The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  The Champagne Girls

  The Champagne Dynasty Family Saga 2

  Tessa Barclay

  Copyright © Tessa Barclay 1986, 2016

  This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1986

  www.wyndhambooks.com/tessa-barclay

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

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  Also by Tessa Barclay

  from Wyndham Books

  The Champagne Dynasty Trilogy

  The Wine Widow

  The Last Heiress

  The Corvill Family Saga

  A Web of Dreams

  Broken Threads

  The Final Pattern

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Preview: The Last Heiress by Tessa Barclay

  Preview: Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers

  Preview: A Web of Dreams by Tessa Barclay

  Preview: Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter by Diana Raymond

  Preview: Hardacre by CL Skelton

  Chapter 1

  When the wedding gown was delivered by a little pony-drawn dressmaker’s van bearing the magical name of Maison Worth in gold lettering and attended by two anxious assistants, everyone in the Tramont household stopped whatever they were doing. The kitchen-maids stole up to the back landing so as to watch it pass, in a deep rectangular box tied with gold ribbons. The butler stood to attention as it was taken upstairs.

  Madame de Tramont’s maid Estelle allowed Mademoiselle Netta to watch the unveiling. Layers of tissue paper were removed. The bed, specially spread with a fine cotton cloth which would later enfold the gown, received it as it was gently lifted out by its shoulders.

  ‘Oh, good heavens,’ groaned Netta. ‘It’s lavender!’

  ‘And why should you complain, young lady, if it is?’ Estelle demanded. She was allowed to scold the granddaughter of the house: she was a servant of many years’ standing.

  ‘But lavender is such an old colour!’

  ‘Old? Not at all! It’s charming and very suitable,’ twittered the chief vendeuse, alarmed in case something went wrong at the last moment with this prestigious order.

  ‘Suitable for a wedding? It’s a widow’s colour!’

  ‘But your grandmama is a widow, my love ‒’

  ‘She’s a bride, isn’t she? Isn’t that what all the fuss is about? She’s getting married …’ At last, she ended to herself. And perhaps it was too late, really. Fifty-six … Could an old lady of fifty-six really want to get married? From her viewpoint of nineteen years, fifty-six seemed the end of the road to Mademoiselle Nicolette Hopetown-Tramont. And Lord Grassington, although of course a darling, seemed so … so ordinary. If Grandma must marry, why couldn’t she choose some handsome, intelligent Frenchman instead of this grey-haired foreigner?

  But everyone knew those two old fogies had been in love for years. And now poor Lady Grassington had died of the bronchitis brought on by those terrible damp acres she insisted in living upon, and so at last Grandpapa Gri-gri and Grandmama could get married.

  The gown had been spread on the bed. Layer after layer of frilled silk and lace made the skirt, lavender and cream in alternating rows. There were bows of moire to define the front panel at the hem. The narrow-boned waist and one had to admit, Grandmama still had a girl’s waist ‒ was edged with velvet where it fitted into the skirt. The front bodice consisted of ruched silk muslin edged with folded ribbons, among which space had been left for the corsage of violets Grandmama would wear to the ceremony.

  Netta was interested to note that the skirt had no bustle. Well done Grandmama, she thought ‒ always abreast of the fashion. The bustle had come in with a great wave of ebullience but had gone out again last year, much to Netta’s relief. Energetic and active, she’d found it a great nuisance, although the mode at the moment insisted on skirts so tightly wrapped with frills and narrow flounces that it was like having your knees tied together. One must of course obey the dictates of fashion, but Netta couldn’t help longing for the day when designers would decree loose, easy-fitting skirts.

  The chief vendeuse waved at her assistant. The assistant brought forward a flat box, which she proceeded to open.

  ‘Oh, not another lace cap!’ protested Netta.

  ‘Now, Mademoiselle, enough of this silly criticism! You know your grandma always wears a cap ‒ it’s part of her stock in trade.’

  ‘You’d think that at her own wedding she’d forget the business of promoting Champagne Tramont and the Widow’s Vintage ‒ Oh!’

  She broke off, entranced. From the box had emerged a little flat oval disc of some stiff fabric covered in moire and edged with tulle and Parma violets. ‘Oh, but that’s pretty ‒ that’s really pretty!’

  ‘And chic, too, don’t you agree. Mademoiselle?’ said the chief vendeuse, looking with approval at this eager girl whose voice chimed liked the song of a happy angel, and who might yet become a great leader in Paris society and style.

  Netta was worth looking at. She was perhaps too slender for current fashion as yet, but the boning and corseting thought necessary for every lady had given her line and the right curves of hip and bosom. Even in her tailored morning dress of dark grey velvet, she sparkled ‒ grey-green eyes alight, russet hair gleaming with health, cheeks aglow from a brisk early-morning walk.

  ‘Try it on,’ suggested Estelle, holding the hat out to Netta.

