The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Tell me again why you aren’t fighting alongside your brother?’

  ‘Because I was needed in Paris, my dear,’ he said, dodging her question.

  She refused to be avoided. ‘But conscription. Surely? . . .’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Two reasons, dear Sophie. I am needed for government procurement,’ he said, as though that explained most of what she needed to know, yet to Sophie, it was vague enough to sound like a rehearsed excuse.

  ‘And the second?’ she asked, determined to make him defend himself with a valid reason.

  He covered his breast with one hand. ‘Did Jerome never mention my weak heart?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t speak about it. From infancy, apparently, it was always a weakness. I couldn’t do sport. Jerome was always the strong one.’

  ‘Monsieur Déa? Madame Déa?’

  He looked relieved to be interrupted. A woman arrived, and at their nods she smiled. ‘Come with me, please?’ She escorted them down the hallway and Sophie listened to the rhythmic click of the woman’s heels on the parquet floors, hoping it would lead her to news. The woman paused finally at a door and knocked before opening it . . . they were expected, after all. As she announced them, a short, wiry man pulled off his glasses and leapt from behind the desk as if a thousand ants had just stung him.

  ‘Louis, Louis, my old friend. How are you?’

  Louis shook the man’s hand warmly and told him he was perfectly well before formally introducing Sophie. ‘Jean, this is Madame Méa-Delancré.’

  ‘Yes, yes, madame, what a pleasure it is to meet Louis’s sister-in-law.’

  ‘I’m hopeful you can help me, monsieur,’ she said, leaping right in, already past her tolerance for the inevitable small talk.

  He gestured for them to be seated and withdrew back behind his desk, reached for his reading glasses and sat down, before leaping up again to ask if they would like some refreshments.

  ‘No, monsieur,’ she assured him and looked towards Louis, who reluctantly declined with a shake of his head. ‘I know you are busy, so if we could . . . ’ She sat forward on the edge of her chair.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, returning to his seat and carefully wrapping the arms of his thin wire glasses around each ear. The wait as he did this felt taut. ‘Now, Jerome Méa,’ he said, sounding triumphant as he opened a file. ‘Yes, yes. Acquitted himself most heroically on the battlefield, madame. You and brother Louis here can feel justly proud.’

  ‘We do,’ Louis assured him, sliding Sophie a reassuring nod.

  Jean returned to the file. ‘He went missing in . . .’

  ‘April 1915,’ Sophie answered for him.

  ‘Yes, yes, I see that. We have two witnesses who —’

  The tension was too tight in her chest. She snapped free of it by interjecting, ‘But you see their accounts differ, monsieur. One says the man was broad, dark-haired and tall, and that he fell after being shot. The other, sir, describes him similarly, although fails to mention that he’s broad.’ She gave a nervous smile; she knew she was speaking too fast and that this man did not like to be hurried. ‘And that he fell from the gas attack.’

  ‘Er, yes, this is what I read here,’ he replied, and she detected that he was indeed miffed to be jostled along.

  ‘Surely that strikes you as odd, monsieur? They are differing accounts.’

  She didn’t have to look at Louis to know he was exchanging a look with his friend that was asking him to indulge her. She wanted to scream at both of them.

  Jean frowned and took his time reading through both witness accounts once again. Louis cleared his throat and Sophie got through the protracted pause by wringing her hands and counting backwards in the little Russian she had. ‘Not so strikingly different, though, madame, if you’ll pardon me,’ he said, finally looking up. ‘The description is of a lieutenant from your husband’s unit falling from being shot following a gas attack.’

  She knew it in her heart but had nevertheless felt it worth trying to make the distinction, even though it was weak. ‘I understand but neither witness mentions anywhere that this man actually died.’ She could hear that her voice had gone higher. She sounded as desperate as she felt.

  Jean sat back. His gaze flicked to Louis, then back to her, embarrassed. ‘Er, madame, pardon me, but it is tacit in these military witness accounts; they are being given for the very reason of us trying to find out who has died on the battlefield.’

