‘Religiously.’
‘So do I, my dear. His name has not appeared in any.’
There was a pause and she didn’t know how to fill it. Louis obliged.
‘To happier thoughts. Can I tell you what I hear in your glorious champagne?’ She dredged up a smile. ‘I hear a babble of women gossiping,’ he admitted.
‘Well, that would impress those who commentate on champagne. That’s wonderful, Louis,’ she replied, genuinely surprised. ‘This is exactly what you should hear: excitement, teasing whispers and wicked chatter. Now tell me what you see.’
‘I see these bubbles rising like shooting stars for position at the top.’
‘They are busy forming what we call the cordon . . . crystalline and radiant. I wish you could view them with sunlight striking the glass.’
‘One day we shall – when this wretched war is done,’ he assured her, and there was something in that passive comment that felt proprietorial and sounded a distant alarm within her.
She moved him on. ‘How would you describe the colour?’
‘Almost silvery in this light,’ he continued, sounding fully engaged.
‘Louis, listening to you, I could be fooled that you are a champenois.’
He gave a shrug in an attempt at modesty. ‘No . . . don’t be fooled. I love to drink it, and like you, I enjoy talking about wine. I do remember your father impressing upon us to notice the grey-golden colour.’
She smiled, recalling the same, pleased that he remembered her beloved father so clearly. ‘And he’d say these bubbles must explode into tiny motes of gold that collect in the cordon like a fragile necklace of diamonds to glitter elegantly.’
He smiled over the rim of his glass. ‘Beautifully described. Sophie, I admit to having nothing but admiration for you. And that you can produce something as delicious as this despite all the trauma, is, as I say, incredible.’
‘It’s not just me. There are so many brave women, older men, even children who come out into those fields.’
‘You take too much risk.’
‘This is my way of defending France – its way of life, its flag. I have to do something. All you men at least have purpose,’ she said, being deliberately generous given that Louis sat behind a desk most days in the relative safety of Paris.
‘So, you walk out into fields under attack?’ His tone was teasing. He was doing his best, but he had no experience of the fear they confronted each time they worked Jerome’s vineyards.
‘I know I defy our enemy every time I walk out into the vineyards. Every woman who walks with me, every child, every elderly man who would like to pick up arms and defend France but cannot knows that by working at our vines we show our attackers that we will not be broken. France will not break.’
‘Your courage is exemplary, but few of your workers will survive if they continue to defy the Germans, and I’m especially frightened you won’t either. It’s about to get much worse.’
‘Why do you say that?’ She felt a current of shock trill through her. ‘It’s been so quiet. What do you know?’
He shook his head. ‘I hear things, my dear, but I happen to know that some of the most battle-hardened troops have been transferred out of Flanders and are now down here in our Marne region, purportedly for rest.’ She watched his moist lips balance on the edge of the champagne glass; it was like viewing a pair of slugs from beneath. He made a soft sound of delight as the slugs sipped their champagne. ‘But you see, Sophie, the senior people I mix with don’t trust the silent guns.’ She frowned, tension curling in her gut like a piece of paper thrown into a fire. ‘We all appreciate that this,’ he said, pointing upwards towards the rubble of Reims, ‘is the pathway our enemy needs, don’t you think?’ He formed it as a reasonable question and looked at her unblinking until she unhappily nodded. ‘So, I’m being assured,’ he said cryptically, tapping his beak-like nose, ‘that the German army will not walk away from a direct route to Paris as long as this war is being fought.’ The memory of the spritz of the champagne disappeared from her mind as his remark fully deflated her. ‘Sophie, dearest, I know we’ve not been close but now is a time for me to take on my role as your only existing family. Let me protect you.’
She was still thinking about the German army boots stomping through Reims again, horror coiling and unwinding like a troubled serpent in her gut, so his final remark took a few moments to filter through. She shook her head. ‘What do you mean? How?’