  She drew back. ‘Oh no. No one else but Grandmama must wear it. It’s special, isn’t it? In place of a wedding veil …’

  Wedding veils were popular this season in Paris. Specially made by the great fashion houses, or pieced together from heirlooms of Mechlin and Chantilly, they flowed down from elegantly dressed coiffures sparkling with diamante and white blossom. But, from what she’d heard from both Mama and Grandmama, neither of them had ever worn one.

  Grandmama, according to the legend, had been too poor to afford a proper wedding gown. She’d been married to Grandpapa ages and ages ago in a grey cotton dress ‒ how odd it sounded! And yet romantic, because she and Grandpapa had had a dreadful time persuading the Tramonts to let the marriage take place.

  Mama’s wedding had been even more romantic. She’d run away ‒ actually run away to Gretna Green, the place where the blacksmith married you over the anvil accor
ding to Scottish law. Well … not quite, perhaps. Every time this tale was told, Mama would laugh and say she was married in a respectable church in Perth with a priest and two witnesses, but she had to agree she’d had no wedding gown and no veil. ‘Flowers I had,’ she would add, with a glance at her husband Gavin. The ‘flowers’ were pressed still in her prayerbook ‒ a sprig of heather he had brought her from the moors around the town.

  How strange it all seemed if you thought about it. Mama at odds with Grandmama, running off to get married without permission, almost banished to Portugal with Papa until the aftermath of the terrible war of 1870 brought them back to the wine estate at Calmady.

  Everyone kept on saying what hard times those had been. German troops riding the country, a huge sum of money to be collected by the French as an indemnity before they could have their lands to themselves again, vineyards devastated by gunfire and the manoeuvring of cavalry …

  Well, twenty years later there was no sign of it, Netta said to herself as she smoothed the folds of the rich wedding gown so that it could be wrapped and hung up for this afternoon’s ceremony. Nor had there been throughout her life, so far as she could remember. Quite the reverse. Money seemed to flow into the Tramont family just as the famous wine flowed into the casks at vintage time.

  Netta had grown accustomed to being talked of as an heiress. She and the other young ladies of the great wine families were watched and commented upon as they threaded their way through the season in Paris and London. The Champagne Girls, the inheritors of the fortunes earned by the great wine of celebration ‒ life for them could only be full of splendour and enjoyment.

  ‘It’ll be your turn soon, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Estelle remarked as they stood back to look at the swathed gown on its stand. ‘Only you’ll have white, of course.’

  Netta said nothing. She didn’t like to think about it. Of course she’d have to marry one day, and probably soon, as Estelle suggested ‒ after all she was nineteen and it would be a strange thing if she wasn’t a bride by twenty. It was expected, and she would be glad to fulfil her family’s expectations of a brilliant match.

  And yet … And yet … Freedom was delightful! Since her debut two years ago she’d had such a good time, flirting and playing with handsome young men, always avoiding any serious relationship. As she danced like a butterfly in the sunshine of the Belle Epoque, everything was fun, everything was modern and exciting. Engineers erected a great column of metal in the heart of Paris and called it the Eiffel Tower. In London the great American circus Barnum & Bailey put whooping Red Indians and performing elephants on show at Olympia. A Republican government might rule in France, but it did nothing to limit the gaiety and extravagance of the populace, and particularly of the rich.

  Netta considered it one of the most rewarding times to be alive ‒ comparable only with the Renaissance in Italy or the days of Classical Greece. Not that she’d have liked to be a Greek, no, no ‒ not for her the almost oriental seclusion of the Athenian ladies.

  Mama might shake her head and sigh that she was flighty. Papa might frown a little and remark that she had exceeded her allowance by an even greater margin this month. None of it really mattered ‒ she knew they loved and admired her, not only because she was a pretty, intelligent girl but because she had something precious ‒ a talent.

  Already young intellectuals had written poems about her voice. It was tremendously flattering … Yet it was unsettling too. What was the use of having a ‘golden gift’, as her teacher called it, if she was destined only to use it in stuffy drawing rooms after dinner? Because that of course was all that could come of it, especially once she was married. Husbands, she suspected, didn’t like their wives to be seriously interested in music.

  ‘Have you let Grandmama know the gown’s here?’ she asked as they came out of the great bedroom in a group.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, Madame de Tramont prefers to treat the whole thing as run-of-the-mill,’ said Estelle with a shake of her grey head. ‘I really believe, mademoiselle, that she’s less excited than any of the rest of us!’

  The two vendeuses made complimentary remarks on Madame’s self-control, wished everyone luck on the occasion of the marriage, and were shown out of the handsome back door with tips equally handsome in their reticules. Netta, after glancing into the drawing room and the morning room and finding them both empty, went to survey the gown she herself would wear that afternoon.

  Monsieur Worth had almost begged to be allowed to produce what he called ‘a unity’ for the ceremony ‒ the bride in a gown which would supply a theme for all the other ladies. But Grandmama had quashed that idea on the first visit. ‘Monsieur, don’t be absurd! An old woman like me, made the centrepiece of a pretty tableau for the photographers? Certainly not!’