  ‘Tacit,’ she repeated. ‘But not proven.’

  He looked again at Louis, more nervous now. ‘Your husband’s name has not appeared on any lists that we have, madame. Since your brother-in-law contacted me, I have taken the trouble to make my own enquiries after your husband. I have repeatedly received the same information that there is no record of a Jerome Méa in any prison, in any hospital, or surviving anywhere close to the region where he fell. I know you have pressed upon us, madame, and we are keen to ensure we follow every avenue of possibility . . . and we have.’ Helplessly, and in case she hadn’t been able to grasp this previously, he began to hold up his fingers and repeat what they already knew. ‘He is not a prisoner, he is not injured, he is not being held in a field hospital or a town or village facility anywhere that we can find. He is certainly lost – and by this, I mean we have not recovered a body . . . pardon me, madame,’ he said, and she realised her eyes were tearing up. ‘The French courts will make a final recommendation at the right time, madame, but for the purposes of your query, we are taking our information from the military regarding your husband being missing, as being lost for good.’

  She heard Louis shift to reach for a handkerchief, but she dug in her handbag for her own and shook her head when he offered.

  ‘He is one of tens of thousands of brave French men who litter Belgium’s battlefields. Given the time that has passed, I suspect he has not been found because Ypres has become his grave. We may yet find those men who were buried over time but for now we term them as “missing, presumed dead”, madame. But if I am to be candid with you, that is our way of saying your husband is likely dead and we may never recover his body.’

  It was a long speech and now his eyes, made large behind his spectacles, darted between Sophie and Louis. The silence made him more nervous, it seemed, so he filled it. ‘I have tried everything, I promise you.’ He sounded earnest, almost pleading.

  She hated that she was openly weeping now. It felt so weak to be crying in front of men, especially as this was exactly what Louis had anticipated. He was making soothing sounds, apologising to Jean and thanking him profusely for his generous efforts.

  ‘Come along, my dear. I think we both need a stiff cognac and to gather ourselves.’

  Louis made all the appropriate polite noises to Jean before he led Sophie out of the Red Cross building and onto the damp streets of Paris. His arm around her felt less about protection and more about ownership; she’d come here hoping to be a step closer to finding Jerome, but all she had achieved was taking a step further into the debt of Louis. In a blur of fresh despair, Sophie lost track of their progress; she remained quiet in the taxi that rolled them around this most beautiful city, past Madeleine, and down towards Place de la Concorde at the bottom end of the Champs-Élysées. The vehicle rounded the corner, to where the much admired neoclassical façade of the Hôtel de Crillon overlooked the wide square. The hotel had opened nearly a decade earlier to high acclaim, and her family’s champagne had been served at its grand opening; her parents had attended, little knowing they’d be dead the next year.

  Louis had been talking throughout the journey. It was a soft babble, probably designed to soothe. Only now she heard what he was saying.

  ‘. . . and the Count of Crillon bought this palatial house at the end of the eighteenth century, and his descendants lived here until just past the turn of this one.’

  Sophie nodded. She knew she had to engage with Louis, be better company; she still needed him. She also needed to rein in her emotions and put them away again or
she’d be good for no one. There was still a champagne house to run. She reminded herself that she may be no better off but she was certainly no worse off than she had been this morning. It was a setback, yes, but they still had no body. And Jerome would not be dead for her until they proved it. As she’d been retreating to this position in her mind, Louis had assisted her from the taxi, linked her arm around his elbow and led her through the grand entrance and into the famed restaurant Les Ambassadeurs.

  ‘Come on, my darling,’ Louis cooed. ‘I’ve always thought life looks better on a full belly.’

  Darling. He’d taken his intentions up a notch, she thought absently as the maître d’ glided up and exchanged a hushed, brief conversation with Louis before bowing and saying, ‘Of course, Monsieur Déa, please follow me.’

