her heart. “It is where I belong.”
The sense of homecoming was as real now as it had been that fate
ful day, when she’d been an untested bride to a man much older than her seventeen years.
“Yes,” he’d agreed, looking pleased, the smile lines deepening at the corner of his eyes. “This is where you belong.”
Their union had been a business arrangement between two powerful families, but their marriage had turned into a grand love affair for them both.
“We will make many babies, you and I.”
She’d managed to give him only one, a boy.
“They will tend the vines with us and grow to love the land with the heart of a true Champenois.”
In that, their son had not disappointed.
“Our life, it will be good for us both.”
She’d blushed then, caught up in the picture he’d painted of their future. Later that night, he’d made the promise again, but with a very different meaning. “It will be good for us both.”
Antoine had been a compassionate man, and a patient tutor both as a husband and a vigneron. He’d taught Josephine how to let the vines set the rhythm of their lives, to tend the grapes, to sample the vin clairs, and then, with uncanny accuracy, to predict how the base wines would mix together to make something truly magnificent. The Great Transformation, he’d called the process.
Josephine loved her small corner of the world, the rolling hills, the vines that had replaced the children she’d miscarried. The subsoil made up of fragile shells from ancient marine animals held a special place in her heart. She could hear the chalky earth whispering forgotten secrets from a time when dinosaurs roamed these hills.
The siren’s song had her stooping to the ground and scooping up a handful of dirt. She stared at the wet clump, the grizzled hand not that of her younger self but of the seventy-seven-year-old woman she was today.
She blinked again and again, and then, at last, she no longer held wet earth. She saw only the dry soil of decades before leaking through her seventeen-year-old fingers. She reveled in the warm feel of that ancient dirt sifting through a hand unscarred by time and toil. The sensation was as vivid as it was real, the experience an almost mystical connection to God’s creation.