You need his help, she kept reminding herself privately. Don’t offend any further.
She watched his façade wrinkle slightly at her words, but he righted his expression quickly. ‘What more do you want, Sophie?’ he said, deliberately sounding weary.
‘I want proof.’
‘A body?’ He sounded as though he wanted to laugh in her face. He didn’t. His expression turned scornful. ‘That’s impossible. You heard the man.’
‘I need more than I have now because all I have is vague remarks from traumatised men, and your friend at the Red Cross is keen to accept whatever hearsay there is.’
Louis looked back at her as if she was simple. ‘You have a military record that attests to no Jerome Méa still walking around in any shape or form.’
‘That the people who compile these records know of,’ she impressed upon him, her voice turning angry, and she took little pleasure in watching him twitch with suppressed frustration and possibly carefully concealed anger of his own. She did admire his control. ‘Louis, I’ve seen men come into the hospital who don’t even know their names any more.’
‘So what?’ She frowned at his careless attitude. ‘We know who they are,’ he continued. ‘They have a uniform, a number, identification!’
Don’t let him cast your objections aside, her inner voice demanded. Push! ‘Jerome might have lost his,’ she appealed to him.
‘What, all of it? That’s just too easy. You’re reaching, Sophie. You want him to be alive, I understand it, so you’re constructing any excuse you can to ignore what is so clear to everyone else. And you are hurting yourself by holding on to this hope.’
‘Please help me, Louis,’ she said, hoping feminine appeal might work better than objection.
‘I thought I had,’ he said, his face unable to fully hide his disgust.
‘Help me to find emphatic proof.’
‘And then what?’ Now he sounded sulky.
She must tread carefully now, she realised. ‘And if it’s as you believe, then we’ll talk about us.’ She couldn’t believe she’d said it but now it was out and between them. ‘I won’t wear any ring of yours, not yet. Find me Jerome . . . proof of his death. Find me sugar.’ She shrugged. ‘Then we’ll talk about us.’
Sophie knew she could look past the fact that he held no physical appeal to her, but if she was being entirely truthful, she would admit that Louis and she had enough common interests and intellect that on considered observation they would make quite an evenly matched couple. Unfortunately, life was rarely considered; she did not want to be married off simply for convenience. Her mind tried to wrap around the notion of having a child with Louis. It couldn’t – she shied away helplessly with revulsion – but the sugar? The sugar was like a beautiful lure to a hungry fish. Without sugar she would let her family name down . . . more importantly, she would fail Jerome. Honouring him and staying true to her father’s name and his brand’s history felt like the only aspect of life that was keeping blood flowing through her body. Hope felt lost in this war and she no longer cared about her life, which was essentially empty – no husband, no children, no family . . . she was living off the pure emotion that rose from hope and a relentless sense of duty. The emotion of not being able to turn Jerome’s wedding vineyard – his prized grapes, such a rare and special gift just for her – into champagne had no comparison. Not even agreeing to marry Louis felt worse than not making this wine, not having the sugar to do so. Could he sense her desperation? If he did, he didn’t care. He had his agenda and he was happy for his potential bride to have hers. She tried not to shudder.
He watched her carefully before nodding, mindful not to speak and burst whichever bubble had just formed around them. Sophie felt the bile wanting to rise. Was she really bribing him with the promise of herself? What had she become?
She had become strong, she assured herself. It took strength to make these decisions.
Whatever it takes, she told herself.
‘Quid pro quo, Louis.’ She smiled and had to swallow back the desire to return all that sole meunière to the plate.
Louis Méa had kept his expression even as he kissed his sister-in-law farewell and waved her off on the train that would return her to Épernay. Now, though, as he paced distractedly around the parquet floors of his Parisian apartment, which stood halfway between Opéra and Pigalle in the 9th arrondissement, he let all his rage come to the fore. But as was his way, he showed no tantrum; instead he let it seep out. He stepped by a magnificent credenza of inlaid wood and marble adorned by a decorative oval mirror, and moved past a Boldini painting of a nude stretched out on a sofa, to the tall window that overlooked the square, around which so much illicit pleasure could be found.
