The Wine Widow
Page 6
Philippe was so taken aback by Nicole’s suggestion that he was at a loss for words. Nicole, anxious and apprehensive, mistook his hesitation. ‘You do want us to get married, Philippe? You didn’t just say that in the warmth of the moment?’
‘Of course I do! You know I do!’ But truth to tell, there was more charm in the idea of a romantic elopement to Paris than in confronting an irate Madame de Tramont.
He had taken both Nicole’s hands as he spoke. He put them to his lips now, kissing the knuckles gently. ‘Do you really think you know how to handle Mama?’ he asked in perplexity.
‘I’m not sure. I only saw her that one time, in the dressmaker’s. But I have something to offer her, Philippe ‒ and if, as you say, she is interested in money, this may be just the thing to convince her.’
‘But you said you had no money, Nicole ‒’
‘This is something better than money.’
He was shaking his head.’ What? All you have is a few acres of hillside, a farmhouse, some vines and some goats.’
‘Yes, you’ve summed it up. But there’s a gem hidden there, my love ‒’
‘A gem?’ Now he was worried. Had the beginning of her pregnancy caused his darling to become light-headed? Romantic poetry was full of the sad tales of young women who went romantically mad in such situations. ‘Nicole, are you sure you aren’t under some delusion?’
She laughed, taking her hands from his grasp and putting them on her hips. ‘Do I look deluded? Do I look as if I didn’t know how many grapes make five? No, I have thought about this very seriously and the wonder is that I never thought of it before. It ought to make all the difference to the family fortunes of the Berthois.’
‘Tell me about this gem, then.’
‘No, Philippe. I want it all to come as a tremendous surprise to your mother.’ The fact was that, cross-questioned, she felt it was just possible Philippe might give something away to Madame de Tramont. She knew, from what he had told her, that his mother was a very formidable lady.
Philippe’s open, eager features were overcast with anxiety. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Tell your mother that I want an interview with her. Don’t say why ‒ just make an appointment. Don’t arrange it for any day this week ‒ I have to get a dress made.’
‘A dress?’
‘Of course! You don’t think I’m going to introduce myself as a future daughter-in-law wearing peasant clothes? That would wreck our chances from the outset. No, I’m going to Rheims tomorrow, to ask Paulette to make me a dress ‒ nothing elaborate, just something neat and plain. Well, she won’t have time to do anything fancy, will she ‒ but in any case I can’t afford braid and lace. When I tell her what it’s for, I’m sure she’ll give up all her Sunday to make it and so I hope to have it by Tuesday at latest.’
All at once Philippe began to see the funny side of the whole affair. His sweetheart ‒ his fiancée, as he ought to think of her now ‒ was making plans to beard the lion in its den. And how did she intend to do it? With a pistol? With a net and trident? Not at all ‒ womanlike, she was going to have a new dress.
He gathered her to him, chuckling, and kissed her. She pushed him away. ‘Philippe! Someone might see!’
‘If you were afraid of that, you ought not to have come looking for me in broad daylight ‒’
‘It’s all right to be talking to you, we could say it was about the grapes you bought. By the way, you still haven’t paid for them, Philippe.’
Now he was helpless with laughter. ‘My adorable girl, I believe you can handle my mother. I now have complete confidence in this scheme, whatever it is. Anyone who can remember a small debt in the middle of a conversation about getting married must be level-headed ‒’
‘It’s not a small debt to me,’ she reproached him. ‘In any case I need the money to pay for the dress.’
He put his hand in his breast pocket, took out his pocket-book, and handed her a banknote without even looking to see how much it was for. Nicole, unaccustomed to such easy ways with money, examined it. Ten francs. That was enough for the kind of gown she had in mind. ‘Thank you,’ she said, going on tiptoe to give him a little kiss on the cheek. ‘And now, don’t pay that debt. Let it lie. So if your mother wants to know why I’m coming to see her, you can say it’s about money owing.’
She was gone next moment. He stood watching her vanish among the outbuildings which (in his mother’s opinion) disfigured the back of the manor house property. Here the wine was made and under them the wine was stored.
