The Wine Widow

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘A hard worker! What are you talking about? The de Tramonts are not interested in labourers from the fields!’

  ‘No, but about the vines, you’re interested? About the vines, and the making of the champagne? For after all, that is what we depend on for our livelihood.’

  ‘If you are about to say, mademoiselle, that you have been brought up with winemaking, don’t trouble. So has almost every person in the neighbourhood. I have an excellent chief of cellar in Labaud and an eagle-eyed supervisor of the vineyard in Compiain. There is nothing you could offer that would be important to me ‒’

  ‘Indeed there is! I have a special knowledge ‒’

  ‘Knowledge! An ignorant little village girl? What knowledge could you have?’

  ‘I can tell you where there is almost unlimited and perfect cellarage.’

  For the first time, Clothilde’s interest exceeded her indignation. Cellarage … in the making of champagne, almost nothing was so important as cellarage.

  Clothilde relied on Labaud to choose the right grapes at harvest time. Sometimes they came from one vineyard, sometimes he selected from several, and usually the Tramont vines figured largely. After pressing, the juice was blended and went into the casks for the first fermentation.

  But in champagne the second stage was crucial. After the wine had been put into bottles a second fermentation took place, encouraged by the vintner’s art. It was essential to have plenty of cool space to store the bottles. A degree or so too warm, and the bottles would explode. In the past, the Tramont cellars had lost as much as sixty per cent of their year’s work when the temperature played havoc with their plans.

  Seeing that Clothilde was intrigued, Nicole pressed the point. ‘I came here today to ask your blessing on the marriage of myself and your son. I don’t come empty-handed. I can give you an inestimable benefit for the making of Tramont champagne. I know, madame ‒ everyone knows ‒ that your wine is in great demand, that you could double what you sell if only you could ensure the safety of the second fermentation and even enlarge your output. I can give you the place in which that can be done. But the condition is the marriage.’

  It was an ultimatum and, as Nicole expected, Clothilde reacted at once. ‘No, impossible! Impossible!’

  ‘Think about it, madame. Take time to examine the prospect ‒ a great increase in your income so that you could repair the house properly, restore the gardens, do other things of importance to you.’

  She saw the other woman hesitate. She had no idea that there was a project very dear to Clothilde’s heart: she wanted to reclaim the title of Marquis de Tramont for Philippe. It could be done, but only by the hiring of experts in that branch of the law, and making friends in high places ‒ even bribing a few people. Lack of money had hampered all her attempts so far.

  But if what this girl said was true …

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head with utmost vigour to assure herself she really meant it.

  ‘Speak to Jean-Baptiste Labaud ‒’

  ‘What! Is he in this with you? Is it a plot?’

  ‘Not at all, madame. Jean-Baptiste has no idea of what I am proposing to you today ‒’

  ‘Come, come, Mama,’ Philippe put in, going to her and taking her hand reassuringly, ‘you are not surrounded by deceivers! You know Labaud is an honest man. Ask his opinion of what Nicole has been saying ‒’

  ‘Ha! cried his mother. ‘Deceivers! You have deceived me, my son!’

  ‘That’s a harsh thing to say, Mother. I fell in love ‒ did you expect me to run to you with the news I’d lost my heart to a girl you’d disapprove of? We’ve come to you now, openly and honestly ‒ and let me tell you, Nicole’s proposal to you is generous. Don’t you see that if you turn your back on her, she could go to someone else with her information?’

  Clothilde shrugged. There was always buying and selling of information among the winemakers. The girl might get a few hundred francs by pointing out the cellarage to some other firm but it would be no great advantage to her to do so. A fee of a few hundred francs …

  All the same, Clothilde very much wanted to know where the cellars were.

  ‘If you wish to inspect the place, madame,’ Nicole said, as if reading her thoughts, ‘I will take you. You won’t be buying a pig in a poke.’ With that Nicole, who had never been asked to sit down, made a movement to leave.

  Philippe went with her to the door. ‘Philippe!’ his mother reproached.

  ‘Mama, I must escort my fiancée home.’