  Mama had therefore been left to supervise the dresses of the other female members of the Tramont household. Netta would be in pale blue mousseline de soie with cream flowers and a cream and blue bonnet, while her nine-year-old cousin Gabrielle ‒ whom Mama insisted on calling ‘the bridesmaid’ ‒ was to wear a concoction of voile and taffeta in the same shades.

  This had deeply offended young Gaby, who already had a decided view of herself as a person. ‘But I’ll look like a doll!’ she protested. ‘Please, Aunt Alys, don’t make me wear this dress!’

  ‘My darling, just this once … To please me … I want everything to be perfect for Grandmama’s wedding.’

  ‘Other people’s grandmothers don’t have weddings!’ cried Gaby. ‘I don’t see why we should have one who does!’

  ‘Now, Gaby, your great-aunt is entitled to a lovely happy day on the day she marries Grandpapa Gri-gri ‒ you wouldn’t want to spoil everything?’

  ‘N… no … No … All right, then. But don’t make me wear this thing on my head.’

  ‘This thing’ was the wreath of forget-me-nots Monsieur Worth had concocted. His ‘theme’, which he secretly hoped to carry out, was to have each of the ladies adorned with different small flowers on their headgear.

  ‘Gaby, sweetheart, if you’re going to wear the dress you might as well wear the headdress,’ coaxed Netta. ‘Look at me ‒ I’m putting up with all these cream freesias ‒’

  ‘But you like dressing up! Mama, you know I hate it! Please don’t make me wear it.’

  Gaby’s mother, Madame Fournier-Tramont smiled and shook her dark head. ‘As your Aunt Alys says, my angel, just this once … We all have to dress up for the wedding and, only think how lucky you are! If it were Netta’s wedding you’d probably have to carry her train and handle a posy as well. Just to wear a garland ‒ that’s not asking much for Grandmama.’

  ‘We-ell … I s’pose not … All right then.’ And, despite her protests, the little girl looked surprisingly beautiful while the ‘bridesmaid’s’ dress was being tried on. Her vivid dark eyes and raven-black hair rescued the outfit from sugariness.

  She inherited her looks from her mother, Laura. Daughter of a New York banker, Laura had come into the Tramont family by her marriage to Robert Fournier-Tramont.

  Robert had gone to America some twelve years ago. Why he had gone was something of a mystery ‒ it wasn’t an easy journey for him, lame as he was, and certainly he could ill be spared from the business for the length of time necessary for the long sea passage. Of course, the members of the great wine families travelled: but generally it was to places where their wares were already in demand or where a market could be opened up.

  What Robert could possibly intend to do in California was an enigma, nor had it ever been explained.

  He had in fact gone to meet his father. Only Robert and Madame de Tramont knew the secret ‒ that Robert was not the son of Paulette, Madame de Tramont’s sister, but of Nicole de Tramont herself and Jean-Baptiste Labaud, former chief of cellar on the Tramont estate.

  It had taken Robert years to extract his father’s name and whereabouts from Nicole. She had persisted in saying it could do no good for him to know, that the mere fact of his exis
tence was unknown to his father, that it would only bring unhappiness to the man and his innocent wife.

  ‘Aunt Nicole, of course I won’t go blundering in and cause an upset,’ Robert pleaded, time and again. ‘All I want to do is write to him ‒ tell him I exist. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Robert, my dear … You know I would tell you if I thought it were right. But he’s a long way away, you could never meet ‒ what’s the point?’

  He took her hand. They were good friends, closer than many mothers and sons, although the relationship between them was thought of by the world as that of aunt and nephew.

  ‘It’s hard to explain, Aunt Nicci. Partly it’s to do with Mama’s husband ‒ with Auguste …’

  Auguste Fournier had deserted his wife a little over twenty years ago, leaving Paulette, Nicole’s sister, with no one to provide for her.

  As always, Nicole had stepped into the breach. She’d pulled together the little builders’ business that had been Auguste’s supposed livelihood, she’d arranged for an income for the deserted wife. Later, when Nicole discovered she herself was pregnant, Paulette had volunteered out of gratitude to take the expected child and bring it up as her own. This she had done, so that until he was a young man Robert had always thought of Paulette Fournier as Mama.

  There had never been a ‘Papa’. Madame Fournier was accepted as a widow, although within the privacy of the home it was acknowledged that ‘Papa’ was probably alive somewhere, eking out a living as a seaman.

  It came as a bombshell to Robert when at last he had to be told that he was Nicole’s son. A time of great unhappiness had ensued. Robert escaped from it into the French Army, which almost at once was engulfed in the attempt to stop the German invasion of 1870. The wounds he received still marred his physique, although he managed very well with one stick considering that the doctors had said he would never walk again.

  Nicole had never perhaps understood Robert’s need to know his father. ‘Papa’ had been a bad lot, but then ‘Papa’ had not been his real Papa. When he found that out, it was only to be told that the man responsible for his existence had been another ‘deserter’, a man who had packed up and left France. ‘It had to be so, my dear. Everything was complicated enough as it was. It was better not to tell him.’