This was the neighbourhood where France’s other revolution had occurred, for any and every manner of sexual predilection could be catered for here, and of course the people flocked, especially at night. He partook freely of its offerings, just a brief walk from those most splendid and conservative avenues radiating out from Opéra. If only Sophie would think of herself as a widow, it would make life far easier for both of them. He couldn’t tell her of his financial stresses. In fact, if he could get her to agree to an engagement, then he was sure his debtors would see him through a different lens. The Delancré holdings were vast – all that property, and the champagne house itself was profitable . . . even through this wretched war. He smirked; how ironic it was, then, that Sophie needed sugar to make her champagne and that he had invested so much of his private wealth into building new sugar mills in Cuba. His money, in part, had helped to fund three new mills in 1914 alone but he couldn’t convert his investment to cash because the sugar couldn’t be shipped. Even so, he could get some, enough to back her into a corner. He considered his finances. A hefty chunk of his wealth was tied up in passenger shipping and much of it had sunk with the RMS Lusitania during the spring of 1915 – around the time they had received the news of Jerome.
‘Stay dead, Jerome,’ he muttered.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love his stepbrother – he did, but Jerome had stolen Sophie Delancré from under his nose four years ago and he wasn’t going to allow Jerome’s ever-present ghost to steal a second opportunity for Louis to have Sophie as his wife and get his hands on her wealth. She needed proof. He had turned this over in his mind repeatedly, recalling the bargain. She would wear his ring if he would help her to prove Jerome was no longer alive.
‘That’s the goal, then,’ he said to the shifting humanity in the streets below him: mainly women, but plenty of military men and senior male government workers. He should be behind his desk, but he was too distracted today, too edgy, and that needed to change if he was to think clearly.
He saw a flash of red and followed it, the wearer of that coat. Marie. A whore who would soothe his edginess for a couple of francs and some wine. He licked his lips. Yes, Marie would help clear his thoughts on how to keep Jerome dead.
8
REIMS
May 26, 1918
There was excitement in Reims and Sophie was feeling it as much as the doctors, the nurses and the other hospital volunteers. The arrival of their special visitors from Paris had caused the surge in spirits.
Dr Langevin was the most excited of all. ‘Head of the physics laboratory at the Sorbonne,’ he said. ‘A woman!’ he added, as though it were blasphemous. Sophie knew the doctor did not mean to sound the way he did. She understood he was deeply impressed by this scientist. ‘She took over from her husband as Professor of General Physics in the Faculty of Sciences after he died – the first woman ever.’ Sophie wanted to laugh at how aghast he sounded.
‘Be careful, Dr Langevin, there may be a woman president one day.’
He shook his head and she wasn’t sure whether this gesture was one of alarm or admiration. It didn’t matter. What she did know about Madame Marie Curie was what mattered right in this moment, which was that the famous scientist had kept her promise and brought her mobile X-ray machine
to Reims. That she had responded to Sophie’s invitation so promptly was a blessing they all celebrated. Now they knew exactly where the bullet was located in the young French soldier recently brought in, and Langevin was preparing to operate on him; they could see precisely where the bone was broken in the leg of one of the Algerians, which meant it had been set properly, maybe even allowing him to go back to his unit within a couple of months. Most of the townsfolk had come to the surface and gathered to cheer the arrival of the famous scientist, and Sophie was able to offer a brief welcome of her own to Madame Curie and her daughter, Irène.
‘Hello again, Marie.’ The two women had hugged with genuine affection. ‘Thank you both for coming – and I hope you got your new car,’ she whispered as she embraced her elder over the mayor’s formal welcome.
‘Arrived last week,’ the woman replied, smiling beatifically. ‘Thank you.’