  ‘I forbid it! I want you to remain here so that I can speak to you ‒’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but that will have to wait.’ If the truth were told, he was burning to know more about Nicole’s plans. He now knew her well enough to understand that she had made only the first moves ‒ she would wait for his mother to respond and then the next scene would unfold. It was like some play that he was writing, except that he didn’t know how the drama would proceed.

  ‘No, darling, I don’t want you to know anything. She might worm it out of you,’ said Nicole. ‘I want her to get the full impact of the place when she sees it. Urge her to speak to Jean-Baptiste ‒ he will certainly want to see what’s available. Get her to bring him with her. Even if she can’t understand the marvel I’m going to show her, Jean-Baptiste will.’

  They parted at her cottage door. Marie Berthois, for the first time, limped to the threshold to be introduced. ‘How do you do, sir,’ she said, attempting a curtsey.

  ‘Oh, Madame Berthois, please ‒ don’t ‒’ He caught her by the arms as she bobbed clumsily. ‘You mustn’t do that. We are going to be relations.’

  She smiled, shook her head, and wiped away a tear that crept down her pale cheek. ‘I hope so, m’sieu, I do indeed. But it’s all so frightening to me.’

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ Philippe said. ‘Have faith in Nicole. I have.’

  When he got home, Clothilde pounced on him at once. ‘Well? Where is this place with all the cellars? Probably we could see the owner without the need for Mademoiselle Berthois to introduce us ‒’

  Philippe laughed. ‘I have no idea, Mama. I think Nicole foresaw that you would ask just that question so she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘She doesn’t confide in you? And this is the girl you wish to marry!’

  ‘My dear mother, if you will guarantee not to try to trick her out of her advantage, no doubt Nicole will confide in both of us.’

  ‘Trick her! Who are you to speak of trickery to me? You brought that girl here so that she could trick her way ‒’

  ‘Mama, please try to direct your antagonism correctly. I pursued Nicole, I made love to her and now I want to marry her. No trickery is involved in our intention to get married.’

  Clothilde looked as if she might exclaim: ‘Over my dead body!’ But for the moment she decided to withdraw from her attitude of unrelenting antagonism to the marriage, for curiosity about the cellars was very strong.

  ‘Ring the bell, Philippe. Send for Labaud.’

  Smiling to himself, Philippe did as he was bid. Of course Annette, the housemaid, was agog at what was going on. The household had been astounded to see Nicole Berthois present herself at the front door in a very fetching gown and bonnet. Lingering in the hall, Annette had been able to hear raised voices ‒ or at least, Madame’s raised voice. Once she thought she caught the word ‘marriage’.

  Then the young master had actually gone out with Nicole’s arm through his. They had walked along together side by side, just like any lady and gentleman. Unbelievable! Madame had been pacing about her drawing-room during Monsieur’s short absence and now ‒ for what reason? ‒ she was summoning Jean-Baptiste. What could Jean-Baptiste have to do with a love affair between Monsieur and the Berthois girl?

  Jean-Baptiste already knew most of this. The kitchen gossip had been relayed by the coachman to the vineyard supervisor, Compiain, who in his turn had mused about it to Jean-Baptiste.

  Jean-Baptiste went into the drawing-room,
having carefully wiped his feet on the hall mat and taken off his cap. Madame was sitting in her usual chair. Monsieur was standing by a window, so that his face was in shadow. But his attitude was alert and perhaps a little anxious.

  ‘Labaud, our champagne is going well so far this season?’

  ‘Of course, madame.’ What a question. As if he would let anything go wrong with the champagne at this stage. It was later, at the second fermentation in bottle, that the trouble arose.

  ‘Labaud, we have often said that the house of Tramont could sell much more champagne if only there were space to blend and store it?’

  ‘That’s so, madame.’

  ‘Have you ever looked about for more cellar space?’

