The Widows of Champagne

by Renee Ryan

  Nothing.

  Her mind simply had no answer to explain how she’d ended up sitting on the stairs in a part of the house she rarely visited without a reason.

  “Never mind, chère.” In the other woman’s eyes, Josephine saw the worry she’d filtered out of her voice. “You do not have to explain yourself to me.”

  Josephine hated this new frailty of hers. It was infuriating, never knowing when the shadows would sneak up on her and steal a thought.

  She looked anxiously around, searching for her husband. It was easy to picture Antoine in his evening clothes, pacing across the marble floor, then pausing, turning toward her. His hand reaching out for hers, beckoning her to join him before their guests arrived.

  She moved in his direction but was pulled up short by a hand on her shoulder.

  “This way.” Marta threaded her arm through Josephine’s, guiding her up the stairs, up and up. Josephine paused at the second-floor landing. Thought a moment, then turned right.

  She must have chosen well. Marta did not correct her.

  By the time they navigated the gloomy hallway, Josephine’s head was pounding again. She entered the room first, Marta a step behind. A narrow band of light winked from the slit in the drawn curtains. Josephine heard her own soft intake of breath and desperately tried to focus on that single sliver of light.

  Marta flipped the light switch. The room was suddenly flooded with harsh, unnatural light. Her body immediately drained of heat. “I am cold.”

  “We’ll get you warmed right up. A bath is what you need.”

  The suggestion made her brutally aware of how their roles had switched somewhere between the foyer and this room. “I want to sleep in my own bed.”

  “And you will.” A single sweeping gaze from Marta’s brown eyes gently scolded Josephine. “Once you have had your bath.”

  Josephine hesitated, wanting to argue, unsure if she should. Such moments between her and Marta were new, forged from the shift in their stations. Where once Josephine was in charge, she now took orders.

  The voices had been right. Her secret was not so secret, after all.

  “Come. Let us get you out of this dress.”

  Again, she wanted to argue. The words disappeared as a frightening blankness rose in her mind. Something terrible had happened today. She mustn’t forget what it was. She reached for her journal even as Marta guided her into a luxurious bathroom of marble and tile and drew her a hot bath in the claw-footed tub.

  Later, when she emerged from the scented water, it was with mild relief. The exertions of the day were still there, but sufficiently muted.

  “You will sleep now.” As Marta wrapped her in a thick blanket, a new reality took hold. This was to be her life. Relying on another for her most basic needs at the end of a day when fatigue of mind, body and soul overwhelmed her.

  Still, it was not without gratitude that Josephine allowed Marta to tuck her into bed.

  Warm... Josephine was finally warm.

  “Do you need anything else before I take myself off to bed?”

  “You may go.”

  Marta touched her arm. An intimacy Josephine would have never allowed in the past. Tonight, she let the housekeeper’s touch bring her comfort. “Sleep well, Josephine.”

  “You too, Marta.”

  At last, the other woman left her alone.

  Despite her fatigue, sleep eluded her. She stared up at the ceiling, feeling alone, abandoned, with only the empty hours between yesterday and tomorrow for company. The weight of her failing mind brought tears to her eyes. She needed to keep her wits, but dejection crept across her thoughts like a reproachful ghost.

  The whispers began again, calling her home to Glory. Josephine could not give in. The Nazis were coming. No, they were already here. In her house. The German with a taste for vintage champagne and a boastful air that could prove useful over time.

  An idea began to form in her scattered brain, clearing away much of the mustiness. She would fight her oppressor. To remain passive was to invite extinction. There were things she could do, things only a woman dismissed as feeble of mind and body could accomplish. Her frailty could work in her favor. Or against her.

  She must prepare for both eventualities.

  Yes, she would prepare. She’d experienced war and its tragedy before. And had found a way to fight back. She would do her part again. While the enemy slept, she would begin. There was much to be done before the sun rose.

  Josephine climbed out of bed and went to work.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gabrielle

  The next morning, Gabrielle woke gasping for air and tangled in unfamiliar bed linens. The nightmare had been similar to the others, yet different. The spiders were more organized and now worked in teams of two. Sometimes four. They marched into the vineyard with the precision of well-trained soldiers and systematically spun their webs around the grapes, then carted them off. The vicious little fiends shared one face—that of Hauptmann von Schmidt.

  The usurper had spent one night in the château, and already he haunted her dreams.

  Gabrielle shoved aside the covers and crawled out of bed. There were tears on her cheeks she didn’t recall shedding. It came as no surprise. The nightmare had felt so real, and the pounding of her heart had yet to subside. She wiped at her face with a furious sweep of her fingertips. Then, reaching for the picture from her wedding, studied Benoit’s smiling expression, a carbon copy of her own. Would she ever be that happy again?

  Not while her country was at war.

  Remembering the tour with von Schmidt, she returned the picture to its place beside her bedside and dressed herself in clothes appropriate for a day with the enemy.

  An impatient Josephine all but pounced on her the moment she entered the kitchen. “Gabrielle. Hurry. I must speak with you at once.”