  They were led across marble floors to a round table laden with heavy linen and crystal. Above her the frescoed ceiling joined marble walls while chandeliers hung low and twinkled seductively. She permitted Louis to consult the menu and discuss it with the waiter, remarking that she would only manage a single course, which seemed to disappoint him, but she did agree to cognac. Over the honeyed fumes of her Rémy Martin, she absent-mindedly picked out flavours, from the florals of honeysuckle and iris through to the stickiness of candied fruit, and she could swear there was a hazelnut quality to this marc. But she didn’t mention any of this; she sipped and let the alcohol’s effects work their calming magic.

  ‘Oh, that’s good, isn’t it?’ Louis said, licking his lips clean of the syrupy liquor.

  ‘Thank you. It’s delicious.’

  ‘Let it soothe you, Sophie . . . I’ll talk and order while you gather your thoughts.’

  It was kind of him. He chose the sole meunière and she approved for its clean simplicity. He let her sit quietly and allow the cognac to inhabit her until their meal arrived, which was surprisingly fast. Once the food was set before them, he began to talk.

  ‘Do you know,’ he began conversationally, as if testing the waters at the edge of her tolerance, ‘that Marie Antoinette took piano lessons here?’

  She didn’t know that. ‘Really?’ If she wasn’t so concerned that he was trying to manipulate her, Louis would be interesting, intelligent company.

  ‘Oh, yes. And as you know from your Revolution history, right outside there,’ he said, flicking a sausage finger towards the satin-draped window nearby, ‘she lost her head. Guillotined right outside the very place she had enjoyed living briefly.’

  ‘There you are, I’ve learned something,’ she admitted, trying to smile, reassure him.

  ‘How’s your fish?’

  ‘It is delectable, though how food like this is found for Parisians while —’

  ‘Now, now, dear Sophie. Just enjoy,’ he admonished her lightly. They ate in a companionable silence for a few more forkfuls before he made a soft sound as though only now recalling something. ‘Oh, that’s right, forgive me. I did overhear you mention something to the Curie woman last night.’

  ‘Remind me,’ she replied absently.

  ‘About sugar?’ He sounded innocent enough in his enquiry.

  ‘Yes. I desperately need some.’

  He fixed her with a smiling gaze, and she felt like a mouse pinned down by a hungry cat. ‘How desperately?’

  Sophie blinked, unsure of how to answer that. She shrugged, swallowed a final delicious morsel, and shook her head. These actions bought her a few seconds of time. ‘Er, well, I suppose we are down to the last couple of sacks.’

  ‘And that’s a death knell, is it?’

  She sighed and it sounded halfway between a laugh and despair. ‘Yes, you could put it like that.’

  ‘How would you put it, Sophie?’ He leaned in, chewing, and she could see some of the buttery lemon sauce slick on his lips. He dabbed at them with a napkin.

  ‘I would put it that if I cannot source sugar in the next couple of months, I will not be putting out a vintage this year. It will be the first time in the history of our house. But it feels more dramatic than that.’

  ‘Dramatic?’ He frowned.

  ‘This is the fruit from the special vineyard of chardonnay that is in jeopardy.’

  ‘Ah, the wedding vineyard,’ he said. ‘Jerome’s experiment.’

  ‘Which has worked. I want to make an all-chardonnay champagne to honour him.’

  His expression rearranged itself; on anyone else Sophie was sure it would appear conspiratorially friendly, but on Louis it came across as pure cunning. ‘What if I said I could get some?’

  ‘I would call you a liar.’ She laughed teasingly, although she realised there was little mirth in the sound, and Louis clearly did not appreciate the accusation. His even expression hadn’t changed but the narrow-set eyes had darkened and something in the way he put his fish knife and fork down told her she had trespassed. She tried to make amends. ‘I mean, if all the other champenois are struggling to find sugar with all their powerful friends, I cannot imagine where you might locate it. These are all men like you, Louis, with connections.’