Now they were sitting underground after the two visitors had spent a full day with patients in the hospital.
‘We have a concert tomorrow night, if you can make it?’
‘Underground?’
Sophie grinned and shrugged.
‘Well, well, Madame Delancré, you are full of surprises and innovation. You should get a medal!’
‘It’s nearing ten-thirty. What am I thinking, keeping you up so late, sipping champagne?’
‘Do you see me complaining?’
They both laughed. ‘I should let you go to your accommodations. I’m sorry I can’t host you at my house. I do believe it’s too dangerous and I’d rather have you both far from the range of the guns.’
‘We understand and are grateful for your consideration, Sophie. Please don’t apologise. But the guns are so quiet . . . I think your concert tomorrow evening will go uninterrupted.’
Sophie nodded in agreement and yet it never paid to take the silence for granted; nearly four years of war had taught her that much.
It had been a mild spring evening that stayed light for hours, but night was finally closing in and the chill of darkness was stealing across them. Charlie’s company had been moved up to the front line to relieve their regiment’s 6th Battalion and they were settled in now.
The landscape he could see was hilly and still lush from the thaw of winter, with none of the bleakness of Flanders. He wondered if Belgium would ever recover from the devastation of war. Here the forest was intact and there were woods at the top of one of the higher rises, but that’s where the German position was strongest; the enemy had an overarching view of whatever the Allies chose to do. He couldn’t imagine that even the most optimistic general could view their situation as one to win from. So Charlie began to accept that he, and all these men bunkered down in trenches, were simply more fodder – for the time being a deterrent rather than any sort of genuine threat to the Germans. For now, he was absently grateful that their enemy had seemingly lost interest in reaching Paris via Reims. All was quiet and the real fighting was in Belgium . . . the other route into France. It had been so calm since they arrived in the region – and while Charlie had no reason to think that would change, he nevertheless possessed a sense of disquiet. He assured himself this was just his duty kicking in; it was his job as captain to be alert and in a position to think through all the possibilities for his men should fighting break out. He was likely being over-analytical, given the lack of fighting for weeks. Even so, he considered the Aisne Canal and how it could help and yet hinder them. It felt like a protective ring to their backs, but that same protection could become a burden should they need to retreat.
Retreat, however, was not on anyone else’s mind, as far as he could tell. The mood was genuinely jovial as the weather was so warm, even with a threat of storm. He’d heard some rolls of low thunder a couple of days ago, which at first everyone had naturally presumed was a resumption of shelling, but no, it had been a grumbling overhead that amounted to little more than a single flash in the far distance and then all was quiet again. The change of scenery had achieved a dramatic change in the men, reflected in their laughter, and the undisturbed evenings meant his company helplessly relaxed. They began to play cards, tell stories, reminisce about life in England, sweethearts they intended to marry at the first chance, and the yearning for the taste of an English pint. It was small, domestic, healthy talk of men looking towards a future again. Charlie didn’t share their optimism because the silence to him felt ominous . . . prophetic, even, similar to what could be experienced before a natural disaster. He wasn’t sure what he even meant with that thought.
‘Want to pick one, Captain Nash?’ One of the blokes shuffling cards interrupted his thoughts. A cigarette hung lazily from the corner of his mouth. He had been performing tricks to amuse the fellows around him.
‘You carry on, Green. I’m not as gullible as the other lads here.’
Guffaws and sounds of mock offence erupted and even Charlie smiled in response to his quip.
‘What’s on your mind, sir?’ one of the older men wondered, sidling up.
He regarded Davies, a man he liked and respected for his calming influence on the others. Davies offered him a sip of something from a hipflask.
Nash frowned. ‘What’s this?’
‘Cognac,’ Davies said with glee. ‘Delicious stuff, Captain . . . I bought it a few days ago over in Trigny. Never tasted it before.’
He sipped out of politeness. It was rich and syrupy with fumes that zoomed into his nose and to the back of his throat. ‘That’s strong.’