  Although her grandmother’s eyes were bruised from lack of sleep—something they shared—her gaze was sharp and filled with purpose. “What’s on your mind, Grandmère?”

  “Not here.” She took Gabrielle’s arm and tugged her out into the morning air, away from the house, past Marta’s garden, and farther yet, nearly to the edge of the terrace. And still, she kept moving around the perimeter of the château.

  Along the eastern horizon, the sun emerged from a bank of reddening clouds and coated the vineyard with a rosy glow that seemed both ethereal and eerie. Solitary church bells made their claim on the hour. Gabrielle counted the tolls, putting a number to each strike. Six, then seven. She had an hour before she had to meet von Schmidt. “Where are we going?”

  “Away from prying German eyes and ears.”

  She meant, of course, von Schmidt’s prying eyes and ears.

  Finally, Josephine drew to a stop beside the loggia beneath Gabrielle’s new room on the opposite side of the house from the rest of the family. They were alone. “What is it you wish to say that couldn’t wait until after I had my coffee?”

  Josephine seemed to consider her words very carefully, or perhaps she was trying to capture a roving thought. “I think, no...I want you to assume control of the champagne house.”

  A denial came to her tongue, quick and instinctive. “I have already taken over most of the operations. But that doesn’t mean I don’t value your guidance.”

  The echo of a smile crossed the older woman’s lips. “You misunderstand my request.”

  “Then perhaps you would like to explain it to me?”

  Again, Josephine seemed to struggle with her words. “It occurred to me,” she said, eyes squinting, “that our houseguest does not understand the way of things in this home. He still thinks I am in charge of Château Fouché-LeBlanc.”

  Gabrielle knew this to be true. Both times he’d demanded tours of their property, he’d made the request of Josephine. And had only settled on Gabrielle upon her insistence. S
he thought back to the look of approval he’d given her at the dinner table. One interloper to another. “I meant no disrespect yesterday, Grandmère.”

  “Non, again you misunderstand. I am not upset over the change in our roles. He, however, only thinks in terms of the past. He does not consider that I may have allowed you to take my place willingly.”

  Willingly. Gabrielle’s mind caught on the word and rolled it around. It appalled her that von Schmidt had misinterpreted her behavior as something brazen and impertinent. Naturally, he would think such a thing. That was how his ugly brain worked. He would only know how to assign motives that made sense to him.

  “Grandmère. I’m sorry. I—” She broke off at the look on her grandmother’s face. It belonged to the matriarch of the family, the incomparable Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc, widow to Antoine LeBlanc, the woman who’d guided their champagne house for nearly half a century. “You are pleased von Schmidt misread my intentions.”

  Another smile flashed and was gone almost immediately, replaced with a shrewd twist of her lips. Their gazes locked, and held, and Gabrielle couldn’t look away from that unyielding stare. “Think what this could mean for our immediate future.”

  “I am trying.”

  “You are not trying hard enough. Listen to me, Gabrielle. Non.” Josephine touched her hand. “No sighing, no interrupting. Listen. I am not always in my right mind, I know this, I have much confusion. But not now. My thoughts are clear. You must let me speak before I lose them.”

  Gabrielle nodded, though it hurt not to come to her grandmother’s defense, even in this.

  “It is to our advantage this German believes we are engaged in a struggle for control.”

  “To what end?”

  “He will see me as weak and you as an opportunist like himself. Rather brilliant, wouldn’t you say?”

  Brilliant? They had two very different definitions of the word. “Grandmère, if he thinks you are weak, he will dismiss you. He will see you as nothing but a waste of his time. He will—Oh!” Understanding dawned and with it came a level of panic like she’d never before experienced. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  “The danger is minimal.”

  It was tremendous. “Men like Helmut von Schmidt should not be underestimated.”

  “Men like Helmut von Schmidt should not underestimate women like us. But that is his nature. He will assume you and I are too distracted with our own battles to pay attention to his trickery. We are smarter than that. We will watch him. We will hear things. We will see things.”

  “And what will we do with these things that we hear and see?”

  “We will find ways to pass on what we discover. There are always ways, Gabrielle.”

  It frightened her to see her grandmother’s eyes clear and penetrating as she spoke about this reckless plan. If Josephine was lost in one of her moments of confusion, Gabrielle could pretend to go along, then never bring up the topic again.

  But such was not the case. Her grandmother was determined. She would not let this go. “I won’t allow you to put yourself at risk.”

  “The Lord will protect me. He will protect us both.”

  Bitterness raged in her mind and flowed freely through her words, the same she’d thought on more than one occasion. “The Lord took His hand off this family years ago.”

  “And now we are at odds.” Josephine’s eyes crinkled with satisfaction. “This is a very good start, don’t you agree?”

  It was a terrible beginning. Gabrielle inhaled a breath that tasted like chalk and her own rising fear. Defeat was a short breath away.

  “It is better we keep this between us,” Josephine said. “We will not tell your mother of our plan. I have something else in mind for her.”

