The Wine Widow

by Tessa Barclay

  Clothilde de Tramont drew in a great breath. She had had a sudden revelation. Somehow she had taken it for granted that everything belonging to the de Tramont family had somehow returned to her, that at Philippe’s death she as head of the family would be in control.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she gasped.

  ‘I see you’ve never looked very closely at any of the papers shown to you by Monsieur Pourdume,’ Nicole said, trying not to make it sound like a reproof. ‘If you had, you would have realised that the cellars belonged to Philippe and not to the company. I asked for that especially, when our marriage settlement was being arranged.’

  ‘But … why?’ Clothilde’s mind was whirling. ‘We agreed to the marriage so that the business could have the use of the chalkpits ‒’

  ‘But I wanted them to go directly to Philippe.’

  ‘It was a plot? You wanted to wrest control from me?’

  ‘Oh, madame …’ There was deep reproach in the words. In a broken voice Nicole went on, ‘I wanted Philippe to be his own master. I wanted him to be able to say he was head of Champagne Tramont with truth. There was nothing underhand in it.’

  There was a long silence while her mother-in-law came to terms with it. Then she said, ‘Does this mean you have a controlling interest in the firm?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Also, when we began to make substantial profits and as manager Philippe received a percentage, I urged him to invest it in various improvements, specifically registered as his investment. I think you will find that Philippe owned more of the firm before he died than you originally inherited when the Marquis died.’

  Clothilde got up. ‘I can’t discuss this. You have shocked me. I must have time to think about it.’

  ‘Very well, madame. But take this one last thought ‒ I don’t want Champagne Tramont to go into different hands. It’s something I began to build with Philippe, and for that reason I never want to part with it.’

  ‘What do you mean? It seems you cannot be asked to part with it, but … There is something more personal in your words. Tell me what you mean.’

  ‘I mean that the firm is mine and I intend to run it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I intend to go on making champagne, madame, here on the de Tramont estate.’

  ‘Run the business? Yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A woman run a business? You must be mad!’

  ‘Not at all, madame. I know how to do it, and I intend to do it ‒ with help from such people as Labaud and Compiain.’

  ‘But … it’s indecent! A young woman ‒ a widow ‒ engaging in business?’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  ‘You can’t do it!’

  ‘I will do it,’ Nicole said, sitting up from her reclining position and clenching her fists. ‘I must do it!’ Then, seeing Clothilde stare at her uncomprehendingly, she added, ‘Don’t you see? I have to do something with the rest of my life!’

  The other woman moved uncertainly towards the door. There she turned to look back. She saw a girl, only twenty years old after all, thin and pale after a serious illness, widowed …

  She saw embodied in her the instinct to live, to use life.

  ‘Very well,’ Clothilde said in a low voice. ‘I understand and agree. We’ll send for Pourdume to make the correct documents. But I shall never take part in the wine trade again. I leave it all to you, Nicole.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s all I ask, madame.’

  ‘My dear child, you are taking on something too heavy for your young shoulders. Think again!’

  ‘No, I know what I want to do.’

  Shaking her head, Clothilde went out. She felt pity and compassion for her daughter-in-law, but she began to think she would never understand her.

  Chapter 10

  Clothilde left Calmady a few days later. She felt scant regret: the village, with its grey houses and slate roofs, had always seemed dreary to her, even in the summer sun. The manor house had been a disappointment when she arrived as a young bride and though, with the money brought into the family by the increased profits, she had carried out some improvements, it was still far from the elegant château she had hoped for when she became the (aspiring) Marquise de Tramont.

  How disappointing her life had been … Her husband dead too early, her daughter too, her son gone in a stupid accident … No wealthy marriage to shed lustre on the family, no glittering heiress to bear sons who could inherit the title … No, all that was gone for ever. There would never be a Marquis de Tramont now, for lack of a male heir.