From the cask house window, which was almost at ground level, Jean-Baptiste had witnessed their parting: the giving of something into Nicole’s hands, the quick kiss as she turned to go.
Jean-Baptiste drew back with a sharply indrawn breath. His assistant, turning casks to see if they were wholesome to receive the juice for fermentation, looked up. ‘Hurt yourself? There’s some old nails want knocking in on that window-frame.’
Jean-Baptiste shrugged and turned back to examine the casks Louis was hauling round, grunting with exertion. He’d only gone to the window to glance out at the weather, wondering if the September sunshine would take the temperature up too high for the new grape juice in the vat house. He had never expected to spy on the two lovers ‒ for lovers they were, he knew it without having to have it said in so many words.
Well, then … This usual beginning to any thought or opinion rose to his mind. Well, then, good luck to them, poor things, he thought. Especially to poor little Nicole Berthois. She wasn’t the kind to give herself lightly to anybody and if she loved that one, it was a doomed love. Jean-Baptiste could only hope the liaison would die a natural death before the girl found herself with a baby on her knee. Bad, that would be. Bad for the family ‒ might kill poor Marie Berthois ‒ but worst of all for poor, bright, clever little Nicole.
When her sister came demanding to have a dress ‒ a dress ‒ made quickly, and when she explained why, Paulette Berthois was ready to die of fright. ‘To visit Madame de Tramont? Are you mad? What for?’
‘To tell her I’m expecting a baby by her son.’ That was even worse. She fell upon Nicole, she sobbed and cried, she besought her to visit a woman who lived in an alley of the city and could supply a mixture of herbs which would solve Nicole’s problem at once, without any need to speak to the terrible Madame de Tramont.
Nicole was outraged. Get rid of her baby ‒ hers and Philippe’s? ‘You don’t understand, Paulie. We’re going to be married ‒’
‘Marry Philippe de Tramont? Don’t be silly!’
‘It’s not the least silly! He loves me and I love him and we’re getting married!’
But after she got home to wait for her new gown and plan the details of her campaign, that certainty began to ooze away. Madame de Tramont had so many resources ‒ she could go to lawyers and businessmen, confer, learn how to cheat Nicole out of the great asset that was to open the way for her marriage to Philippe …
Just to make sure she had got everything about her idea correct, Nicole consulted the books and papers that had belonged to Brother Joseph. That quiet and saintly man had interested himself in everything to do with the family who had given him shelter. He had walked every inch of their land, and of the village too. He had been interested in geological strata, weather conditions, archaeological remains, local history. He had kept accounts in his notebooks of everything to do with the district he regarded as his home, and there they were still, in his sharp, plain, monastic script.
Evening after evening, when her work was done, Nicole pored over the notebooks of Brother Joseph. As far as she could tell, everything was as she had thought. She was safe in her belief. She could bargain with Madame de Tramont in the sure knowledge no one could take away the half-forgotten blessing that belonged to the Berthois family.
The new gown arrived by the carrier’s cart, a package that threw Marie Berthois almost into panic. ‘What is it? Who is sending us parcels from Rheims?’ Unable to read the label, she
had no idea that it came from the dressmaking establishment of Madame Treignac.
Even when that was explained to her, it made no sense. ‘Madame Treignac is sending something to us?’
‘No, Mama, it comes from Paulie. It’s a dress she’s been making for me in her spare time.’
‘A dress?’ Marie was totally astounded. ‘A dress?’
‘Yes, Mama, and look ‒ a bonnet too, and gloves.’
‘Gloves?’ If the sky had fallen in upon her, Marie couldn’t have been more amazed. Never in her whole life had she worn gloves, nor had she seen any member of her family with them. The fact that Paulette, off in the higher reaches of society in Rheims, often wore gloves had never occurred to her.
‘Why?’ asked Madame Berthois, baffled. ‘Daughter, what does it all mean?’ She caught at the one fact she was sure of. ‘It must have cost a fortune, clothes from Rheims …’
‘Yes, Mama. But it’s an investment.’
