The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  Josephine knew her mind was playing another cruel game, tricks upon tricks. But this time, she wanted to disappear into the lie. She wanted to escape from the harsh realities of dismal weather and looming war. She was tired of death robbing her of loved ones. Would it be so terrible to spend a moment in a time before her life had been touched by tragedy?

  The chalky soil warmed her palm.

  Was this real, or just a memory?

  She didn’t know.

  Momentarily caught between past and present, she breathed in slowly, hoping to find her way. But where did she want to go? Back to when life was bright and easy? So tempting.

  She breathed in again. The foul scent made her recoil, a touch of death to the nose, and that was it. She was once again standing in the present. The wet, decayed soil was unbearably cold in her hand, yet she dropped the clump as if it were a ball of white-hot fire.

  Rain continued falling from the dreary sky, sliding beneath her collar. The grapes would be decimated by rot and mold. Gabrielle and her workers would prune, check for fungi or disease, and tie back shoots that came loose. Day after day, week after week, month after month, they had waged their war valiantly. They would still fail.

  The enemy was too strong.

  The enemy was crafty and cruel.

  The enemy was...

  Her feet were cold.

  Josephine looked down. She was standing in mud that wanted to claim the top of her boots. How long had she been frozen in this moment to have sunk so far into the earth? A few minutes? An hour? The sky with its deceptive cloud cover gave her few clues.

  Go home.

  Josephine hurried back to the house. It was a fifteen-minute walk, enough time to gather her thoughts into some semblance of order. Back in the kitchen, routine took over. She stripped off her coat, then climbed out of her muddy boots to pull on thick, dry socks. She made a pot of strong coffee, then moved to the scarred table, cupping the steaming mug between her palms.

  Her thoughts grew fuzzy again. Luring her, always so enticing. Her mind wanted to drift back across time, back to happier days full of nothing but brightness. She would not allow such frailty of spirit. Still so much to do for the party tonight.

  Tonight? Was the party tonight? She thought maybe yes.

  How had she missed the passage of two whole days?

  She stood on shaky legs, glancing around at her surroundings. She’d come to the kitchen for a reason. Brushing the wet strands of hair off her face, she paced a bit until she remembered. The list. The one she’d begun the night before. Remembering now, she snatched it out from beneath a stack of other papers on her writing desk. Placing her mug on the table, she sat and studied the empty page.

  Empty page? Her list had somehow vanished in the journey from desk to table.

  No matter. She would start again.

  Pencil poised over the paper, she forced herself to concentrate on the party. The champagne would flow freely, that much Josephine promised herself. They would serve only the best. Definitely the 1928. She wrote it down. The ’37, possibly the ’26. She made another series of notations. Once started, the ideas poured quickly from brain to hand to list.

  Preparing for the anniversary party made Josephine proud of the past and gave her hope for the future. Perhaps all was not lost. Château Fouché-LeBlanc had survived tragedy before. Bad harvests had given way to better ones. Economic crises had forced them to move into international markets. Even untimely death had taught those left behind to fend for themselves.

  There was much to celebrate.

  A fragment of paper, torn from somewhere—she couldn’t remember where—slipped from tabletop to floor. Josephine reached for it. Words blurred as she laid the ragged page gently back on the table. She ran her fingertips over the looping text. Her handwriting. That was her handwriting.

  When had she made this list? Today? Yesterday?

  Unearthly silence settled over her. Darkness beckoned, seductive and full of false promises. Shutting her eyes, she confronted the familiar battle with her legendary iron will. One day, she would lose this fight, but not today.

  No, she vowed. Not today.

  Chapter Three

  Gabrielle

  Church bells rang from the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims. The high-pitched peals rolled through the village, across the vineyards, summoning children to their breakfast, families to worship and, inside the room on the top floor of the château on the hill, they pulled Gabrielle gasping out of her terrifying dreams of spiders and war.

  Staring up at the ceiling, she silently traced a thin crack in the plaster from one corner to the other. Her heart carried a similar scar, no longer a gaping wound, but there. Always there.

  She stretched, trying to relieve the ache in her arms. Her palm met the sterile, empty spot in the bed beside her. Her life wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be alone. Squeezing her eyes shut, she searched for a peace that always seemed just out of reach. For the strength she needed to carry on another day. Nearly five years had come and gone, and she still hadn’t gotten used to facing life without the man who’d been her best friend first, then her companion and confidant and, for too brief a time, her husband.

  Forcing open her eyes, Gabrielle considered the hours upon hours that lay ahead. Hours of battling the elements with only one goal in mind. Save the grapes.

  A nearly impossible feat at this point in the growing season.

  Nevertheless, she would contend with the weather, for her family. The ones lost and the ones still alive. It was enough. That’s what she told herself when she slid out of bed and began the process of dressing for a long, punishing day among the vines. Most of Reims would attend Mass today. There would be no Sabbath for Gabrielle.

  The sound of the tolling bells faded, but the ringing remained in her ears, a constant reminder that Reims was a city of cathedrals. From her earliest memories the church bells had marked off every important event in her life. They told her when to wake, when to work, when to break for meals. They called her to worship, to celebrate a marriage, a birth, and to mourn. Gabrielle had attended too many funerals in her twenty-seven years.

