‘No one’s sure. Some say it’s from the Bible, others from the mud that horses kick up as they gallop down the winning straight,’ he began and then waved a hand. ‘And there are other stories, I’m sure. But it’s habit.’
They shared a smile and sipped in tandem. He waited for several heartbeats, holding his excited breath until after a long pause a smile curled on Sophie’s face in a spiral of pleasure – finding her dimples, reaching her eyes and fuelling her voice, which sounded as breathless as he felt.
‘Oh, Charlie.’ She sipped again, savouring it. ‘If only you knew how much more this means now than it did a few days ago. You clever, clever chemist.’
‘How so?’
‘It’s a miracle,’ she admitted, shaking her head in awe. ‘I dared you to work magic and you have. And you might just have saved me from my fate.’
‘Louis?’
She nodded and he could sense the excitement rising within her, and also relief – they were like twin columns suddenly supporting her. ‘If we can pull this off, I can return his sugar . . . and his ring.’
‘Then do both, because I promise we can make this work,’ he said, all grievances set aside. ‘Tell me what you’re tasting. I need to understand from the winemaker’s perspective.’
She lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. ‘It is highly personal, of course. This wine is a deity, don’t forget.’ His expression eased into a smile as he leaned against the wall of the shed and relaxed into her description. ‘She is sinuous in her flavour and that gives her sensuality on my tongue. I’m tasting a complex, sophisticated and suave aroma of acacia with notes of lime tree flowers – bright and lively. But after a moment or two that vividness calms to give an impression of mirabelle.’ At Charlie’s slight frown, she explained. ‘These are tiny yellow plums, and that quality provides a smooth, velvety flavour.’ Sophie took another sip. ‘Mmm, my beautiful goddess is here – there’s a superb finish to this, with a full flavour of fresh citrussy fruit. The ratafia has added a beautiful depth.’
‘Now encapsulate all of that into a few words,’ Charlie encouraged her, ‘because that’s how you’ll sell it.’
She paused, eyes still closed, allowing the memory of her sip of the champagne to resonate. ‘This champagne when it’s matured and rounded off holds for the drinker the last days of summer and the warmth of her flavours.’
He smiled. ‘Now name it.’
‘It can only be called “The Immortal”.’ She gazed at him tenderly. ‘I don’t know what to say . . . how to thank —’
He shook his head. ‘Let this solution be my thank you,’ he said, becoming serious. ‘For looking after me. For rescuing me.’
‘Rescuing you?’
‘From myself. I feel there’s a life ahead of me now. I wish it could be with you but I’ve made my peace with that, Sophie. Perhaps in a year or two you may wish to see me again if . . . well, you know. What I do care about more than anything is that you do not have to capitulate to Louis, and you can now follow your heart and achieve this special vintage and honour your husband . . . honour those who have fallen, and celebrate the war’s end. I know he would be very proud of you. I’m thrilled you can make your champagne this year and that in a tiny way I have contributed to it.’ He could see her eyes glistening with tears and couldn’t bear to make her sad when they should be celebrating. ‘Come on,’ he urged, hoping to rally her. ‘Tell me again how clever I am.’
It was the right strategy. She grinned and turned away to taste again. ‘Well, the alcohol is a bit high . . . we need to adjust, but yes, yes, the sugar from the ratafia will do the work I need to produce this year’s vintage. It has a slightly different flavour but I don’t think that matters; its fruit was harvested in wartime but it delivered itself to us in peace. This will be corked properly, labelled and sold in peacetime. I can’t think of a more emotionally charged vintage.’
They stared at each other in wonder at the achievement. Sophie let out a small screech of happiness and Charlie laughed; he was not expecting her to put down her glass and, without warning, fling her arms around him.
‘Sophie . . .’
‘Be quiet.’ She shook her head as if not permitting herself to question her motives.
Charlie was too shocked, though. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
He frowned. ‘I thought . . .’
‘So did I. But Charlie, I realise that I can’t spend the rest of my life being faithful to someone who is no longer in my life. He didn’t choose to die. I didn’t choose for him to go to war. Life chose our pathway. No one’s to blame. But everyone has been so sad for four years. Now it’s time for peace and a chance for all of us to start new journeys. Why is remaining unhappy and lonely the best course? You’re leaving in a few days because I’m insisting on remaining dutiful. Well, I’m tired of being dutiful. I’m suddenly excited beyond all belief . . . I can start my life again and it’s not with Louis, it’s with a man I love. That’s what my darling Jerome would want from me . . . to love again. I was about to let go of the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time – over a sense of duty. No. Standing here, unable to say goodbye, I demand of myself to be happy again. And I’m always happy when I’m with you.’