‘An investment?’ To Madame Berthois, an investment meant buying land or rows of vines. ‘Clothes are an investment? Have you gone mad?’
Nicole made a little gesture asking for patience. She settled her mother comfortably in her wooden armchair with an extra cushion at her painful hipjoint. Then she knelt by her side, taking one twisted hand in both of hers. ‘Mama, I have something to tell you. Don’t be upset or worried by it. Listen to the end.’
But that was impossible. Marie Berthois cried out in alarm at almost the first words of explanation, so the story had to be suspended while Nicole ran for smelling salts and a glass of brandy. It took all day to explain and reassure her mother ‒ and even when at nightfall they went to bed, she heard her sobbing with fear and anxiety.
Doubts assailed her as she lay exhausted yet sleepless. Was she right in what she was doing? Her mother was so terrified … Yet she must take the risk, she must dare ‒ or wreck three lives, her own and Philippe’s and the child that was to be born to them.
It wasn’t vanity that had caused Nicole to ask Paulette to buy gloves for her. She needed them to hide her work-roughened hands. She wanted to make as good an impression as she could on Madame de Tramont, so the less she looked like a ‘common country girl’ the better.
She tried on the clothes next evening. Her mother delayed going to bed so as to watch. She sat speechless as her daughter came from the bedroom into the kitchen, taking small steps like a lady, holding her gloved hands lightly clasped in front of her.
‘Nicole …!’
‘Do I look nice? Will I make a good impression?’
‘On whom, for the love of God?’
‘On Madame de Tramont.’
Her mother could find no words to utter. She was stricken, terrified, amazed ‒ yet impressed. Who was this elegant little figure in the gown of pale grey dimity striped with palest rose? Whose face was that under the bonnet of ruched grey ribbon? After Nicole had helped her to bed that night, Marie Berthois didn’t sleep. Her mind was too full of what she had seen and what she had been told.
The great day came. Nicole had asked Philippe to arrange the appointment for the afternoon, so that she could spend the latter part of the morning scrubbing off the grime of the daily chores. It was a fine autumn day as she walked by way of her secret path to the ruined temple and from there through the woodlands to the grand drive of the manor house. She must of course be seen walking up the drive ‒ it would never do to arrive via the footpaths and lanes at the back door.
Clothilde de Tramont was expecting her, but for what she hardly knew. Philippe had said, ‘Mademoiselle Berthois requests an interview, Mama.’
‘Indeed? What about?’ When Philippe shrugged and spread his hands, she went on: ‘Have we paid for her grapes yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, if she’s coming to argue for more money, it will be a wasted journey.’
If she had been expecting an equal, Clothilde would have ordered sweet champagne to be put on ice and a plum tart to be baked, as refreshment. This girl from the village would expect no such thing, naturally. Clothilde closed the periodical she was reading when the housekeeper announced the arrival of the visitor, turning to watch the girl come into the drawing-room.
If Marie Berthois had been startled at the appearance of her daughter in her new clothes, Clothilde was equally so. At first sight, one would have said this was a young lady come a-calling. The simple, well-designed gown, the neat bonnet, the well-polished leather shoes, the grey gloves …
Nicole Berthois? From the village? Impossible. Yet when Clothilde began the interview by speaking her name, the girl curtseyed.
‘Yes, madame. Thank you for letting me see you.’
Nicole was trembling. The ordeal was greater than she had expected. The room in which she was now standing was the biggest she’d ever been in ‒ it seemed to her like a church, with its great high ceiling and paintings on the walls.
And to say truth, Madame de Tramont looked as forbidding as the parish priest when he was about to deliver one of his sermons against the sins of the flesh. She sat in a tapestry covered armchair, her magazine half-closed in her hands. That was a sign that she didn’t expect the interview to last long.
Nicole had rehearsed the words she would use a hundred times. But now her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, and her throat hurt. If only she could exchange a glance, a saving glance, with Philippe.
But he was standing behind her, having met her in the hall and followed when the housekeeper announced her to his mother.