‘By coming to Paris for a while.’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘Away from here, Sophie, these dark tunnels, the injured and the war that I am sure is soon to re-erupt.’
‘You can’t be serious, Louis?’
‘But I am. I made a grave and binding promise to my brother that I would take care of you. I haven’t wished to impose as I know what an independent spirit you possess, but it’s about to get very dangerous for all of you here.’
And what about everyone else? she wanted to ask. ‘You make it sound as if it hasn’t been dangerous up to now,’ Sophie offered up in an even tone instead. ‘We live with danger daily.’
‘I suspect what’s coming is going to be far, far worse.’ The snake in her belly coiled tighter. ‘I cannot risk you being in its midst.’ His tone had changed; gone was the conversational attitude. ‘Look, I’m going to say it. I think we should marry.’
He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d reached over and punched her. She looked back at him in disbelief, only just managing to disguise her horror.
‘Marriage?’ she repeated, her voice tight.
‘Sophie, my dear, I know this suggestion is somewhat of a shock, and you don’t have to answer me this minute, but it is the right move for so many reasons. We can consolidate what our two families have before the Germans run rampant through the region. Never has this been more important than now. I can also fulfil my brother’s demand that I protect the woman he loved.’ Loves, she corrected in her private despair. ‘Marriage gives you all the privileges I enjoy – and I enjoy plenty . . .’ he said, having the graciousness to look down with at least a tiny sense of shame. ‘My dear Sophie, I can protect everything you care about.’ Take it, more like, Sophie’s inner voice railed. ‘And we can start a family, keep our lineage strong. You’re not getting younger. I’m certainly feeling my age,’ he said, giving his midriff a shake, trying self-deprecation now, as though searching for a way through her stunned silence so she could appreciate how rational and sensible his offer was. Before she could speak, he held up a hand as if to ward off an explosion of objections. ‘Don’t answer fast, my dear. I don’t for a moment flatter myself that you might marry me out of any affection. No, Sophie, I know you love my brother and that shall not change. But you see, it doesn’t have to. Marriage between us would, we both know, have to be a strategic decision and it would be for all the right reasons. While you might think otherwise, I want you to understand that I loved my brother in my own way. He knew it too. Unlike you, though, I believe him dead and I think it would bring his soul peace if he knew you were being looked after in the right way by someone who bears his name, someone who does not dilute our shared family assets and someone, above all else, who can offer you absolute protection of the highest level. So, give it due consideration. Add to this that I would not expect you to change your life drastically, either; once we attain peace – and we shall – you can run a household in Épernay and indeed Reims. I can keep living in the apartment in Paris, visit Avize when I need to. We can lead separate and, I’m sure, content lives.’
She waited to be sure he was finished. He had managed to make something so far from her thoughts – so horrible – sound not just pragmatic but simple and indeed easy. It was shocking. Her slightly strangled tone clearly reflected it. ‘Louis, I have to ask,’ she said, pausing to clear her throat of its anguish, ‘what is in this for you?’
‘Other than the obvious, you mean?’
She blinked. ‘What is the obvious?’
‘A beautiful, intelligen
t, capable wife, of course. One who matches my intellect . . . even some of my interests, perhaps, but essentially someone I can introduce in my circles and feel proud.’
A bauble, she thought. I’m to make you look good. ‘All right.’ She nodded. ‘Now tell me what it is that you gain apart from the obvious?’
