The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  And now, without warning, a grape grower had caught her attention. She’d read romantic novels and wondered at the notion of one’s heart skipping a beat, a hitch in the breath, one’s chest feeling tight when the attraction was strong. They had struck her as clichéd, but to be experiencing all three symptoms both horrified and amused her. So, they were not only the dreamings of novelists; these were real experiences . . . and as that dawning struck, she stumbled in the vineyard. Jerome caught her elbow just as she lost her footing, and in that moment, as she looked up into his open, easily read face, she knew this tall, broad-shouldered man, with his rough stubble of growth, unruly hair and flat cloth cap worn rakishly, was the brother she intended to marry.

  As it turned out, his heart and breath were skipping and jumping in tandem with hers. And later that day, as he helped her into her family’s car, he kissed her hand and looked into her eyes in such a way that they both knew something special had erupted between them.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for Louis’s spread?’

  She grinned at how he’d loaded the word. ‘Will you explain that I had stayed longer in the fields than I intended and was feeling a little weary?’

  ‘Of course. Will you visit again?’

  She shook her head. ‘I trust you, Jerome. And I do not want to run into your brother if I can help it. Why don’t you come to Épernay – mention that I would like you to visit the cellars?’ She tried to sound jaunty when all she wanted to do was stay longer . . . and have those large working hands around her waist, pulling her close.

  ‘I shall.’ He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow?’

  Sophie laughed. ‘Perfect. Come alone. Stay for dinner.’

  He stayed the night. And from thereon, he barely left her side.

  The Méa family had always grown vines while her family had always been champenois, so while their union could be viewed by some as strategic, she knew it was one that only the angels could dream up, for theirs was founded on such deep affection that both Sophie and Jerome had admitted to not believing their good fortune.

  Their pleasure was counterbalanced by Louis’s horror at the news of their engagement, which developed into loathing for the couple that Sophie could feel like a solid entity glaring at her, no matter how much Louis smiled through all the congratulations.

  The late summer wedding at the end of harvest, while his grapes matured and her ideas for the next vintage ripened, involved the whole town. The entire population lined the streets to watch the groom escort his bride to the church.

  Sophie glided down the stairs of her empty home, now so quiet without the noise of a busy youngster roaming its hallways. This bride had no chattering mother fussing at her veil and no beaming father at the bottom of the stairs. There was Gaston de Saint Just, of course, her cousin and best friend, who would stand in for her father.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ he whispered, allowing the groom’s first glimpse of the bride to be private.

  Her fiancé’s bright smile faltered at the sight of her and she hesitated.

  ‘Jerome?’

  ‘You’re a vision. Don’t move,’ he pleaded. And she stopped midway down the stairs as the morning sunlight arced through the landing window to cast a shimmer around her beaded veil. ‘Let me commit this moment to my deepest memory. I never want to lose this image of your glowing beauty or the realisation that you said yes to me.’

  The guilt at being happy again tried to derail her but she pushed it aside, lifted the buttery silk of her gown and tiptoed carefully down to meet him. They paused again to hold the intimate moment.

  ‘Jerome, I can’t remember ever being happier than right now,’ she admitted. ‘My heart is yours forever.’

  ‘Never let that change.’

  Out they stepped. Gaston took her arm to guide her towards the church, as Jerome led the procession up the main street of Épernay to the rousing cheers of the townsfolk. Some worked for House Delancré, others worked for the neighbouring champagne houses, but everyone knew her. She’d grown up around these people and she felt their affection through their applause.

  Gaston leaned in. ‘I haven’t seen you smile like that in an age, Sophie,’ he admitted. ‘I’m very proud to do this for you. Thank you for asking me.’

  ‘Apart from my father, there is no one else I’d rather walk alongside today, darling Gaston.’

  ‘Jerome’s a good man; you are a perfect couple.’ Gaston winked.

  ‘I’m glad you approve,’ she murmured from beneath her veil, feeling her spirits – although it seemed impossible – lift higher still.

  ‘You need to be careful of his brother, though. I grew up with Louis Méa. He’s not a man who takes scorn on any of his several chins easily.’

  ‘He doesn’t scare me.’

  ‘It’s not about being scared. You’ve told me he had desires for you. I want you to be aware that although you have married his brother, he will find a way to make up for the humiliation.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous in his mind. It’s a slight.’

  ‘Gaston, he’s ignored me since my relationship with Jerome first became obvious.’

  ‘Means nothing. Louis is a spider. He’ll wait in the corner.’

  ‘Oh, help me to find him a wife, then! This one’s taken.’

  Gaston leaned in and kissed her head through the veil. ‘Sorry to mention him. And that all this well-deserved happiness is surrounded by so much discontent in Europe.’

  ‘Let’s not speak of it on my wedding day. It won’t come to anything – we’re all just feeling nationalistic,’ she said, sounding more confident in her dismissiveness than she felt. The truth was that even to her in tiny Épernay, Europe felt as though it was a tinderbox waiting for some spark to light it up. She read the newspapers from Paris regularly; she paid attention to the shifts and upheavals in Europe and was more politically aware than most men might give her credit for. As an only child for such a long time her father had raised her as his heir, and part of her fundamental education was that she remained conscious of the world and its moods.

