The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  His smile grew slimy. “You are very beautiful, Mademoiselle. I see the echo of your mother in you.”

  Paulette seemed very pleased with the German’s compliment. “What a lovely thing to say. Maman is one of the most beautiful women I know.”

  Von Schmidt took a step closer to the girl and Hélène’s heart went stone-cold. The instinct of a mother had her moving quickly and without thought to consequences as she pushed herself between the two.

  “Herr Hauptmann was just leaving,” she managed to say. It took tremendous concentration not to go for the man’s throat. “And you, Paulette, have unfinished schoolwork.”

  Von Schmidt’s mouth thinned to a flat line, sharp as a blade. Hélène held her ground. “Go on, ma fille. I will check on your progress once I see our guest to the door.”

  To her astonishment, her daughter obeyed without argument.

  Surprisingly, von Schmidt did not watch the girl leave. He seemed only to have eyes for Hélène, as if her show of maternal protection had intrigued him. She saw him thinking, calculating. And then, something ugly came into his eyes. Something she knew to be masculine interest. “You will now walk me out, Madame LeBlanc.”

  His tone was like a slap. She wanted to slap back. She was not that foolish. She sensed great cruelty in this man and that worried her as much for her family’s future as her own. “Yes, Herr Hauptmann. I would be delighted.”

  At the door, he stood motionless, a pool of silence swimming between them. Hélène scoured her mind for something to say. She came away empty save for a bright, blank smile.

  Her inability to find her voice seemed to bring him pleasure. Gaze locked with hers, he swung open the door, revealing the last threads of sunlight shining brightly in the courtyard.

  The sun should not be shining. The sky should be weeping over the fate of the French people.

  “You will personally select the champagne for tonight’s meal. I require a special blend that represents the best from Château Fouché-LeBlanc’s cellars. Do not disappointment me.”

  With those unsettling words, he left her gaping after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gabrielle

  Gabrielle deposited the last of her belongings atop the bed in her new room above the kitchen. She’d chosen this one, out of the three on this side of the château, specifically for its view. Ignoring the piles of clothing, shoes, toiletries and other assorted sundries, she moved to the window that overlooked the wine cellar’s entrance. Closer to the house stood the stucco-walled garden where Marta cared for her herbs with the same affection Pierre tended the grapes.

  The sight made Gabrielle wistful. Within the stone barrier lay a dozen nooks and crannies where she and Benoit had played as children, innocent games that had become not-so-innocent as they grew older. She’d lost more than her husband the night of his death. She’d lost her closest confidant. Her best friend.

  But most of all, she’d lost the future they’d dreamed of sharing with their children. They’d had such plans. Even as she reached for the photograph from her wedding, she knew dwelling on her grief was an indulgence she could not afford. An intruder had infested her home and had demanded the entire family join him for an elegant dinner. It was to be a formal affair, no half measures for the German, oh, no.

  She dressed quickly and left the room to navigate the maze of corridors and stairwells down to the first floor. The house had all the identifiable features of a French château that had begun its life as a medieval castle. The exterior boasted the requisite round tower on the southwest corner. The roofline featured tall chimneys, seven in total, and multiple dormers. The arched entryway and a balustraded terrace completed the picture. With contributions from previous generations, the interior was equally grand. In some cases, the rooms were tastefully decorated, in others...non. Every inch of the walls contained paintings done by the masters. Rembrandts and other portraits shared space with Monet landscapes and Degas ballerinas. There were even a few of the American Impressionists’ works, including one of Gabrielle’s favorites by Theodore Robinson.

  The Lord had blessed her family with many beautiful things. Then He’d taken away the people that mattered more than priceless trinkets and renowned artwork. The emptiness that constantly plagued her dug deeper, and not only because she’d been banished from her room by a German dog. The burdens she carried were never supposed to be hers to shoulder alone. A solitary life had never been in the plan. She didn’t even have a child to nurture.

