The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘No, not at all. I’m grateful.’

  ‘Does it feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘Surprisingly comfortable,’ he acknowledged. ‘I think it could be tightened, but for now I think it’s fine. I mean, it’s rather splendid with its polished buckles, and the craftsmanship is exacting, very beautiful, but my hand is still unable to do anything.’

  ‘But it might! Give yourself time, Charlie. I accept, as I presume you must, that your hand may not function again as it did, but if we can strengthen it, the body is an amazing structure – it can heal, rebuild itself in so many ways. Remember, the bones had to be straightened, repaired, and tendons had to be reconnected. There’s healing to be done. For now, you have to be patient and we are going to do lots of exercises to keep you strong so you can heal.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as turning bottles in my cellars for dexterity.’ She grinned. ‘There are thousands, as I’ve warned you.’

  He liked the idea of working with the champagne. ‘I’d be so glad to. What else?’

  ‘Hmm, well, you can learn how to lift the vines – that work is always plentiful at this time, so you can get some strength back into your whole body . . . use your good arm.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, tasting, of course.’ She saw him look at her lips, lingering a heartbeat too long, and then turn away quickly. ‘Er, so we might test this hand regularly in lifting a champagne glass for tastings.’ She grinned and knew he saw it was defensive. ‘If we can make champagne this year, that is.’

  ‘Show me the rest,’ he said, gesturing towards the other box. She placed his braced arm back in his own lap and stood up. His arm felt more complete for the tightness of the brace. He could swear he felt the nerves jangling in his useless hand, fingers like ghostly extensions, yet all the same aching to touch her again.

  She returned with the second box. ‘Ready?’ Sophie flipped open the lid to reveal seven implements, each exquisitely crafted in the same polished steel, finely rendered to lock into the end of the brace and offer useful assistance: everything from a knife, a fork and a spoon to a tool for holding a pad. ‘Look, there’s even a small hammer,’ she pointed. ‘I’m not sure why you’d need it but it’s there.’ She sounded nervous again.

  ‘Blimey,’ Charlie said and gave a soft whistle.

  ‘The hook is a bit fearful, I’ll admit,’ she continued, touching it.

  ‘Useful, though.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course.’ He lifted the glinting hook from its place in the box, studied the end momentarily and then nodded. ‘Do you see this?’ He pointed to a glimmering, beautifully fashioned half-sphere with elegant carving. She nodded, looking intrigued. ‘Well, that would fit onto the end of the brace – presumably the poor man who owned this originally had lost his hand entirely.’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘The hook and all these other helpful implements would then twist into place on that mount.’ He knew he’d used the word mountain instead of the correct word, which made her twitch a smile, but she understood and encouraged him to keep using his French with an eager nod. ‘It’s like a bayonet on a rifle,’ he said, demonstrating how easily the two ends fitted. ‘You see?’

  Charlie shifted to stand and turned the newly mounted hook in his working hand, so it glinted in the sunshine that was slanting into the room. ‘He must have felt like a . . .’ He didn’t know the word for pirate – had never had cause to use it. He said ‘sailor’ in the end, but it lost the point of the humour. He tried again but found himself in English. ‘Buccaneer?’ She shook her head, perplexed.

  Charlie took a step away from the chair and mimicked brandishing a cutlass. He covered one eye in another attempt at a pirate cliché. ‘You know, sailors who steal from other ships . . . er, er, oh yes, how about corsaire?’

  ‘Ah!’ She looked gleeful.

  Charlie swished his make-believe blade with his hook.

  She laughed at his swashbuckling. ‘You look very handsome brandishing your hook, Charlie. I wonder what it was used for?’

  ‘Oh, I can think of several uses.’

  ‘Such as?’ She was still smiling from the levity of the scene, perhaps relieved that he liked his new hand, and in that moment Charlie felt like his old self, the one who had been charming, amusing, good company for women. And so it was with shock at his own recklessness that he responded not only audaciously but with so much risk that even a regular gambler might have rejected the odds.