  ‘Our world is not Épernay . . . our big city is not Reims. We do not belong to Champagne, or even to the Marne region, my child. No, we belong to Europe. That’s your primary focus, and then you must look further to Great Britain and to the United States of America – that’s where our product is consumed, so that’s where our focus must be.’

  He’d drummed this notion into her from when she was still small enough to be carried around the cellars that snaked in narrow tunnels beneath the house, alongside the cellars of the other top houses. She’d barely understood the sentiment as an infant, had no idea of geography as a youngster, but as she grew, her young mind had grasped that her father was reinforcing important information. She’d paid attention, and over the years he had widened her view of the world, taught her about current politics, encouraged her to discuss them with him and to form an opinion even if she didn’t share it with her peers.

  ‘As the person who will take over this house, you must know the world of men while moving effortlessly through the world of women,’ he’d said. ‘Until you take over, most will view you only as a beautiful daughter looking forward to her marriage and starting a family with a wealthy man of Champagne. Only you, your mother and I know that is only the tiniest part of you, my child. The future of House Delancré rests with you. You are its daughter, its lifeblood . . . its heir.’

  Thus, as her wedding day approached, Sophie was well aware of the Kaiser’s militarisation in Germany, the efforts at diplomacy between Britain, America, France . . . even Russia. She, like anyone else with a vested interest in a peaceful Europe, was relying on the familial relations between the three principal monarchs in Germany, England and Russia to prevent war. But even Sophie held grave fears for the repercussions of the assassination of the Archduke and Duchess in Sarajevo a couple of months ago. Her father’s wisdom had never felt more prophetic.

  ‘Whateve
r is happening in the world is happening to champagne,’ he’d counselled.

  Her champagne was drunk by the wealthy, and predominantly by the wealthy overseas. Their business couldn’t rely solely on Paris. They also needed London, New York, Berlin and other grand cities like St Petersburg and Moscow to be buying their product and drinking it in vast quantities. Should war break out, their product and its earnings would be compromised and their ability to export whatever they might make nullified.

  But today was not the day to contemplate nations falling out. Today was the biggest, brightest and happiest of her life. Sophie rallied her thoughts away from all political upheaval.

  A young girl, part of the procession of children leading her towards the mayor’s office for the formalities, looked back and waved at her, giving her a heartbreaking smile that echoed the dying summer. Today was as warm as that smile and the sun beamed a mellow gold from clear, azure skies. It was perfect for the outdoor feast that would come later. The children skipped ahead, excitedly holding the small rolls of ribbons they would stretch between themselves at the church. Jerome certainly planned to have a large family – it made her laugh each time he began discussing names, often ranging up to half a dozen options for boys and girls.

  ‘We’ll have enough children to use all our choices,’ he’d promised.

  She smiled inwardly knowing they would get busy realising that promise tonight. Jerome was not her first suitor – she had chosen him from a long line that had been queuing since she turned nineteen, but he was her first lover and that was exciting. The town, although understanding her despair of the last few years, could be forgiven for thinking House Delancré would not have an heir. She was late to lose her virginity – no one appreciated that fact more keenly than Sophie – but her circumstances meant she’d had to wait for love and someone worthy of hers and all that came with it.

  Gaston patted her hand, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Are you enjoying all this attention? I know you never seek it out.’

  ‘I’m enjoying what it means. I’ll be glad, though, when all the formalities are over.’

  He nodded as they reached the town hall. After the mayor had officiated and pronounced them married, they were permitted to continue their procession to the church for the holy ceremony at Saint-Pierre Saint-Paul. She had always liked its Roman-Byzantine design and its stained-glass depiction of the patron saints of Champagne, especially Vincent from the year 304, and Urban, patron saint of bottlers – she knew them all from early childhood.

  Jerome cast her a final grin as he disappeared into its depths to await her at the altar and all the children of the town unravelled their white ribbons.

  Someone handed Sophie the scissors and she began to cut a path through the satin lengths that the children raised like streamers. To the villagers it symbolised that Sophie would get past all obstacles in her life, but to her it represented cutting away all ties to her sad past. This was her future she was cutting a path towards, and with each slice of the blades through satin she spoke silent words of optimism.

  Love

  Happiness

  Affection

  Laughter

  Children

  Safety

  Strong vines

  Strong arms around me

  Music

  Dancing

  Lovemaking

  Family

  And as she said the final word, Joy, as if casting a spell to banish the grief of the years gone, she and Gaston emerged into the church. Its build, funded by the Chandon family, had been completed just two years after her birth; this was the church where she’d been confirmed.

  Incense burned, fragrant and spice-laden, lifting up from the charcoal burner to waft notes of frankincense and myrrh along with forest oils like sandalwood and gums. And now as the congregation fell silent, she could hear the soft rustle of her silk gown.