  There would be more. As certain as this year’s harvest was ruined, war was coming, death its eager companion. God had forgotten France. Nothing would stop what was coming now. Not even the celebrated French army.

  She attempted to stretch away the stiffness in her back. Every muscle protested, her arms especially. With effort, she tied the tangle of dark, sleep-mussed hair off her face, then moved to the small, circular window that overlooked the vineyard. The sun spread tentative fingers through a seam in the clouds, as if trapped in a moment of uncertainty. Unfortunately, the decision was already made. A band of thunderclouds boiled over the northern skies, moving quickly toward the vineyard.

  It was moments like these when she missed Benoit most. Her husband had taught her to love the process of growing grapes. Even now, as she stared out over the sodden vines, his favorite phrase came to mind. “August makes the must.” The must—juice from the grapes—was the first and most important step to making champagne.

  A dry hot August was always better than a cold wet one.

  She exited her bedroom on a sigh and hurried toward the back stairwell that emptied into the château’s kitchen. Marta, the family’s housekeeper, would already be on her way to town. A devout woman, she honored the Sabbath with as much dedication as she served Gabrielle’s family. One more person Gabrielle must protect now that the men in her family were gone and her grandmother was succumbing to old age.

  Hesitating outside her sister’s room, she debated a moment, then, as quietly as possible, pushed open the door and smiled at the sleeping form. Paulette would turn seventeen next month. The girl hadn’t a care in the world, beyond what dress to wear or which boy to flirt with next.

  So unlike Gabrielle.r />
  Paulette had arrived after their father returned from the Great War, the child that would save their parents’ failing marriage. She’d been born out of false hope. Étienne LeBlanc had come home too damaged by his experience, while his wife had remained too unchanged by hers. Hélène hadn’t really tried to make the transition smooth for either of them, favoring her baby over the empty shell of a man her husband had become.

  Étienne’s wounds hadn’t shown on the outside. The mercurial temper, the inability to enjoy life, these were only a few of the demons that had tortured him. He’d died a wretched man. Gabrielle’s husband had suffered similarly, though Benoit’s illness hadn’t been caused by war.

  A pang of grief whispered through her, dark and consuming. And she was wasting precious time. With a noiseless click, she shut her sister’s door. By the time she reached the kitchen, Gabrielle felt weary and worn to the bone, the sort of exhaustion that would take a thousand years to sleep off.

  She stepped into the scent of coffee. And froze.

  Her heart took an extra hard beat. Her grandmother sat alone at the scarred table in the center of the room, head bent over a single sheet of paper. In the gray morning light, Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc looked somehow smaller, frailer and every bit of her seventy-seven years.

  The need to protect came abrupt and fierce. Widowed at thirty, Josephine had dedicated her life to turning Château Fouché-LeBlanc into one of the premier champagne houses in the world. She claimed her success was due to the rosé recipe she’d created by blending pinot noir wine with white champagne instead of the usual elderberry juice.

  Gabrielle knew better. Château Fouché-LeBlanc thrived because of Josephine’s dedication to preserving her husband’s legacy. The two had been united in their collective vision until the day Antoine died unexpectedly from a ruptured appendix.

  It seemed the LeBlanc women were destined for heartbreak, all of them widowed too young. God had spoken, leaving them to face the world without their husbands. For her part, Gabrielle would not feel sorry for herself. She would accept her lot in life and follow in her grandmother’s footsteps. She, too, would dedicate the rest of her life to the champagne house.

  It was not so terrible a fate. Remarkable, actually. A noble duty, but also a labor of love.

  Josephine made a notation on the paper. The slight shake in the older woman’s hand was new, as was the soft mumbling. Josephine never mumbled to herself—until recently.

  Gabrielle cleared her throat.

  Her grandmother didn’t look up, which increased her worry a hundredfold. Josephine’s hearing loss was a stark reminder of the older woman’s mortality. I am not ready to lose her.

  When that day came, she would be alone, truly alone, despite the others living in the château.

  It was a dismal thought best not explored. “What are you working on, Grandmère?”

  Faded blue eyes rolled up to meet hers, confusion swirling in their depths. It appeared the older woman didn’t immediately recognize her own granddaughter. Then she blinked. Once, twice, a third time. Finally, the clouds in her gaze disappeared. “Ah, ma chère, come. Sit. We have much to do before the celebration this evening.”

  “The party isn’t for another two days.”

  Silence met her remark.

  “Grandmère, did you hear what I said?”

  Several more blinks, a slight shake of the head, and then Josephine scowled in her familiar way. The matriarch of the family had returned. “I know when the party is. I set the date myself. Now, stop frowning at me. I misspoke, Gabrielle, that is all.”

  “You have a lot on your mind.” She pushed the words past the lump in her throat. This wasn’t the first time her grandmother had shown signs of confusion. For months now, Josephine randomly referred to dead family members as though they were still alive and asked after workers long gone from their employ.