  But Charlie continued because he had always taken risks. Perhaps it was the orphan in him, who knew that unless he did, the world would push him down because no one else was looking out for him. He didn’t dare count the risks he’d taken in the fray of battle, any one of them able to blot out his life in a heartbeat. And yet what he did now took all of his courage – he had never felt more vulnerable as he tipped his gaze back to Sophie.

  ‘Such as this,’ he said, daring to snare the gleaming hook into her belt, and pulled her towards him. ‘In order to do this,’ he said; the hitch in his voice was all about desire.

  Astonishingly, Sophie Delancré did not resist.

  Is this really happening? was Charlie’s final thought as he tentatively closed the gap between them. Their lips touched, both of them hesitant initially. The kiss was soft, not fleeting, but he didn’t want to risk lingering. He pulled back slightly, looking with longing, searching for permission, but it was Sophie now who led the way, those slim arms of hers looping around his neck and not only giving him sanction, but showing that she would be their guide into this unknown territory.

  ‘I’ve imagined kissing your lovely lips since the first hour I was alone with you,’ she admitted softly, sounding aghast at herself. ‘I feel so guilty . . . ashamed of myself.’

  Charlie smiled, filled with happy disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Matron wouldn’t approve.’

  They both let out embarrassed chuckles.

  ‘Sophie . . . it’s been three years, hasn’t it? No word? No sighting? No information?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Dare I say that this is more like potential for life beyond war – and I wouldn’t flatter myself that it’s with me, but that you can glimpse a new way ahead . . . that you don’t have to be lonely, or a widow. And enjoying others is not a betrayal.’

  He couldn’t tell if she was convinced but it was Sophie who encouraged him, pulled him close again, as if she could no longer resist her own desires. He let go, gave himself over to her, and couldn’t imagine a happier place to land than into her kiss.

  16

  It wasn’t planned. But deep in her heart Sophie knew she needed to confront the truth that she’d felt a strong attraction to Captain Nash the day Gaston had sent his curious river find to Reims in an ambulance.

  And now here she was with the same soldier, his healthy arm wrapped around her waist, his injured hand saved by a talented surgeon and her determination to keep him whole. Then there were those lips, which had been so inviting on her first proper look at him. They had borne out their promise, not that she would have believed a fortnight ago she’d test that potential. They were pillowy soft against hers and his kiss was tender, not searching, as she had imagined the kiss of a man starved of affection. He was holding back, allowing her to decide how far this episode went and at what speed.

  He turned his head and his lashes brushed the top of her cheek. Curiously, that feathery touch felt more intimate than any other romantic experience of her life. It seemed to sum him up: so gentle, so light, it was as though he might disappear.

  The very thought of kissing a man other than Jerome had felt abhorrent, especially with Louis now firmly making his push for marriage. The idea of him touching her intimately enough to make a child was so revolting, she had to put the image out of her mind. And yet look at her, carelessly giving her affection to a stranger. But until a few moments ago no man except Jerome had made her catch her breath �
�� and in that moment, as Charlie risked making that daring move, she felt clarity arrive. It warned her that unless she opened herself to others, she would never kiss again. Charlie was right: it was not a betrayal. Jerome used to say that mouths were for kissing, not arguing, whenever they disagreed. Of all people, she knew he would be disappointed if she gave up the potential for love and laughter simply in his honour; in a way her loyalty to a dead man dishonoured his gregarious, life-loving personality.

  Charlie withdrew again and rested his forehead against hers.

  ‘Sophie, as mad as this sounds, this scares me more than war,’ he whispered in French.

  ‘What are you scared of?’ She didn’t mention that she felt the same.

  ‘Losing this,’ he replied, touching the left side of his breast. ‘I’ve never had anything much to lose before.’