  Her rebellious nature showed in the design. She had flouted the corseted era of her mother’s time and fallen in love with Paul Poiret’s avant-garde directoire silhouette. It was both feminine and flattering, its highest, narrowest point highlighting her small waist and elongating her torso. Long, gently curving lines were achieved with the softest of fabric folds and a mix of silk thicknesses. She had even turned away from white, instead choosing an exquisite antique cream, the colour of her champagne. Clear glass seed beads offered a nod to the tiny, chiselled bubbles, while the greyish bugle beads that highlighted the design curtsied to the colour of the earth from which Jerome’s grapes grew. She’d insisted on any train being modest and Poiret had respected her wishes with a short, pointed satin train that was given its angular shape via small lead weights sewn in at four separate points.

  It was a statuesque look, but when the cutaway back was revealed, showing Sophie’s wide, bare shoulder blades and the dip of her spine, it drew soft gasps of surprise from the older women and looks of thrilled approval from the younger ones. Having someone of Sophie’s wealth and status wear such a daring design would give unspoken permission to all future brides to cast away the tailored, corseted gowns and voluminous skirts. A bride could now feel free to wear this styling that spoke of freedom and independence, unafraid to show either her skin or her femininity.

  As she drew closer to the appreciative and beaming smile of her husband-to-be, she thought of the strong women of Champagne who had gone before her – like Veuve Clicquot or Madame Pommery. She knew they would approve of her determination not to conform, not to be fearful of the champagne world of men she worked with, but perhaps and most especially of her choice in a husband, who was a modern thinker and encouraged her independence.

  She allowed herself a moment to ponder how it might have been if she’d become a wife to Louis; she could feel his scowl following her down the aisle like an unpleasant smell. He must move on, and could perhaps take solace in the fact that his grand plan to link their families had come to fruition . . . just with the other brother. Jerome turned and she felt her breath catch as she let Louis slip out of her thoughts, no longer important, no longer able to make any impact on their lives now that the brothers had reached an agreement to allow Jerome his vineyards and all profits from the grapes, while Louis kept the chateau, its contents and the proceeds from their other lucrative farming ventures.

  She had her own chateau – several houses, in fact – and more wealth on her own terms than both brothers could muster. She did not need Louis, his advice, his money or his meddling. They were free to be Monsieur et Madame Delancré-Méa. Stepping beneath a silk and lace canopy, a throwback to the days before the veil came into vogue, Sophie took a deep breath of relief that gave clarity to the knowledge that she and Jerome were destined to live happily together until death parted them.

  Later, after treading over a path of laurel leaves that had been laid down outside the church to celebrate love and respect, they were showered with rice by gleeful guests harking towards fertility, and the wealthier threw some gold coins in their path so they would always be prosperous. Later still, in the gently sloping gardens behind her house, after all the official duties were complete and even the grand feast had been enjoyed, the guests insisted on the old country tradition of bundling up small cakes into a pyramid and making the newlyweds kiss over the stack without any toppling.

  ‘Now, let’s bring out the wedding cake,’ she said, and her proud housekeeper and aides carried out a tower of custard-filled pastries with a cloud of spun sugar looking as though it hovered around it. The croque-en-bouche was studded with tiny fresh flowers picked that morning from the surrounding meadows, and the tall, glistening creation drew a collective gasp of pleasure from those gathered.

  To accompany the cake, Gaston took obvious pleasure in opening still more bottles of Sophie’s champagne but in the traditional way – sabrage, expertly slicing off the collar of the bottles with a sabre. And as Gaston presented the newly married couple with the intact collar and cork, Jerome presented Sophie with a choker of crystals.

  ‘They
remind me of those glittering bubbles you strive so hard to achieve,’ he whispered as he kissed her gently at the top of her neck, after he’d fastened the clasp.

  The look in his eyes of hammered steel told her there was a lot more affection to come later in private.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Jerome,’ she said, touching her fingertips to the beads.

  ‘They’re nothing in comparison to you,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me again how this man got to be so lucky.’

  She gave him a smile that was all his. She would never lay that warmth on any other man than Jerome.

  ‘I feel I must sing my happiness,’ he threatened.

  ‘Oh, no, Jerome,’ she half pleaded, half laughed.

  ‘I must,’ he said in a tone of resignation and burst into a rousing song that soon had all the guests joining in.

  This was Jerome’s way. Loud, boisterous, affectionate. He loved everyone and everyone loved him . . . except perhaps Louis, who had quietly slipped away from the celebrations. No one missed him, least of all Sophie. She felt blessed. Theirs was truly a union forged in heaven and Épernay would benefit now that one of the pre-eminent growers of the region had unified with one of the most innovative and exciting new winemakers that Champagne had reared in a long time.

  ‘I have one more gift for you, my love,’ Jerome said as the song ended, and he returned to her side having woven his way around the tables, encouraging everyone to join in.

  Her gaze narrowed, wondering if he was about to say something seductive.

  He grinned, guessing where her mind was heading. ‘That gift can wait. Will you come with me?’

  She frowned. ‘Leave our guests?’

  ‘Only briefly.’ He didn’t wait for her answer, instead bellowing out to all at their wedding feast that he and his bride had somewhere to be and would return shortly.

  This was greeted by whistles and cheers.

  ‘Settle down, everyone . . . just a gift for the woman I love. We shall be back.’