‘Good, though.’ Davies winked. ‘Just a little nip each night before I turn in.’
‘Not too sleepy, I hope,’ Nash warned, but there was no real accusation in his tone.
They stared into the darkness in shared silence.
Finally, Davies murmured again. ‘You look worried, sir. What’s on your mind?’
He didn’t mean to spill precisely what he was thinking, but out it came. ‘I was remembering geography lessons at school.’
‘Oh, yes?’
He gave a small gust of a laugh. ‘The lesson that most of us found fascinating in an otherwise boring subject was connected with the continental drift.’
‘You’re losing me, sir,’ Davies admitted.
‘How our great land masses are in motion.’
‘I see, sir,’ Davies said, sounding as though he regretted walking over and even more deeply regretted asking the question. He clearly had no idea what his captain was banging on about.
Charlie picked up on the man’s lack of interest, but it didn’t stop him talking. He’d begun now and it felt easier than the silence. He gestured the action with his hands without even looking at his companion. ‘Land masses shift, crash into each other, break away . . . this all happens over millennia, of course, but there are some fascinating observations of mountain ranges, for instance, on different continents being capable of a perfect fit . . . like a jigsaw.’ He knitted his fingers.
‘That so, sir?’
He was aware of Davies looking around for escape. He should let him go.
‘Enough of my schoolboy reminiscences, Davies. Carry on – I think our card sharp has another trick underway.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ Davies sounded relieved, touched his temple in a sort of salute. ‘Sleep well, sir.’
‘Thanks, Davies . . . and for the cognac.’ The man grinned and turned away, moving further into the trench where the fun was.
Nash couldn’t let go of his thoughts of continental drift, and the fact he’d learned that earthquakes at the seabed could create tsunamis.
Charlie looked around, noting that most of the men had turned in, except the sentries, of course . . . and him. They dozed where they’d been seated, leaning against each other, while some had created enough space to lie down. He turned his back to them, watching the forest on the high ground. His mind returned to tsunamis and the curiosity of a sudden tense silence beforehand.
An oddly tense silence. That’s how it felt now. He wished Davies were still alongside
him so he could make his point.
‘It’s too quiet,’ he murmured beneath his breath. It was, to Charlie, the archetypal pregnant pause, as though this silence foreshadowed something significant about to occur. He let his thoughts run free. The birds already know the wave is coming, because even the night birds and nocturnal creatures have gone eerily silent.
Charlie checked the time. It was one minute to 1 a.m.
She should have been asleep hours ago, having hugged Marie farewell, but she was restless and Sophie had long ago taught herself to be productive if sleep didn’t come easily – it became a time for letter-writing, making a list of errands or accounting . . . that last one always helped her to achieve sleep. These days she was normally bone-weary and sleep couldn’t come fast enough but there was the occasion, like now, when it eluded her. And yet nothing in particular felt like it was hankering for her attention. If anything, this had been one of the war’s better days – no fighting, no bloodshed, no queue of fresh injured needing immediate attention or beds they couldn’t find. It had been a day of smiles and inspiration, so why did she feel agitated?
Was she feeling guilty that she hadn’t offered to host the Curies in the city mansion? She tested this question and came back with a clear conscience. No, it was too dangerous to have them sleep here. Granted, there was no shelling, not even the sporadic gunfire that occurred from time to time. But why take the chance with important people who are making a difference in this war? she had reasoned. She’d kept the invitation trapped in her throat and felt content that her decision was wise when she embraced the two women and bid them a quiet sleep in a house far from any immediate threat.
Sophie hugged a dressing gown around herself. It wasn’t especially cold, but it felt comforting as she walked over to the window that overlooked the furthest edge of Reims and stared out across to her vineyards. All was as well as it could be. No flashes, no explosions, no bullets whizzing. Allied soldiers and German soldiers were all safe this evening, she thought.
The Champagne War Page 12