  Sophie didn’t mean to let a smile drift into her expression. ‘You’ve never loved a girl, Charlie?’

  He shrugged, earnest as ever. ‘Only from afar.’

  ‘She never knew?’

  ‘All the boys loved her.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  She was expecting him to have been in his late teens, a gorgeous youth too shy to approach the girl of his dreams. ‘Six.’

  ‘Six!’ She exploded into laughter.

  ‘You shouldn’t laugh. It was a serious love.’

  ‘No adult?’

  ‘Not if you don’t count the crush on our school nurse, Miss Peabody.’

  ‘I won’t. But I cannot believe you’ve not had a meaningful relationship.’

  ‘Plenty of dating, some that lasted long enough to be considered a relationship. None were women I felt strongly enough about that I could see myself spending my life loving them. I think I loved my work too much . . . until I didn’t and then I was off to war.’

  Why him? Why this Englishman? She could imagine Gaston saying it; she could certainly imagine Louis almost spitting on the ground at her feet if he learned of this. You’ve been so strong, so committed to Jerome in his absence for years. Why now? It was Charlie who answered that question pounding in her thoughts.

  ‘You’ve saved my life in every way,’ he admitted.

  And that was it. She was someone’s hero.

  ‘That’s dramatic,’ she answered, although she was excited by his remark. It felt like a new life beckoning.

  ‘I thought I wanted to die so many times and that’s because I had nothing to live for. You’ve made me want to live again.’

  There it was. Charlie’s words summed up her feelings.

  She kissed him again to show him how much his words meant, and that she felt the same. She pulled at his unruly hair and hugged him as close as two bodies could be. And then she broke the kiss abruptly as shame threatened to overwhelm her. Guilt wagged a finger at her from behind the English soldier.

  ‘I must get back, Charlie. People are waiting in the cellars. Come on, I’ll give you some work to do.’

  The Gazette des Ardennes rustled again beneath their feet as they reluctantly pulled away from each other.

  They emerged from the attic room, looking like guilty children.

  ‘I want to stay up there forever,’ Charlie whispered in French, just as one of the young hospital aides came running upstairs.

  Sophie let go of Charlie’s fingers as if stung.

  ‘Slow down, Marie,’ Sophie urged the aide. ‘Has something happened?’

  The youngster’s gaze locked onto Sophie with relief. She sounded breathless, as though she’d run up the pathway to the house as well as the various flights of stairs. ‘Commandant de Saint Just is here, madame. He can only stay a short while. He asked me to find you quickly.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll come right away,’ she replied brightly. ‘I think Captain Nash needs his arm bound in a sling by day, and in this brace by night. Can you organise that for me?’

  ‘Yes, madame. Shall I cut up another sheet?’

  ‘We’re out of slings and bandages already?’

  The girl nodded. Sophie sighed and unravelled the scarf she wore habitually.

  She handed it towards Marie. ‘Use this.’

  ‘Oh, madame, if you please, I —’ Marie began.

  ‘I have others,’ she said, dismissing the concern with a wave of her hand. ‘Besides, it will make a perfectly soft sling.’ She cast a glance backwards at him. ‘I’m glad that brace works for you, Captain,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Come to the cellars later. Always work for you there.’

  And with that she was gliding down the stairs, disappearing from his view.

  Part Two

  17

  HEIDELBERG, GERMANY

  June 1918

  The new young guard looked at the prisoner in surprise. ‘How come you speak good German, Bouchon? Convenient to have you as a translator, of course.’

  The man who had become known as Jacques Bouchon shrugged. ‘I must have learned it.’

  ‘You use our slang well, so you have obviously spoken it since you were young.’

  ‘Perhaps my family lived on the border. I have no memories of my past.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he admitted, in a slightly grudging tone. ‘I get flashes. Voices in my dreams. I sometimes have snaps of scenes in my mind like single photographs, but they leave as fast as they arrive.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t hang on to them.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘There’s a woman.’