‘Well, young woman? You wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes, madame. I … I …’
‘What? I suppose it is something important otherwise you wouldn’t come here in your best clothes ‒ though if it’s to make a fresh bargain about the grapes, your working clothes would have been adequate.’
‘It’s not about the grapes, madame.’
‘No? Then what? Do speak up. I have other things to do this afternoon.’
‘Yes, madame. I … We …’
‘We? Who is we? You mean your family?’
Nicole found she couldn’t say a word. Everything had gone out of her head except terror before this brusque, imposing lady. Her heart was thumping wildly, threatening to burst out of the bodice of the new dimity gown.
‘When Nicole says we,’ Philippe intervened, ‘she means herself and me.’
‘Eh?’ cried Clothilde inelegantly.
‘Nicole and I are in love. We want to ‒’
‘Be quiet!’ His mother had started up from her chair. ‘I won’t have such nonsense ‒’
‘It’s not nonsense, Mama. Nicole has come to be introduced to you and ‒’
Philippe was trying to make the best of the disaster he saw about to ensue. He had no idea what Nicole had intended to say. He invented the idea of being introduced, though the moment he said it he knew it was a mistake.
‘Introduced? Are you insane? The de Tramonts do not accept introductions to peasant families! Why, Philippe ‒ what has got into you? You should have more sense! As if I would ‒’
‘Mama, you must accept the fact that Nicole and I ‒’
‘I accept nothing!’ She stopped for a moment. So this was the girl he’d been slipping off to during the summer! Ah, well, now it was out in the open. She gave Nicole a hard look. ‘Ha. You’ve come to cause trouble, I suppose. Is it money? If you think I’m going to give you money ‒’
‘No, madame,’ Nicole said, finding her voice at last. Now everything was easier. Philippe had spoken, had come to stand at her side. Now she didn’t feel dwarfed and outclassed. ‘I have not come to demand money. On the contrary, I have come to offer money ‒ or something better ‒ to you.’
Clothilde had been assembling her weapons to use against this saucy girl. But at Nicole’s words it was as if the weapons had been knocked from her hand. Moreover, she hardly knew what kind of fight she was involved in.
‘What do you say? Offer me something?’
‘Oh heavens! Oh, dear heavens!’ Clothilde felt about blindly for the arms of her chair and sank into it.
‘Don’t be upset, madame. It’s something to be happy about. You will have a grandchild ‒’
‘No!’
‘But yes ‒’
‘I will not acknowledge any illegitimate child to be my grandchild ‒’
‘The child won’t be illegitimate, Mama,’ said Philippe. ‘Nicole and I are going to be married.’
‘Don’t be absurd ‒’
‘Nicole and I are going to be married. We’ve made up our minds. If you refuse to accept it, then she and I can go away ‒’
‘No, Philippe, you know we decided that was impossible,’ Nicole said, taking his hand and pressing it to warn him not to say things that would complicate her argument. ‘No, you belong here at the Manoir de Tramont and I belong in Calmady. This is our home, and our baby should be born here ‒’
‘Never!’ cried Clothilde, almost bursting into angry tears. ‘Never, never!’
‘Don’t take up a position you can’t retreat from,’ Nicole warned gently. ‘Listen to what I have to say. You will find it interesting.’ Clothilde stared at her. Who was she, this well-dressed child from nowhere, who came to speak to her in such terms? And who spoke, moreover, in precise, clear accents, not a bit like the local patois.
‘Madame, first let me speak of myself. You don’t know me but I am of a good family ‒’
‘A good family!’ snorted Clothilde.
‘Indeed, yes ‒ the Berthois have been in Calmady as long as the de Tramonts. We have been through hard times, just as you have. But the Berthois weren’t so lucky, or so persistent ‒ we didn’t get our land back.’
‘Your land! A few hilly fields ‒!’
‘Perhaps, but they contain something important. I’ll come to that in a moment. Madame, my family is a good one, I’m not entirely without assets myself ‒ I believe I’m intelligent and I’m a hard worker ‒’