  ‘Oh, certainly, madame. I’ve walked the estate with a tape-measure, trying to see where we could dig out a decent-sized cellar. But the soil isn’t particularly suitable hereabouts, unfortunately. You see, madame, when your ancestors built this house, they never imagined themselves going in for wine-making on a big scale so they built where the soil was suitable for easy gardening and so forth. But as to digging out cellars …’

  ‘It could be done, however?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly. But at great cost. The vaults would have to be lined with stone, which would have to be brought to the site. I think it might be fifteen, twenty years before you recouped the cost.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘Oh yes, madame. Cellarage is no easy matter.’

  He heard Monsieur Philippe make a sound almost like a chuckle. But he didn’t turn his head to look at him, his attention was on Madame.

  ‘Ah … Labaud … have you heard of ample cellarage available elsewhere in the district?’

  Jean-Baptiste was truly puzzled. Why was Madame asking these questions? She was in general uninterested in the business, except to see that the accounts were properly kept. If she were to be honest, she knew almost nothing about the various processes of making champagne. And as to being interested in the cellars! ‒ he had tried time and again to get her to spend money simply to make the manor house cellars less difficult to work in. The existing cellars weren’t deep enough, they had uneven floors, the matter of making the wine racks stand steady involved wedges of wood which could warp in the damp …

  ‘Madame de Tramont, there’s nothing available nearer than the banks of the Marne ‒ and that’s a long way to transport pressed juice, because all kinds of things can get into it while it’s travelling, and besides …’ He was going to say travelling upsets fine grape juice, but he broke off. She would think that fanciful.

  ‘The cellars near the Marne are available,’ he went on, ‘because they get swamped in water when the Marne is in flood. They are used ‒ I don’t say it’s impossible to use them. But people tend to lease them for as short a time as possible, simply as a make-do until they can get something better.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a long pause. Jean-Baptiste glanced at the son, thinking that he might now take up the conversation. But Philippe remained silent. Either his mother would discuss Nicole’s offer with Labaud, or she wouldn’t. It was no use interfering.

  ‘Labaud,’ said Madame de Tramont, getting up and moving to a bureau where she sought about as if for a letter, ‘do you know of any cellarage Nicole Berthois might have access to?’

  Ah! Well, then, thought Jean-Baptiste, so this is what it’s about! The gossip about Nicole’s visit and the use of the word marriage in tones of loud indignation by Madame de Tramont made sense now.’

  ‘I know Mademoiselle Berthois,’ Jean-Baptiste said. ‘A very well-thought-of family in the village.’

  ‘But does she know people in, for instance, Epernay? Rheims?’

  ‘She has a sister working in a dress shop in Rheims,’ suggested Jean-Baptiste.

  ‘Oh, dear heaven … A peasant girl with a sister a dressmaker …’

  ‘If Nicole says she knows of cellars for champagne,’ Jean-Baptiste said, taking the plunge, ‘it’s true. I don’t know where they might be, but if she says they exist, they do.’

  Madame swept round so that her back was to him. She didn’t want him to see her face as annoyance, frustration and curiosity fought there.

  ‘Mademoiselle Berthois has suggested that we look at some cellars she knows of,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘We will go as soon as possible ‒ I wish you to come with me. My son will make the arrangements.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  As Jean-Baptiste went out, Philippe followed him. ‘I’ve already discussed it with Nicole. She says it’s best to see the cellars in the morning ‒ something to do with the light, but I don’t understand what. We are to be at her farm tomorrow at ten-thirty.’

  ‘Just as you say, m’sieu. We’ll be going on somewhere else, I take it ‒ shall we be on foot?’

  ‘Oh, no, I imagine my mother will want to use the carriage.’ Because it would be more impressive, he meant, but he didn’t say it out loud.

  The following morning, an early autumn day of amber sunshine, they drove to the outskirts of the Berthois small-holding. The track up to the door would be too rough for the big old carriage so from the edge of the property they walked up the slope.

  Nicole was awaiting them. Today she was in her working clothes of blue cotton and clogs, but everything about her was neat and trim. She led them along a path across the little pasture to a stretch of chalky hillside clothed with a few gorse bushes and thin grass. From here Clothilde half-expected to be blindfolded and led by some roundabout route to some old building, but not at all.