  Who was this scheming, reckless woman? Not the grandmother Gabrielle had known the past few months. Suddenly, her throat burned, and she couldn’t think past the danger Josephine planned for herself, for Gabrielle. And, so it would seem, for her mother. “I don’t like this. There are too many ways for it to go wrong.”

  “Gabrielle, ma chérie, we—you, me, Hélène—we are the last of the LeBlanc women. The future of our people rests with us. It is our duty to fight for those who came before us and for those who will take over after we are gone.”

  “There is another LeBlanc in this home.”

  “Paulette is a child. This battle can only be waged by women. We cannot—we will not—stay passive in this new and treacherous war. We will fight in our way, on our terms.”

  Gabrielle agreed, in principle. But when she considered the risks, she could not say the words that would align herself with her grandmother. Not this time.

  “We will set our plan in motion this very morning. You will play the ambitious, grasping young woman who is fast losing patience with her senile grandmother.”

  “You are not senile.” It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. Gabrielle would not let it be true. “I won’t tell that fiction.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you say, or even what you think, only what von Schmidt believes. Now, obey me and go.” She made a shooing motion with her fingers. “He will be ready for his tour. You cannot afford to offend him by being late.”

  We are the last of the LeBlanc women. The future of our people rests with us.

  The words sounded in her ears like an ancient war cry. The stakes were high, the danger great. She wanted to resist. But inaction carried risks, too. It is our duty to fight. Fight, or remain passive? The choice was easy, especially when she thought of Benoit, and what he would do in the same situation. Gabrielle threw back her shoulders and hurried into the house.

  The first thing she noticed when she entered the foyer was that von Schmidt wore his uniform again, the hardware gleaming from a recent polishing. She wondered who’d done the polishing. Certainly not him. He had the manicured fingernails of a man who rarely dirtied his hands.

  “Ah, Madame Dupree, you are right on time. And dressed for our outing, I see.”

  She hated his perfect French and the way his eyes ran from the top of her head to the tips of her boots. We are the last of the LeBlanc women... It is our duty to fight...

  This wine merchant who thought himself a soldier would not take what belonged to her family. She would not give him the chance. “My grandmother suggested I show you the champagne house first.” She paused. Then, with a note of superiority, put Josephine’s scheme into motion. “We will start in the vineyard instead, before the heat of the day chases us indoors.”

  His oily smirk came fast, easy, conspiratorial. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “This way.”

  The moment they stepped into the vineyard, von Schmidt’s eyes sparked with greedy interest. “How much land belongs to your family?”

  “Two hundred hectares.”

  The spark flamed into liquid fire. “I had not realized the vastness of your operation.”

  “The boundary begins over there.” She pointed to her left. “And continues all the way to there.” She indicated the northern hills.

  He nodded, looking very satisfied. “You keep the vineyard well tended. I am pleased.”

  The ownership in his voice brought a stream of denials to the tip of her tongue. Did he assume that by seizing their home he had also acquired the vineyard and champagne house? The entire contents of the wine cellar?

  Gabrielle had spent a handful of hours in this German’s company and already she knew him to be no better than a carnival showman playing a corrupt shell game.

  He would learn the LeBlanc widows were no easy mark.

  She led him onto the dirt road that spread through the middle of the vineyard. The route took them through freshly dug ruts. Open scars left by the wheels of German-made vehicles.

  Gabrielle had heard them in the night and had known there was nothing she could do while they roared down each row.
She’d watched them from her window, heart pounding, relief buckling her knees when they drove away. Not a single vine had been harmed. It seemed the Germans had no use for the grapes. They only wanted the wine.

  She could not find it in her heart to be grateful.

  “Tell me where we are in the growing season.”

  We. Already, von Schmidt laid claim on what did not belong to him. “My vineyard manager will continue tending the vines through the summer months. It’s important to restrict excessive vegetative growth, but it is up to the grapes to ripen under the heat of the sun.”

  “I would think you want as many grapes as possible.”

  That he said this exposed his ignorance. “More is not always better. The sugars need to be evenly transferred from the vine to the fruit. This often requires human intervention.”

  “I see.”

  She doubted that he did. Holding silent, she took him down one row, up another, pointing out the trellises and wires that kept the grapes off the ground.

  “I was surprised you offered to show me around.” He gazed at her from the corner of his eye. “But now I believe I understand why.”

  Gabrielle kept her expression bland. “What is it you think you understand?”

  “Your grandmother, she is not as sharp as she once was. Age has taken its toll, no?”

  The need to defend Josephine came fast and hard. Play your role, Gabrielle. “If she were here, she would disagree.”

  “Ah, but she isn’t here, is she?” He reached out and picked a grape free from its bunch and studied the pale green skin. “And we both know that is of your making.”

  Play your role. “Grandmère tires easily. The days are hard on her body. And her mind.”

  “You are very careful with your words, Madame Dupree.” He gave her a long, slow appraisal. “You are not so daft as most women. I will have to keep an eye on you.”

  Better her than Josephine. “You will want to see the champagne house now.”