The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  She made no reply. He said to himself, Be quiet, you fool.

  For what could be done? Where the disease had already struck, no vines would grow. Phylloxera came, and destroyed the plants. Once in the area, it remained. The insect overwintered ready to attack the roots of the newly-planted cuttings. The plant, deprived of nourishment, died.

  There would be no grapes in the Champagne region this year. There would be none next year ‒ and for how long? No one could tell. If the vines all died and the insect went elsewhere, it was possible to re-plant with cuttings from unaffected areas ‒ but in the end the phylloxera aphid came back and the plants succumbed again.

  Vineyards elsewhere had produced grapes sporadically after the first attack, but the uncertainty, the scanty crop, the immense waste of time and effort had taken their toll. Many great vineyards had already ceased to exist.

  They must face the fact that The House of Tramont was about to go under. Perhaps not at once, but in a year or two ‒ in four at most ‒ if there was no Veuve Tramont champagne there would be no House of Tramont.

  They made their way home through the narrow white-chalk roads to Calmady. As the light carriage came in, the first drops of the thunderstorm began to splash on the flagstones of the courtyard.

  ‘Ah,’ said Nicolette brightly, holding out her hand to catch them, ‘here comes the rain.’

  ‘Quickly, Nicci ‒ we don’t want to get soaked!’

  ‘No, I’m coming.’

  Gerrard jumped down, throwing the reins to a stable lad. He went round to hand down his wife. She stepped out, and then gave a little cry.

  ‘Gerrard!’

  ‘What, dear? Oh, careful ‒ you’ll fall!’

  He thought she’d missed her footing on the folding steps of the carriage. But she continued to topple forward. He caught her in his arms. Her head fell back. He lifted her, sudden fear making his grip convulsive.

  ‘Gavin!’ he shouted. ‘Alys!’

  The servants came scurrying. The butler helped carry her ladyship into the drawing room. They laid her on a sofa. Alys came running in from the dining room where she had been awaiting them.

  ‘What’s happened ‒’ She broke off. ‘Oh, Mama!’

  She threw herself on her knees by the sofa, took Nicolette’s limp hand in hers. She leaned over her, examining her face. ‘Mama, Mama! What’s wrong?’

  But there was no word, no sound from the pale lips. The Widow of Tramont would not grieve any more over her lost vines.

  Chapter 6

  The cortège was long. So many people joined it that the village of Calmady was engulfed in a sea of black.

  The family had wished for a simple ceremony. But first there had been a delay while the medical certificate was issued ‒ after all, Madame had died very unexpectedly and had been a British citizen, the wife of a British peer, when she died.

  Then the government had requested a further wait. The Minister of Trade himself wished to attend the funeral. The death of such an esteemed member of French society, a leader of the French business world ‒ it must be acknowledged by a public tribute.

  All the workers of the region came, although they were needed in the fields now that August was nearly upon them. Or they would have been, had the vines been healthy …

  All the negociants and owners from Rheims and Épernay were there, all the heads of great wine families who might have still been holidaying on the Riviera ‒ all were there, following the coffin.

  Among them was a tall, white-haired old man, who spoke the French of the Champagne region but with a strange overtone from some other land.

  ‘May I present Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Labaud?’ Robert Fournier-Tramont said, leading him to Gavin and Alys. ‘He used to work on the estate, many years ago.’

  ‘Oh, the gentleman you visited in America … How very kind of you to come. Monsieur Labaud.’

  The old man shook hands, bowed. His face was set, his mouth grim. Nothing would have kept him away from Nicci’s funeral, not even her high-flown title from the English milord. He lowered his eyes but glared at Lord Grassington under his brows. Couldn’t he have looked after her better?

  ‘Who is he?’ Gerrard inquired, watching him as he turned, stiff-backed, from the closed gates of the family vault of the Tramonts.

  ‘He’s my ‒ my friend from California.’

  ‘He didn’t come all the way from California?’

  ‘No, he was in New York on business when he heard.’

  Somehow the two men were never introduced. Jean-Baptiste stayed out of Gerrard’s way, and Gerrard was too busy receiving condolences from people of importance.