  Delightful scents drew her into the kitchen. “It smells wonderful,” she told Marta.

  Focused on preparing a luscious-smelling soup, the housekeeper accepted the compliment with a nod. “And you, Gabrielle,” the housekeeper said, eyeing her from over her shoulder. “You look very lovely this evening. Très chic.”

  She accepted the compliment with her own small nod. She’d selected the austere black dress she’d worn at her father’s funeral, and again at her husband’s, to make a statement. The color of mourning fit the situation perfectly. She’d added no jewelry, no makeup, and had pulled her hair into a severe style better suited for a convent than a formal dinner.

  “The others have already gathered at the table.”

  “Très bon.” She was nearly out of the kitchen when the row of champagne bottles caught her eye. She counted five in total, an excessive amount. The panic was instant, crackling and hissing like static on the wireless. It took every ounce of self-control to keep her voice even. “Marta, do you know who chose the champagne for tonight?”

  The housekeeper went quiet for a moment, then gave another nod. “Your mother. At the German’s insistence, she took the bottles from your family’s private stock.”

  Not from the main cellar. Good. The floor steadied beneath her feet.

  Aiming for an air of boredom, she stepped into the dining room. The scent of German cigarettes filled her nose. One glance told her von Schmidt had already exerted his control over her family. He sat at the head of the table, smoking casually, almost idly, already comfortable in his role as lord of the manor. Her mother sat on his right. Josephine, his left, Paulette next to her.

  He did not rise upon Gabrielle’s entrance. Unsurprised at his rudeness, she chose the empty seat beside her mother. “Good evening,” she said to the room in general.

  Von Schmidt leaned back in his chair and took a slow drag from his cigarette. “You’re late.”

  A harsh response slid to the edge of her tongue. She swallowed the words. There was something in the German’s eyes that made her skin prickle in warning. “I apologize. The time got away from me.”

  “You will want to watch the clock more closely in the future.”

  He looked about to say more, but Hélène drew his attention. Gabrielle could not decipher what her mother said, but it put a wry smile on the German’s face. He took another pull on the cigarette before stubbing it in the ashtray next to his hand. “Now that we are all in attendance—” he gave Gabrielle a look as a silent reprimand for her tardiness “—let us toast to new friends and a happy living situation for us all.”

  The series of choked gasps were immediate. The women’s collective response seemed not to bother the man. He simply lifted his glass and waited for them to do the same.

  Gabrielle could not do it. Her mother must have sensed her mood, because she leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “This is not the time for petty rebellions.” She straightened, lifted her glass and parroted von Schmidt’s toast. “To new friends.”

  They drank in silence. Hélène first. Paulette next. Then Josephine. And finally, Gabrielle. The champagne turned bitter on her tongue. Another loss among so many. There were few champagnes in a woman’s lifetime that surpassed mere excellence and struck the sublime. The 1928 was one of those wines and Gabrielle could not enjoy even a small taste.

  Pressing his advantage, von Schmidt made a second
toast. “To Germany’s rapid victory.”

  This time, only Hélène drank. He watched her mother closely, too closely, and Gabrielle wondered what he was plotting. He reminded her of a cobra hypnotizing a small woodland creature into submission. The man had nerve.

  As if sensing her furious gaze on him, he gave Gabrielle an arch look. She felt the heat drain from her cheeks. This man would sleep in her bed. He would eat her family’s food and drink the best of their champagne. And he would do it all as though it was his right.

  “I have always believed,” he said, twirling the crystal stem between his thumb and forefinger, “no one makes wine like the French.”

  And no one cheapens champagne like a beer-swilling German. Again, Hélène leaned in to whisper in Gabrielle’s ear. “Whatever it is you are thinking...don’t.”

  She gave her mother a long, measuring look, skimmed a glance over von Schmidt, then whispered back. “I will give you the same warning, Maman. Don’t.”