  Rolf’s eyes widened with intrigue. He laughed suggestively.

  ‘I never see her face, but she has dark golden hair to here,’ Jacques said, tapping a finger just below his shoulder. ‘It’s thick and it shines glimpses of fire when the sun catches it . . . and I hear her voice. It’s slightly raspy.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘I can’t hear the words, but she beckons to me. I see other people now and then but they’re all strangers in my mind.’

  ‘You’re lucky that other French soldier recognised you as an officer or you’d have been sent to a much tougher prison.’

  Jacques nodded. ‘I wish he’d lived and I could have asked more, but he was vague even in his recognition of me. He knew me as an officer and said he thought I was Jacques but he had no surname; it was hard enough to get that much from him. I’m grateful but I don’t trust it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t feel like a Breton.’

  His companion laughed.

  ‘And if I am, why am I not speaking the language of Brittany?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m German! You’ve probably forgotten it. The shock they talk about in the trenches took it away.’

  ‘But left me with French, German, English? Pfft!’ he said dismissively.

  Being able to translate had made him popular with everyone, especially the German guards, who between them had very little English. There were no other French prisoners left here.

  ‘I was in Belgium,’ Jacques explained, taking a drag on the final centimetre of his cigarette.

  ‘Gassed?’

  ‘You can tell?’ he asked the guard, expelling smoke into the air.

  ‘Your cough,’ Rolf admitted. ‘I recognise it from others. It was far worse in the prison I worked at before. That cough of yours is not from the tobacco. It is distinctive. What did gassing feel like?’

  ‘What a callous question.’ Jacques shook his head with a soft smirk. ‘I wouldn’t even wish it on my enemies. Curiously, it’s something I do remember. It burned my throat and I felt like I would suffocate and die there in the mud, gasping for breath.’ He gave another shrug. ‘I was one of the lucky ones to survive but I was told the best I could hope for was damaged lungs for life and being susceptible to respiratory problems. It may still kill me.’

  The man looked curious rather than moved. He drew deeply on his own cigarette and changed the subject. ‘Why are you with the English, not with your own men? If you are French?’

  Jacques sighed, looked away
from the freckled face of his jailer and took a final drag before stamping out the butt. Rolf was one of the kinder ones: he was new, and Jacques suspected he would rather be out drinking beer and hunting for female company than standing in a makeshift prison.

  ‘I only know what I’ve been told,’ he said. ‘Everything else remains lost to me.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been told, then. I have nothing important to be doing and I’m about to run out of cigarettes.’

  Jacques hugged his arms around himself. It probably couldn’t hurt to strengthen his relationship with any of the guards. He couldn’t know when he’d need to lean on the thin friendship, or more likely when his fellow inmates might ask him to find out information. Indeed, one of the guards might spill a nugget of news that could bring them fresh optimism.

  ‘Apparently, I was caught in the gassing at Ypres three years ago, and while I survived it, I walked around in a fog and became separated from my regiment but also from the men I was in charge of – I was found alone when I was taken prisoner by your boys. As I understand it, I was half-naked, with no identification left on me. I was lost.’ He tapped his temple. ‘In here. I couldn’t make a single thought stick; I had no idea who I was. I simply followed others on the long march out of Flanders and into Germany. Someone, perhaps one of my men, seemed to know I was a lieutenant, but I couldn’t tell you who that was because by the time I arrived here there were only a few French soldiers with me. I don’t know if they died from their injuries or whether I was carved away from them because I spoke English.’ Jacques sighed and could tell that Rolf was still helplessly engrossed. ‘We slept in all sorts of places – I’m sure you know this?’ He was trying to avoid having to say more.

  ‘Go on. I like listening. Stops me feeling hungry,’ the young guard admitted, beaming one of his smiles. There was little enough food here for the guards, let alone the inmates. Everyone was lean, hungry on meagre rations and desperate for news from the front, especially about when this war was going to end.