  Jean-Baptiste had accepted hospitality in Robert Fournier-Tramont’s house in Rheims. He moved about the old city, renewing acquaintance with those who were left of his days at Calmady. He toured the vineyards in a pony and trap.

  ‘It’s bad, my boy,’ he said to Robert. ‘I’ve never seen sicker looking vines than those out on those slopes.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Robert said, striking angrily with his stick at a stone in his path.

  They were strolling in the formal garden of his town house. Tubs full of geraniums made a brilliant show in the mild sunshine of an August day on the Marne. Small shade trees glimmered with white dust from the chalky soil, dry after a week without rain.

  Jean-Baptiste was silent for a moment. He himself had been lucky ‒ the grapes in his valley of California hadn’t been ravaged by phylloxera.

  Yet.

  That was the word that had always to be spoken silently in congratulations over healthy plants. There was absolutely no way of knowing when the insect would arrive. Some freak of wind direction, some chance importation on cuttings ‒ who could tell how it came? All that could be said was that once it came, it brought havoc to the vines.

  ‘We’re working on it,’ said Jean-Baptiste. ‘We’re trying to find an antidote.’

  ‘Damned if I can see how an antidote can be applied to the roots,’ Robert retorted. ‘If you start scraping away the soil to apply a chemical, you’re likely to damage them just at the moment when they need to be strongest.’

  ‘I know, I know ‪… But American viticulture is spending a lot of money on the investigation, Robert. And you know one thing Americans have plenty of is money. And what they call “know-how”.’

  ‘If they “know-how” to kill these particular plant-lice, I hope they share the knowledge quickly. Otherwise we’re dead men.’

  His father wheeled to take his shoulder in a vice-like grip. ‘Never speak like that, Robert! Never even think of defeat! We’ll find a way to stop this damned insect.’

  Robert gave him a grim smile. ‘Fighting talk. I hope the phylloxera bug hears you!’

  They strolled on a pace or two. Anyone with a little insight might have seen that they were related, for though one was tall and strong and white-haired and the other thinner and somewhat lame, there was a resemblance in the set of the head, the carriage of the shoulders.

  ‘Who’s in control of the firm now?’ Jean-Baptiste asked, with some anxiety. ‘Not that simpleton of an English lord?’

  ‘He’s not so simple,’ replied Robert. ‘But no ‒ it was all settled in legal contracts before they got married. Gavin and I have joint control, in trust for our children.’

  ‘Huh!’ growled Jean-Baptiste. ‘Those two youngsters of Alys’s aren’t going to do much. The boy’s got his head in the clouds ‒ d’you know, he asked me if I had ever read any Greek. Greek! And the girl ‒ my God, she’s a charmer, but she doesn’t seem to know a thing about the grapes.’

  ‘Not much. She has a good palate, though ‒ she’s always made useful comments about the blending. Not that that matters much,’ he concluded in a sombre tone, ‘since it doesn’t look as if we’ll have anything to blend this year and probably next.’

  ‘What about your two? Are they showing any interest?’

  ‘David says he wants to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Well, at
‒ how old ‒ thirteen? That’s not a bad ambition. My lad wanted to be a train driver. What about the girl?’ For in the matter of growing wine, the women were as important as the men.

  ‘Oh, it’s a bit early for her to know … She’s only eleven, after all. But,’ added Robert thoughtfully, ‘if she ever took up the wine, she’d be good. She’s got … I don’t know … something. Character, enthusiasm.’

  ‘And looks, by heaven! What a little beauty. I must say, Robert, you’ve given me grandchildren to be proud of!’

  ‘I just wish I could tell them ‒’

  ‘No, no, my boy. No, better not. Sleeping dogs, sleeping dogs …’ They stood for a few moments looking at the goldfish in the ornamental pond. Jean-Baptiste threw in a leaf, watched the pretty fish rise to the surface without fear, to investigate. ‘Stupid creatures … comes of leading a sheltered life.’