  A great flat stone lay on the hillside, as if left there among the debris of some earlier geological upheaval. Only someone interested in rocks and stones could have pointed out that it was quite different from the chalk of the district.

  A set of iron bars lay nearby. Nicole pointed to them. ‘Please, Jean-Baptiste ‒ and you too, Philippe ‒ help me lever the stone aside.’

  Jean-Baptiste frowned, but picked up a lever. Philippe had been about to stare at his sweetheart in the fear that she had at last taken leave of her senses, but seeing Jean-Baptiste obey, did the same. Clothilde stood by in utter amazement.

  With grunts and groans they shifted the stone. It was heavy, and refused at first to budge, but when Jean-Baptiste put his back into it, first it parted from the rough thin fringe of turf and then it began to move sideways. Seeing that Jean-Baptiste took it all in earnest, Philippe pushed too.

  In a moment it became clear that there was an opening under the stone. Jean-Baptiste made a sound of surprised understanding.

  Nicole picked up and lit a lantern that had been standing by a gorse bush. ‘Come, madame,’ she said to Clothilde, offering her hand.

  And to Madame de Tramont’s astonishment, she found herself being ushered towards a staircase of deep steps, cut in the chalk, leading down.

  Chapter 5

  Madame de Tramont was frightened. ‘What is it?’ she whispered through suddenly parched lips. ‘A tomb?’

  ‘No madame,’ said Nicole, ‘you will find no dead bodies. It is quite empty.’ She began to descend slowly, holding the lantern in front of her but steadying herself with one hand against the side of the staircase.

  Madame de Tramont, ashamed to be less courageous than this child, moved forward. Her son stepped in front, went down a few steps, then held up his hand to guide her. Jean-Baptiste came last.

  ‘Take care,’ warned Nicole. ‘The steps are well made but there may be lichen ‒ even in the dark, some plants can grow.’

  She was speaking with great calmness, but if the truth were known her heart was thumping wildly. It was years and years since she’d made this trip to the underworld. She was nearly as frightened as Clothilde. But she couldn’t let it show. She must remain in command while she opened to her future mother-in-law the wonders existing below her feet.

  The descent was long, or seemed so. The steps were rather deep for a woman’s stride but were in perfect condition except for one or two tin
y grey plants here and there. There was even a niche cut in the wall at hand level, to act as a bannister rail.

  Nicole felt level ground under her feet. She reported to those who followed: ‘I’m at floor level. Please stay where you are for a moment. I’ll walk a few paces to light the area.’

  She did so. From above, Philippe watched the light of her little lantern move a yard or two. It lit up her head and shoulders but little more. ‘Nicole, take care ‒!’

  ‘I’m all right, Philippe. Stay there. There ought to be candles.’ She moved carefully forward on the rough floor, hand outstretched until it met a little alcove. There she found a candlestick with a candle in it, and beside it a bundle of candles tied with string. She lit the first candle from her lantern, leaving it in the alcove. Immediately more of the cavern sprang to life.

  There was a long white wall soaring off into the distance on her left. As Philippe joined her, she handed him a lighted candle. ‘Walk to the right,’ she requested. When he did so, another wall disappearing into the distance became visible.

  Clothilde had been ushered down the last few steps by Jean-Baptiste. She joined her son and Nicole. From behind her Jean-Baptiste said, ‘When did you last come down, Nicole?’

  ‘Not since I was a little girl. I remember my father and grandfather levered the stone aside ‒ it was a hot day in August and they made it an excuse to drink a great deal of marc. But when they got down here, they sobered up.’

  ‘They let you come down?’

  ‘Oh, I was dying to come down and see what it was like. I remember Paulie wouldn’t come ‒ she sat on the hillside crying, because she thought we were going to Hell.’

  ‘But what is this place?’ cried Clothilde in perplexity. ‘How does it come to be here ‒ because one can see it isn’t a natural cave, the walls and floor are too regular.’

  ‘It was made by the Romans, madame,’ said Nicole.

  Clothilde gave a snort of annoyance. ‘Come, don’t tell fairytales. Who dug out this cavern?’