His face creased into a thin smile that had no chance of reaching his eyes. She wasn’t sure if Louis knew what that sort of smile looked like, or even felt like. ‘I do want family, my dear, so . . .’ He tried to look embarrassed, but his lips got in the way as he licked them and his expression changed to something more lascivious. It was unintentional, no doubt, but it was present. ‘There is that important duty that would need to be considered in the scheme.’ He gave a chuckle that sounded drier than the champagne she strived to make. Again, he faced his palm towards her to ward off an instant response. ‘Think on it. No hurry . . . perhaps we can take some opportunities such as this one to get to know each other better. Start again, so to speak.’ His expression shifted easily from cunning to bright. ‘Now,’ he said, his tone gushing, ‘I don’t for a moment think you invited me here for a social chitchat. I imagine I can offer you some sort of service? Perhaps you need to lean on my network of important contacts?’ Louis shook his head and his chins mirrored the action. He was too shrewd for her. ‘Please, don’t in any way feel shame at this. It’s how the wheel turns, my dear. You scratch my back and I will always scratch yours . . . and with pleasure.’ He smiled at his cliché, which brought the ugliest of images to her mind. ‘I’m at your service, Sophie, so let me help you. Turn to me first.’
Stunned, she managed to spit out the reason she had invited him, realising how many steps ahead of her he was.
‘Supplies, Louis. The hospital is running too low on everything. We need —’
‘Consider it done,’ he said, waving his hand as if already bored by the request. ‘Write down a list before I leave today. I’ll have it on the next train down.’
‘That easy?’
He gave a shrug so casual it took no effort. ‘For you . . . yes. Providing we understand one another.’
Another chilling moment. The vision of Louis hoisting himself into her bed exploded in her mind, but it was as if he knew her greatest weakness. Not having a family was the pain that never lessened, and even a child from Louis was pragmatic, if not tempting. A true Méa. Maybe. She could love the child with purity even if she found the father hard to enjoy.
‘Louis?’ He looked back at her as if in innocent query. ‘There is something else I need your help with.’
‘Can I take a wild guess and ask if this is connected with finding Jerome?’
‘You see right through me,’ she flattered, hating herself for being so easy to read. ‘Can you get me in front of someone more senior at the Red Cross?’
‘To what end, my dear?’ He didn’t even sound surprised. His tone was measured, his voice even, as if preparing to explain something complex to an imbecile. ‘The information doesn’t change whether you’re here beneath the ground in Reims or standing in front of someone’s desk in Paris.’
‘Please, Louis. Humour me.’ She knew she looked desperate. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said, deciding to use his tactics. ‘Why don’t we attend the opera together? A long time ago you said you’d enjoy that.’
His eyes, their colour indeterminate down here in the shadows but which she knew to be an unremarkable brown, suddenly glittered. ‘The opera? Oh my, that is enticing. You are a terrible tease, Sophie. Is this quid pro quo, my dear?’
She couldn’t imagine Jerome ever using a term like that against her. How different they were, and yet Louis seemed to believe he could make her content.
‘I don’t see it that way,’ she said evenly. ‘If I’m coming up to Paris to see someone from the Red Cross, I might as well take advantage of our beautiful capital . . . and enjoy something with you that I could with few others.’
The flattery worked, even though she suspected he was well aware of being manipulated. Sophie accepted that Louis chose to let it happen because it suited his needs. ‘In that case I shall book tickets and send a telegram as soon as a meeting is set up for you.’
Louis raised his glass and she had no choice but to raise hers and let him clink his against it, as though they were sealing a deal. She prayed it wasn’t for marriage. He looked genuinely chuffed. ‘Let’s continue my education on the 1914 vintage. We had reached taste, had we not?’
Sophie dredged up a smile, knowing through bitter experience that it was only wasted energy to dwell on all those aspects of life she had no control over. And she needed every ounce of her energy for those she could.
She put some lightness she wasn’t feeling into her tone, and deliberately sat up straighter. ‘Well, the flavours change from year to year and because we are sipping vintage, I can taste the barrels in which it developed its flavour.’ He smiled, eyes looking lazily back at her as though lulled, and she was encouraged. ‘I can sense floral notes – like white freesia – which scented the earth that the mother vine of these grapes smelled as she grew her fruit. And then it will change, reacting with the atmosphere, the damp of our tunnels and the flavours of the limestone giving us what we call a second nose . . . more complex, more mature, less bright on the tongue.’