  ‘Well, they won’t be sheltered much longer,’ Robert said. ‘We’ll have to cut down on expenses in a big way after this year’s disaster. I may even have to sell this house.’

  ‘Shall you mind that, boy?’

  ‘Well, the children were born here … Gavin asks us to move in at the manor house.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘You do?’ Robert said, surprised. ‘We might get in each other’s way if we were so close.’

  ‘I’d like you to be there, Robert. I’d like to think you were protecting what your mother built up.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to “protect” ‒’

  ‘Yes, there is. I’m not saying anything against Gavin ‒ he’s a good man, he’s made little Alys very happy. But he’s not a Champenois. The wine to him is something you make and sell. To us it’s something more.’ He paused, studied his son. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You care about the wine?’

  Robert hesitated, then nodded. Until that moment, he’d never thought of it in those terms. But being asked to speak out, he understood in that moment how dear the place was to him, the estate with its vines, the great wine that flowed from its grapes, the precious knowledge that enabled them to make a drink no one else in the world could make.

  ‘The time could come when Gavin might think of selling up.’

  ‘Selling up?’

  ‘Oh, if you can’t grow grapes, you might be in dire straits for money.’

  ‘But who’d buy a vineyard where you can’t grow grapes?’

  ‘Financiers take risks like that all the time. They might see a use for the land ‒ I suppose you could grow other things, and the caves, Robert ‒ the caves where we keep the wine … I’ve no doubt there could be some new use for the caves. Don’t let it happen. Hang on to what Nicci built. One day there will be wine again ‒ hold on until that day comes.’

  ‘So long as it isn’t delayed too long, Jean-Baptiste. Your American scientists had better be quick.’

  ‘It doesn’t depend on them. It depends on you. You’re your mother’s only son. Defend the heritage. So long as Champagne Tramont lives, Nicole Tramont will never die.’

  When his father had gone, Robert felt strangely alone. There was no reason for it ‒ he had a wife and children whom he adored. Yet Jean-Baptiste was someone special. And what he had said was important.

  ‘We’ve got to fight back,’ he said to Gavin and Alys as they sat in the estate office after a long session with the lawyers. ‘Monsieur Labaud was telling me that in America they’ve invested big sums in trying to find a way of counteracting the phylloxera bug. Here, where it’s a damn sight more important, we’re doing almost nothing!’

  Alys looked momentarily startled at his vehemence, but nodded.

  ‘We’ve sat quaking with terror of the thing long enough,’ she said. ‘It’s time to start fighting back.’

  Gavin put a hand on her black-clad arm. ‘My love, what can we do? You know none of the usual chemicals have any effect on this creature.’

  ‘Then we must find other chemicals.’

  ‘Alys, research is going on ‒ at the Pasteur Institute, for instance.’

  ‘But as Robert says, Gavin ‒ not urgently enough. We must get a group of botanists and viticulturists to concentrate entirely on the problem ‒’

  ‘You are saying we ought to hire them?’

  His wife stared at Gavin. The idea hadn’t occurred to her until he said it, but now that it was said, it seemed obvious. ‘Yes, that’s it! We must finance research into the phylloxera beetle!’

  ‘My dear, think what you’re saying! The cost ‒’

  ‘The cost if we don’t is that our vineyards are going to die! You remember, Gavin, before we left Portugal to come home ‒ Señor Medadia’s winefields ‒ nothing but rows of yellowing leaves. Phylloxera had forced him into selling ‒’

  ‘We are never going to do that,’ Robert interrupted, so as to have his position clear. He could hear the words of his father as they shook hands in farewell: ‘Sell warehouses and stores and jetties if you have to. New buildings can be built. But never sell land, Robert ‒ you can’t rebuild the land.’

  ‘Are you in favour of this idea of financing our own research?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Have you thought about the expense?’

  ‘Not so far ‒ Alys has taken me by surprise. But no matter what it costs, we ought to do it. Perhaps we could get other vineyardists to come in with us.’

  ‘That’s possible. A joint effort …’

  ‘But we should make a start, on our own if need be. Every week that passes without research is a week wasted.’