  Marta served the first course. A beautiful onion soup as only a Frenchwoman could make. Von Schmidt controlled the conversation for the entirety of the meal. Tall and self-important in his dress uniform, he required only the faintest of responses, all given by Hélène.

  Even Paulette grew subdued as the night wore on. Gabrielle gained her sister’s attention with a soft smile. She tried to communicate what was in her thoughts. He is only a man, a bully that will be gone soon enough.

  It was a lie, of course. There was no telling how long he would be living in their home. Von Schmidt was like the snake she’d compared him to earlier in her mind. An opportunistic hunter, slithering through their house until he was ready to strike. Gabrielle would be wise to keep a close eye on him.

  Marta served the next course, an airy spinach soufflé and her signature coq au vin. Von Schmidt refilled his glass with the 1928. He seemed to have an endless desire for the vintage. Hélène continued to entertain him with her customary wit and charm. He appeared riveted, and perhaps that was her mother’s intent. To keep his notice away from the other women in the house. It was a risky approach, all the more dangerous for the way he ran his gaze over her face with a proprietary air that made Gabrielle sick to her stomach.

  Over dessert—a rich chocolate mousse—von Schmidt switched his focus to Josephine. “Tomorrow you will show me around the rest of the property. We will start in the champagne house then move on to the vineyard and wine cellar from there.”

  How harmless the request sounded, how ordinary, if one didn’t notice the sly look in his eyes. Gabrielle’s own eyes blazed, she knew, and she attempted to smooth out her expression. She could not allow this man—or her grandmother—in the wine cellar without her.

  As she’d done earlier in the day, Gabrielle offered up herself in service. “I will be happy to give you the tour, Herr Hauptmann. We can begin at eight o’clock in the morning, if that suits.”

  He turned his sharp gaze onto her. They stared at one another for a long, long time. Then he glanced at her grandmother, lifted a brow. Josephine lowered her gaze. He pondered her bent head a moment, then turned back to Gabrielle. She expected him to dismiss her suggestion. He surprised her by giving a nod of approval. “Eight o’clock. We will meet in the foyer.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Josephine

  After von Schmidt released them from the dinner table, Josephine gave her promise to Gabrielle that she would head to bed shortly. First, she wanted a moment alone in the house that had been her home for over half a century. She wandered through the darkened château and thought of the countless generations that had come before her. The women especially, who, like her, had raised their children within these walls.

  Exhaustion was heavy in her limbs tonight. It had been a long day. France had fallen within a month of the German mobilization. Josephine couldn’t quite understand how it had happened so quickly. A month, just thirty days and all was lost. Or had it taken longer for her country to submit to the invaders? Was this yet another trick of her mind?

  She didn’t think so.

  Josephine’s mind and body suffered from the endless sitting at the table with a man she’d never trusted. Join me for dinner, he’d demanded. Dress appropriately, he’d insisted. Supply me with your best champagne. And then, the coup de grâce. Give me a tour of everything you hold dear so I can steal what is most precious to you.

  Her feet ground to a halt and she looked around. This room, it was not known to her. She’d lost her way in her own home. A little circling would bring her back to the familiar.

  The endless ticking of the clocks accompanied her from room to room, down one hallway into another. The rhythmic sound dragged her through time, back to when the end of a long day meant a well-earned rest and a chance to sleep beside her beloved Antoine.

  Such a simple world she’d shared with her husband.

  Was it any wonder her mind constantly wanted to return to that easier time?

  Josephine entered a large entrance hall and stopped on the marble floor. Staring at the ornate door, she tried to recall when she’d first opened it to the German and his soldiers. Had it only been this morning? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  She and her family rarely used this part of the château. Despite two hundred years of creating some of the world’s premier champagnes, Josephine and her husband had been farmers at the core. Their visitors and business associates were not always so humble. They expected to see displays of wealth from the owners of Château Fouché-LeBlanc. So here, in this grand foyer, and the adjacent rooms, the LeBlanc family presented the expected trappings of success.