  Instead, a grasping little peasant girl was in possession of the estate and the wine firm. Well, since that was no doubt what she’d always wanted, let her enjoy it if she could!

  Depression and bitterness were Clothilde’s companions on her journey to London. There she hoped to revive friendships of her youth, to start again from an environment which had always been amiable.

  But she found everything much changed. There wasn’t the same romantic interest in the French émigrés. London society was intrigued by the new Emperor and his Empress ‒ oh, especially by his Empress. Most of the questions to Clothilde were about the clothes of the Empress Eugenie, which was vexing, because Clothilde had taken care never to be at court. It would have been against her principles to curtsey to any monarch except a Bourbon.

  When the first flush of interest about the new French Empress was over, Clothilde found to her amazement that she was being introduced as ‘Madame de Tramont of the famous wine firm’. At first she protested. She was the widow of the Marquis de Tramont. But she found that no one cared about that. As a French aristocrat she was uninteresting. As part of a great champagne firm, she was much sought after.

  ‘But, my dear Mary,’ she protested to the friend with whom she was staying, ‘I wish you would explain to your acquaintance that I have never taken any part in the wine-making. I know almost nothing of it.’

  ‘But you know which are the fine vintages ‒’

  ‘Indeed I do not. I left that kind of thing to my chief of cellar.’

  ‘I find that strange,’ said Mary Davenant with a frown. ‘I have to take an interest in Edward’s business. He insists upon it. And you know, the production of scientific instruments is not a very feminine topic. Wine at least is less forbidding than science.’

  Clothilde could have said that there was a great deal of science involved in the making of wine, but refrained because if asked to describe the technical side of fermentation she would have been at a loss. Politeness forced her to pay attention to the dissertations of her host, Edward Davenant, when he held forth about the need to invent new apparatus for the burgeoning sciences. And politeness forced her to go along when he took his wife and children on an educational visit to a glassmaking firm.

  Later, in a state of great excitement, she wrote about it to Nicole. ‘The place was dirty, of course, but then factories always are, I believe. The owner had set aside a special area for the production of scientific glass, which has to be of a particular strength so as to hold the various substances. I believe the globes and flasks I saw were intended for the measurement of various gases, although how, I cannot tell.

  ‘But the point, my dear daughter-in-law, is this. The glass being produced by Mr Lotworth for Mr Davenant is of great strength. This was demonstrated to me when liquid was put into a strange container ‒ I believe called a retort ‒ and then a vapour was pumped through the liquid. The contents bubbled and seethed, and a gauge alongside registered the pressure. I cannot repeat to you what the figure was but I am almost certain it was as high as the pressure of our champagne.

  ‘Nicole, it seems to me that the glass being made by Mr Lotworth would resist the fermentation process of our wine. Its strength has something to do with its ingredients and those I do not pretend to understand. But might it not be worth while to learn more about the glassmaking manufacture of England? Perhaps Mr Lotworth could supply bottles that would withstand the rigours of our wine-making.’ />
  To say that Nicole was surprised by her mother-in-law’s letter was an understatement. She had imagined Clothilde would never want to think or speak about wine again so long as she lived. But elsewhere in the long letter there were glimpses of the interest taken by the English in the House of Tramont. Always quick to sense the ins and outs of a situation, she understood that Clothilde enjoyed the reflected glory of the wine firm.

  Certainly, the information about English glassmaking was of prime importance. England had always been among the foremost in the manufacture of glass and the discovery of new processes. Threats and cajolery to the French glassmakers had had no effect ‒ their glass was still too fragile for the wines of Champagne although they had strengthened it enough for the efficient bottling of still wines.

  ‘What do you think, Jean-Baptiste?’ Nicole asked her head cellarman, having read out to him the relevant pages of Madame de Tramont’s letter.

  ‘It astonishes me that she ever let herself be dragged to a factory,’ Jean-Baptiste said with a sardonic grin. ‘But, having got there, she seems to have taken a proper interest. And if the glass is strong enough for scientific purposes …’

  ‘But it will be very expensive, Jean-Baptiste. And as for having bottles made in England, that’s absurd. The cost of bringing them to Calmady would be enormous.’