  For the next few days the senior members of the Tramont family discussed the project.

  Alys argued in favour with more passion than she could understand. She hadn’t realised, until now, how important the House of Tramont was to her.

  Gavin, although not entirely against it, was worried about the drain on their capital. This year they were going to make no wine. Next year, they might make some but that was a gamble, depending on whether or not their cuttings were attacked.

  ‘We’ll be living from hand to mouth, you understand,’ he said. ‘If we’re to keep Champagne Tramont going, we’ll have to draw on stocks, and of course put the price up ‒ and say what you like, even our most devoted customers are going to baulk at giving up a month’s income for one bottle. So we can’t finance the research project out of income. It’ll have to come out of capital ‒ and that’s dangerous, Robert!’

  ‘I know it’s dangerous. We must economise in every other way, that’s all.’ He paused and gave his quiet, wry smile. ‘I accept your invitation to move in here with your family. We ought to get a good price for the Rheims house ‒ and that, of course, can go in the kitty.’

  ‘Ought we to sell the Paris house?’ Alys asked, with a tremble of the voice that she couldn’t prevent. The house in the Avenue d’Iena was dear to her. She had helped her mother choose it and furnish it. From there she had launched herself into society as an influential married lady, had sent Netta out into the season and seen her glitter like a jewel against the setting of Parisian elegance.

  Gavin hesitated, glancing at Robert. Robert said, pulling at his chin in thought: ‘Not as yet, perhaps. That would be a signal to the world that the House of Tramont is in trouble ‒ and we don’t want to give that impression if we can help it. But there are buildings we could sell … for instance, our transport facilities will be under-used this year at least and perhaps for the next year or two. We could either sell or rent some of the storehouses.’

  ‘We could close down part of the Paris house,’ Alys said, stiffening her sinews. ‘After all, we really only use it for three or four months of the year as a family. The rest of the time, only Netta and Frederic are there. We could close down all of it except the east wing.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too comfortable,’ protested Gavin, thinking of the beautiful Netta living in a dust-sheeted house.

  ‘Too bad,’ Alys said with determination. ‘And another thing ‒ Frederic’s got to pull his weight! He’s a de
ar boy, and I don’t want to be hard on him, but he can’t expect to draw a handsome salary for playing at selling wine.’

  ‘Especially as there’s almost none to sell …’

  ‘What are you going to do ‒ cut him down to bread and water?’

  In the end Frederic was given the task of acting as liaison between the research chemists at the university and other Parisian institutes, and the laboratory which was set up at Calmady. At first he was unwilling ‒ it involved him in a lot of travelling back and forth, putting a decided spoke in the wheel of enjoyment: no long late-night card games, visits to the races curtailed.

  But as he began to take hold of the role, he found he enjoyed it. Moreover, he was good at it. His natural easy charm and the friendships he’d already made enabled him to cajole money out of unexpected patrons. He brought groups of interested parties together and somehow made them work in harmony.

  ‘Perhaps you should have gone into the diplomatic corps as a boy, and not the Army,’ his father-in-law said with some admiration.

  ‘It’s a funny business. I was always in trouble at St Cyr for arguing with the instructors! Yet now I seem to be able to smooth people down …’

  ‘Thank God for it. I hear you’ve arranged a debate here next week?’

  ‘Here’ was the Paris house. The debate was to be between three groups of researchers, each pursuing a different line, and each eager to tell the others that they were on a wrong track.

  ‘Yes ‒ if you hear the police have been called, don’t worry! Feelings run high on the subject of who is wasting money and who isn’t ‒ because of course they know how vital it is to find a barrier to this awful little insect.’

  ‘What does Netta make of all this?’ Gavin said, still regretting that his lovely girl had had to give up her house to such workaday matters.

  ‘Oh, Netta … She hardly takes any notice. If there’s a row going on in the sitting room, she can always go off upstairs and practise some scales.’

  Gavin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a decent sort, Frederic! I’ve heard scarcely a word of complaint from you about the way things have turned out ‒ though it can hardly be what you expected.’