  His cheeks permitted his smile to stretch, although it generated no warmth. ‘They are not like me, dear Sophie. You say you are desperate, but I sense you’re not at the very end of your tolerance?’ He formed a question by raising his eyebrows.

  ‘I have a little time.’

  ‘Then I suggest we have something sweet to finish.’

  ‘You go ahead, Louis. I’m feeling delicate today.’ She wasn’t lying. The visit to the Red Cross had left her feeling faintly ill.

  He nodded and signalled to the waiter, who glided over. ‘Some madeleines and some sabayon to dip them in, I think.’

  ‘Very good, monsieur.’

  She found a smile as the waiter moved away. ‘Jerome loves sabayon.’

  ‘Entrenched in us both from childhood. Our mother used to make it regularly. In spring she would serve it with a buttery almond cake that our father enjoyed. He’d pick the almonds for her. In summer she would spoon it chilled over slightly crushed berries that we picked for her, and in winter she would serve it straight from the stove, warm and silken, with those long, thin biscuits to dip in the frothy custard. Oh, what are they called?’

  ‘Langues de chat?’ she offered.

  ‘Yes! I used to tell Jerome when he was little and gullible that they were real cats’ tongues.’

  She joined his amusement. ‘Dear Jerome. He always believes the best of people. I can imagine he’d trust you when you told him that.’

  ‘He did! Poor fellow. He must have believed my mother was out gathering the tongues from cats and baking them for our pleasure.’

  This made them share a genuinely indulgent moment of laughter.

  ‘It’s very uplifting to hear you sound . . . well, I was going to say happy but I know it’s not that. Even so, it’s a pleasure to hear your enjoyment.’

  She shrugged. ‘I search for any moment connected with happier times,’ she admitted, ‘even if it isn’t from my own childhood.’

  ‘You said you have a little time.’ Sophie frowned in confusion until she realised he was referring them back to their previous conversation.

  ‘You mean before the sugar situation is beyond just desperate?’

  He chortled at her understatement. ‘I do. And when you feel you are at that point, do ask me and perhaps I can prove that I never offer something I cannot provide.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, hoping she sounded contrite. ‘Perhaps you could find out some costs and —’

  He made a tutting sound of vexation as he finished his sole. ‘You let me worry about that. I know someone who knows someone, and everyone owes each other favours. I can get you sugar.’ He nodded as though that was final. He pushed his plate forward and raised his gaze to meet hers, fixing it so she dared not look away. ‘I will not want money from you, Sophie.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’

  They regarded each other.

  He dipped into his pocket and produced a
ring box. She sucked in a breath, wanting to let it back out as a scream and run full pelt from the room. She did nothing but stare in horrified and helpless fascination as he flicked it open. Inside sat a gold ring with a central sapphire. It looked like twilight beneath the glitter of the chandeliers, and its two equally large diamond sentinels kept guard, winking and twinkling at her in invitation, while smaller diamonds clustered between them like minions. ‘My mother’s. I can think of no one else’s hand but yours that I would prefer to wear it.’

  She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to; her throat had surely closed, her mouth was certainly shut fast.

  Louis continued. ‘Last time we met I said there was no rush and I did not wish to pressure you. Nothing has changed, but Sophie, while I will not press you into marriage right now, I would like you to wear my ring.’

  ‘Louis, I am married!’

  He denied her remark with a swift shake of his head. ‘Married to a man considered dead. You are a widow in most people’s estimation.’

  She had to break her tongue free from a dry palate. ‘Why?’ she murmured. ‘I mean, why now?’

  ‘It’s the intent it will offer to me.’

  ‘You want people to see it, you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose. But between us it would mean that our relationship is not all one-sided. I must have something in exchange for my trouble.’

  Sophie removed the napkin from her lap and folded it slowly before laying it on the table. ‘Well, Louis, this has been an enlightening visit to Paris,’ she said carefully. ‘You’ve been generous and I’m grateful. However, I think it’s important you understand that while you’ve accepted all that you’ve heard about Jerome, I haven’t.’