  ‘And no matter how strong, the breakage would be great. No, it’s hardly possible.’

  ‘If only one knew what the ingredients were,’ mused Nicole. She rose from her chair and paced the office, formerly Philippe’s but now her own.

  It was November. Outside the weather was grim. Grey clouds pressed on the roof of the house, the trees were wreathed in mist. The assembling of the various categories of wine was in progress in the cellars, where the racking had ended. Soon would come the resting of the wine, when the intense cold of winter would take to the bottom of the vats the unwanted particles not removed by the racking. Yet enzymes in the yeasts, impervious to the bitter temperature, would begin the process of lowering the acidity of the still wine, the changing of the vintage that would make it unique to that year.

  Soon would come the most difficult part of the art of making Champagne Tramont. She and Jean-Baptiste must choose which of the various wines were to make the blend of this year.

  Sometimes in the lonely hours of the night, the thought of making these decisions would fill Nicole with dread. There was no way of formulating what would make a good champagne, no recipe to write down once and for always. The wines were living materials, changing even after they had been mixed. The taste of the champagne at this stage wasn’t what the champagne-drinker experienced when he poured it from a bottle. The blender was looking ahead ‒ two years, ten years. The wine he made today must be a fine wine, an even finer wine, after years had gone by.

  Against the chill of the weather Nicole was wearing a gown of fine black merino and a cashmere shawl of black and white. Her lace cap, specially made for her by Paulette, had lappets of lawn and ruched ribbon which came down at the sides of her face. Her worst scars were at her temples and cheekbones; the layer of lawn and ribbon hid them. Above her lips still, there was a white line where a piece of glass had gone in. Another scar, growing faint, could be seen at the bridge of her nose. Dr Jussot had worked wonders with his old fashioned vineyard methods ‒ better, perhaps, than any famous Paris surgeon whom Philippe might have brought.

  Jean-Baptiste had come in just as he was when the summons came from the house. He was wearing working clothes ‒ black serge trousers, loose blue smock, a black and white checkered kerchief round his neck to catch the sweat that dripped down when casks had to be manhandled. Although he was chief cellarman he liked to take part in the physical labour of the vaults just to show his staff that he himself could do everything he asked of them.

  He waited for Nicole to resume the discussion. Madame was looking better, he thought. Still not herself ‒ who could tell when that might come about? She was too thin, and from what he could learn from the household staff she only played with her food.

  ‘I brought you a present, madame,’ he said, taking a half-bottle from the capacious pocket of his blouson.

  ‘What?’ Nicole turned in surprise.

  ‘Something for you to try. Dr Jussot tells me you’re bored with our wine, although he wants you to drink it for the tonic properties.’

  ‘Dr Jussot is a gossip,’ she replied with a smiling shrug. ‘Well, what is this, something from your own vines?’

  ‘Oh, no, madame, I don’t have time to bother with our vines except to make a simple house wine. No, this is from the Tramont cellars. It’s a champagne.’

  ‘But as you’ve just said, I’m bored with champagne. It’s such a sweet wine ‒’

  ‘Exactly, that’s what I heard. You’re tired of sweet wine. Well, try this with your supper, madame. It’s a dry champagne.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘A dry champagne? That’s a contradiction in terms.’

  ‘So we have been brought up to believe. Yet if one thinks of it, the dosage of sugar can be kept to a minimum or even omitted ‒’

  ‘But who would buy such a wine?’ she interrupted, her mind flying at once to the practical point. ‘The whole attraction of our wine here in Champagne is that it is sparkling, sweet ‒’

  ‘A woman’s wine, in fact.’