‘Go on,’ he encouraged, as though simply enjoying the sound of her voice.
She distracted herself from her distaste of Louis by talking through the flavour of this exquisite offering from House Delancré. ‘I always think of this vintage as being reared in blood. And when I feel it in my mouth, I believe I can experience the enthusiastic spirit of the twenty-two children who died while helping their mothers and grandparents to harvest the fields while their fathers were defending the country. This wine always tastes fresher, more ebullient than those that have come after it, and I believe those children live on in it with all their devil-may-care attitude and laughter. Their memories are here in the slightly sweet spritz and the fruitiness lingering on the palate and the smoothness, like their young skin.’ She’d had no clue how moved she’d become. Her tears welled but didn’t spill. ‘Forgive me.’ How she hated to look weak in front of him.
To her surprise he took no advantage from it. ‘Then for the children of Reims who gave their lives for this vintage, I salute them, and I raise my glass to you for keeping their memory alive in this glass.’ She nodded and sipped. At the inevitable sigh of pleasure as he swallowed, he continued. ‘Do you regret not having children?’
That was unexpected. Her eyes flashed up at him, unsure whether to feel injured. Her gaze was met with genuine enquiry.
Sophie took a slow breath to ensure her voice was even when it came. ‘I would love to be holding the hand of Jerome’s child, knowing their father was still with us through this son or daughter. But, if I’m honest, I think all this fearlessness that people credit me with would never have shown itself if I were a mother.’
‘You doubt yourself too much.’
‘Because I might have had something to live for, do you mean?’
‘No, because you’d make a fine mother with all that empathy roaring around in your blood. Even so, I’ve heard mothers say that having children makes one braver.’ Did she hear a wistful note there? ‘I often think of my mother and how she died before I had the chance to know her. My father always spoke to me with admiration of how courageous my mother was facing her death, telling him with her dying breaths that it had been worth it because she was leaving knowing she had a son. She named me too before she left us . . . called me her little king.’ Through all this he had not shifted his gaze from her, did not seem awkward to speak of such tenderness and loss. ‘I feel ready to be a father, to be important in someone’s life.’
‘I do regret that we never had a child.’
‘Then together we must make it happen, Sophie . . . the Delancré and the Méa will not die out when we do. For that alone we have a responsibility.’ He let that sit upon her while he
drained his glass. ‘On that thought, I must start making my way back to the surface after this most intriguing of visits. You’d better give me that list.’ Appalled at how casually he spoke of wanting to make children with her, she pulled two folded pages from her pocket, trying not to tremble. ‘Ah, of course you came well prepared.’ He smiled, as though they had concluded a business negotiation. ‘I shall look forward to our time in Paris together.’
5
ÉPERNAY
April 1918
Newly returned to Épernay from Reims and her meeting with Louis, Sophie stared at Étienne, the most reliable of her employees, now in his eighties, and she could see he shared her despair. The woman nearby began coughing; it was clear she was not recovered from whichever of the many ailments had struck, but still she had kept working.
‘You’ve done your best, Yvette,’ Sophie reassured her. ‘Please go home and take care of your children.’ The woman looked at her plaintively and nodded. Sophie needed her gone so she could never know how this news was shredding her mental state. She turned Yvette around by the shoulders and urged her out of the sheds. ‘Rest,’ she ordered. ‘My housekeeper is in charge of the additional medicines I brought back from Reims. Call in at the house and take what you need.’
They watched the woman retreat and finally, in frigid silence, they turned back to stare at the few sacks of sugar remaining in the warehouse.
‘How could she let this happen?’
Étienne sighed. ‘She is doing a job out of respect and duty, madame. This is her husband’s role and Paul would never have let this occur. You know that. She doesn’t.’
‘I blame myself,’ Sophie said, letting out a groan. ‘I should have paid more attention.’
‘Let us be honest, madame, and agree that whether she told you in winter or now can’t make any difference to the situation.’
The Champagne War Page 8