  Eyes burning, Gabrielle sat down at the table and studied her grandmother’s beloved face. Josephine was still an attractive woman. The lines of time and a life spent outdoors only added to her beauty. And yet she appeared overly tired this morning. Age was catching up to the iron will.

  The older woman returned her attention to the paper.

  Gabrielle lowered her own gaze. No. Her stomach took a slow, painful dip. No, no, no. “Are those the champagnes you wish to serve at the party?”

  Years came and went before her grandmother spoke. “They are.” The older woman struck out two, added three more in their place. “I am determined to serve only the best we have to offer.”

  Panic sliced through the fabric of Gabrielle’s calm. “May I see the list?”

  “It’s not yet complete.”

  “Maybe I can help refine your choices.”

  After a brief pause, Josephine pushed the jagged piece of paper across the table.

  Gabrielle read in horrified silence, her breath coming fast and hard in her lungs. She made it halfway down the page before she lost the ability to breathe at all. She should have prepared for this.

  It was true that Château Fouché-LeBlanc was known for serving superior champagnes. This uncompromising dedication to quality was the hallmark of every gathering they hosted. But they always—always—reserved the truly remarkable for private family celebrations.

  Gabrielle had counted on her grandmother following her usual pattern. And that was where she’d gone wrong. She’d assumed Josephine would treat this party like any other, when it was anything but.

  “Grandmère.” She spoke in an even cadence, while her heart pounded like wild wind. “Perhaps we should rethink some of your selections and serve the...” Think, Gabrielle. Think. “...1924. It’s what we always serve for parties as large as this one.”

  The ’24 was a lovely, robust, single-vintage champagne. Not nearly as fine as the ’28 or the ’37, or any of the other wines her grandmother had selected for the party. But every bottle sat in its original place among the racks on the right side of Gabrielle’s makeshift wall. A party, even as large as this one, would not deplete the massive stock of the champagnes she now suggested, at least not enough to draw suspicion.

  “Gabrielle, ma chère, now is not the time for economy. The anniversary celebration will mark two hundred years of champagne making in this family. We must serve the very best from our cellars. We must honor the past.”

  Yesterday, she would have agreed with her grandmother. This morning, Josephine’s words struck like a fist. Was she to be found out so soon?

  “I beg to differ.” Her voice held a desperate note. “Now is precisely the time to practice caution.” More than you realize, Grandmère. “We cannot deplete our most valuable stock when there is no knowing what is to come from the harvest.”

  They would normally pick the grapes at the end of September. But due to the unprecedented moisture levels, Gabrielle predicted a late harvest, perhaps mid-October, or earlier if the sun came out from behind the clouds and stayed put.

  Please, Lord...

  She let the words trail off in her mind. Prayer was fruitless when spoken to a silent God. As if to prove her point, the threat of rain announced itself in a clap of distant thunder. They turned simultaneously to the window overlooking the vineyard and shared a collective shudder.

  Josephine recovered first. “We have survived rainy seasons before.” She plucked the list from Gabrielle’s hand. “The Lord will provide again, as He has in the past.”

  Frustrated with her grandmother’s unshakable faith, Gabrielle lowered her head. The Lord provided, it was true, but He also took. The searing pain of grief, the pent-up sorrow that came from too much loss, it was all so...unavoidable.

  “Rain is only one of our enemies, Grandmère.” Ignoring the fear churning in her stomach, she dropped steel into her voice. “The Nazis have invaded Czechoslovakia and now Poland. France will respond. War is coming. We must be prepared.”


  The older woman waved off her worries with a flick of her wrist. “While France is at peace, we will celebrate. It is the Champenois way.”

  Though Josephine spoke boldly, the older woman looked scared. She should be scared. The “war to end all wars” had come at great cost to France. No family in Reims had been left untouched by the slaughter.

  Gabrielle started to argue her point further but was cut off by the delicate click of feminine heels. She glanced toward the doorway just as her mother entered the kitchen, the scent of May rose and jasmine following in her wake. A beautiful woman in her early fifties, Hélène wore a draping green silk dress that tied around her narrow waist, a bright, unexpected splash of color against the gray light. As out of place as the day Étienne had brought his young bride home. Despite years of living on the vineyard, Paris still clung to her, wafting around her trim body like the cloud of expensive perfume she wore.

  “I am in agreement with Josephine.” Hélène’s silver-blue eyes slid past Gabrielle, brushed over her mother-in-law, then returned to her daughter. “In dark times such as these, we must take joy where we can. We will provide our neighbors with a spectacular party. They will be grateful for the respite.”

  Gabrielle had no ready response. If the unthinkable happened, and the Germans invaded France as they had other parts of Europe, they would come seeking spoils. There could be no cause for them to suspect bottles of Château Fouché-LeBlanc’s finest champagnes were missing.

  Perhaps it was time to confess what she’d done. Perhaps sharing this burden was the right thing to do. The ringing telephone prevented her from saying the words. Gabrielle stood, but her mother moved faster and reached for the receiver first. After issuing a short greeting, she said nothing more.

  As the one-sided conversation continued, Hélène’s face drained of color. She eventually thanked the caller, and then, with startling calm, set the telephone receiver back in its cradle.