  She’d seen the lust in the German’s eyes when he’d stepped across the threshold. He wasn’t the first to covet what belonged to her family. Over the years, Josephine had welcomed dignitaries from three continents, including a prince regent who ultimately became a king. The many faces of those visitors were a series of blurred, bobbing buoys on the sea of her memory.

  Why am I here?

  Josephine spun in a slow circle, trying to find her bearings.

  This was an impressive space, gilded, wallpapered and dressed to impress the most discerning connoisseur of fine architecture. Lit only by the thinning moonlight seeping through the paned windows, the ceilings rose three stories high. It hurt her neck to look to the top. Ah, yes, she knew where she was now.

  Why had she come into the foyer?

  That, she still couldn’t recall.

  There was no sound but a silent, deafening hush. Then, the rustle of feathered wings had her searching for the phantom bird. Round and round she spun, until she nearly lost her footing and her vision clouded. She sat on the bottom step in an effort to regain her equilibrium. Her head throbbed. Her body ached. She wanted to go to bed.

  Above her, the gabled windows bared their teeth. They glared at her, as if to say, I know your secret. I know your mind is failing.

  She shivered.

  The smell of mildew and something faintly rotten assaulted her senses. She tore at the pins in her hair, only managing to free a few. They sifted through her splayed fingers, landing on the marble at her feet with a series of quiet pings. The noise jolted her. She was in the entryway. Sitting on the bottom step, her knees pulled up against her chest.

  What are you doing here, Josephine?

  She didn’t know.

  She looked down at her feet. They hurt. Her feet always hurt, but now they ached. No wonder. Those shoes with the thin black leather strap across the top. They were the ones she wore to church. Why had she gone to church at night?

  She hadn’t.

  She would pray anyway and speak to her God as she did whenever the darkness closed in around her. She let the Holy Spirit provide the words when they refused to form properly in her head. She begged for peace, for the eradication of evil in her home, for her family’s future, for...the ticking in her ears distracted her. “Marta
?”

  Her first call wasn’t answered, nor was her second. But her third, louder and a little more desperate, brought the sound of footsteps. From the corner of her eye, a shadow moved across the marble. It elongated, then morphed into a stooped form. The woman was small and slight, and almost familiar. The white hair cut short, grayed and curled at the ends wasn’t right.

  “Josephine, mon Dieu, what are you doing all alone in the foyer?”

  She had no answer. No outrage. No bluster. The fight had left her body. It was just...gone. Only bone-deep weariness remained. “I am tired, Marta.”

  “Of course you’re tired. It’s been an eventful day.”

  What had happened to warrant that look of devastation on her friend’s face? Josephine insisted her mind call up the memory. She couldn’t quite put the pieces together. “Has it been eventful?”

  “Very.” The careful patience was unexpected. “We do not host marauders very often.”

  The German at her table.

  Josephine remembered now. The wine merchant, helping himself to her home. Her food. Her finest champagne flowing freely down his German throat. This could not continue. Josephine needed to settle some things with their guest. Not tonight, tomorrow. After she slept.

  “I wish to go to bed now.” She tucked her legs under her and, leaning heavily on Marta, managed to stand without a single bobble. Rather proud of herself, she stood tall and issued a command in the voice of the family matriarch. “We will go up this way.”

  Marta nodded. But before they mounted the stairs, Josephine shifted around to glance about the space again. Her gaze landed on the large, heavily lacquered door. Marta had asked why she’d come here. Had she answered the other woman?

  Confusion fought with her fatigue, the two sensations twining together to form a new emotion that felt like panic. A silent taunt from the voices in her head. Why did they speak in German and not her native French?

  Josephine pressed a trembling hand to her cheeks. “I was moving through the house, looking for...” Had she been looking for something? Someone? “I came in here to...”