  ‘Well, some people call it that. The wine of the courtesan … But men buy it for their wives and sweethearts, and as we have seen, the Russians and the Swedes buy it for themselves, male and female …’

  The half bottle was standing on the desk where Jean-Baptiste had put it. It was an ‘undressed’ bottle, no label, no coloured foil to make it pretty. The cork was held fast by a plain metal muzzle. She put a finger on the cork, tilted the bottle, and turned it on its axis. In the dreary light of the November day the wine in the dark brown glass had no sparkle or attraction.

  Jean-Baptiste gave a grunt, half a laugh and half a protective sigh. ‘It tastes better than it looks, I assure you, madame.’

  ‘Jean-Baptiste …’

  ‘Yes?’

  She had been about to say, I wish you would not call me madame. All her life, until her marriage, Jean-Baptiste had called her Nicole or Nicci. Of course it was fitting that he should call her madame in front of other members of the estate, but in private …

  Yet she refrained from uttering the words. It was a step towards something that she ought to be wary of.

  ‘I will try your wine,’ she said. ‘This evening, with my dessert.’

  ‘No, I beg … They tell me you only eat light dishes ‒ fish or omelette …’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Drink the wine with the main course, madame.’

  ‘Really?’ She gave the bottle another little turn with her finger. ‘It’s dry indeed, then! To be drunk with the meal? Whatever made you produce such a strange wine?’

  He gave his characteristic shrug. ‘Well then … Some years back … There was an English wine merchant, a Monsieur Burnes, he asked for champagne in its natural state ‒ that’s to say, unsugared.’

  ‘No one could supply him with such a thing!’

  ‘Well, then, in fact, he got some, but …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It wasn’t a success.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Nicole. ‘You then set about producing a sample for yourself, so that you could understand how unsuccessful it was?’

  ‘Ha, Nicole!’ said Jean-Baptiste, surprised. ‘No need to be sharp with me about it! I only made a little, and let me tell you … The longer it is kept, the better it tastes. This wine I bring you, it’s five years old, and in my opinion it’s … it’s … well, it’s nectar.’

  For Jean-Baptiste to wax poetic, it must indeed be a delicious wine. Nicole was so intrigued by the situation that she failed to notice he had called her by her first name, almost as if some telepathic communication had taken place between them.

  ‘I look forward to it, then,’ she said. �
�But I warn you, I don’t expect to like it. And I certainly don’t think you should waste time and materials on experiments with wine which has been proved uncommercial.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s uncommercial,’ Jean-Baptiste said in a stubborn tone. ‘One day, you’ll see … When taste has changed … This wine I’ve made, it’s a grown-up drink! It’s not for drinking with cream cakes, it’s for drinking for itself …’ He let the words die away. Madame was looking at him with some disapproval. ‘Well then, try it for yourself. I’m not saying we should stop putting a dosage of sugar in the final bottle, all I’m saying is that there may be a place for a dry champagne one day.’

  She inclined her head. ‘And as to what Madame de Tramont says about the glass of England …?’

  ‘It’s worth inquiring into. We should send our London agent to take a look. Only …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t want to commit ourselves. As you say, the costs of transporting English-made bottles to Calmady would be prohibitive.’

  ‘What we want is to have the glassmakers of Argonne use the formula for this strong English glass.’

  ‘Ah yes ‒ but the formula is probably guarded well. After all, why should this English maker give the secret to his competitors? And yet, you know, it’s probably something simple ‒ a little more iron oxide, a little less sand …’

  Nicole had scant knowledge of the recipes for glass. She knew that the bottles for the champagne region had to be of a particularly strong make, and was resigned to the fact that they were of a rather dismal dark brown. She also knew, because it was part of local legend, that one of the big champagne houses had had a special batch of bottles made with glass which, in use, had released sulphuric acids, thus ruining an entire year’s wine production.

  She wondered, after she had dismissed Jean-Baptiste, whether it was worth while pursuing her mother-in-law’s discovery. The risks in new glass were great. Yet to find really good, reliable bottle-glass would be such a blessing …