‘Except when you’re slapping me.’
‘Charlie . . .’
‘I’m joking.’ He searched her face, unsure of what to say. He felt a sense of disbelief at her shift in thinking, but also despair. ‘I have to go, you understand this, yes?’
She nodded. ‘I know. But you will come back to me, won’t you?’
Was this really happening? She was in his arms again; he wasn’t imagining it. They’d both followed the right course, the respectful one, the responsible one, but Sophie was right – they were acting entirely out of respect for the past rather than looking towards the joy of a future. ‘Sophie, are you sure?’
She let her darkly golden lashes close and kissed him lightly, waiting . . . letting him decide now. Charlie felt the lightly scabbed wound over his heart reopening. It was a chasm but he let himself fall fully into it. It was a dizzying feeling but he pulled her tighter and their kiss deepened and lingered until all questions of hesitation were fully answered.
27
LAUSANNE
Late August 1918
Jerome stood at the shoreline of Lake Geneva and stared towards France, and the commune of Évian-les-Bains, a spa town that lured wealthy holiday-makers, including his own family. When he was a boy, Jerome’s mother had brought him and his brother to visit an aunt of hers who lived among other villas near the lakeshore. Until now he’d not permitted himself to let France sit in his thoughts for any length of time, particularly as it had not occurred to him that he would return. He had thought Death’s cool arms were waiting for him in Switzerland and yet today he would leave on the train to be repatriated as a hero of France, returning triumphantly home. Except, as far as the authorities were concerned, he was not Jerome Méa returning, but a man called Jacques Bouchon.
He looked at the pamphlet that he’d been handed moments ago by his nurse. It carried a farewell from his Swiss hosts, wishing him a happy life and no doubt a full heart at returning to his homeland.
‘Tell me again what you said,’ he urged. ‘Please, Agatha.’
She sighed and repeated the telephone conversation she’d had with Louis, for the third time.
‘And you say the line went dead?’
‘Yes, quite strange as we had a surprisingly clear line to speak on.’
‘It was definitely my brother?’
‘He confirmed twice that his name was Louis Méa.’
‘Couldn’t have been a friend?’
She shook her head. ‘Well, unless that friend lied . . . twice.’
‘No, no, you’re right. Well, the war might be coming to an end but that doesn’t mean the telephone lines are any better. Perhaps more crowded than ever,’ he said, and her gaze suggested he was being hopeful. But t
hat’s all he had, and he would cling to that. ‘Thank you, Agatha. I owe you a dance if you don’t mind a twirl with a one-armed, one-eyed, limping prisoner.’
Her radiant smile told him she didn’t mind at all. One day soon he was going to ask the woman he loved the same question. For now, he would think on his brother’s pleasure at hearing the news and Sophie’s disbelieving joy when he passed it on. That was going to be his new daydream – imagining the scene as Louis passed on the revelation; the tears, the smiles, the squeals as they hugged each other with joy.
Sophie believed that her heart, for the first time in an age, felt the lightest she could remember. It wasn’t just the war imploding on itself now as the Allies ran rampant over German forces; the darkest hour, as it was coming to be known, was past them. And her darkest hour was past her. Jerome was gone. He was dead. Finally, she felt ready to accept it and prepared to begin the slow but steady steps that would move her on. And while she would always privately grieve his loss, the rest of her life stretched out far ahead. Deliberately remaining lonely in memory of someone was pointless. She was reminded of Veuve Clicquot, whom many cherished as the first woman of Champagne. Her husband had died when she was about the same age as Sophie, but she had a daughter to love and raise . . . to live for. The other person who inspired her, Louise Pommery, lost her husband and took over his business when she was forty-one. Sophie thought if she were a dozen years older, she might not be thinking about remarriage and starting a family either.
No, her situation was individual and she was making a decision based on her circumstances, rather than how others might perhaps think she should lead her life. She did not view it as romantic to cut herself off from life’s joys simply to be seen as a righteous widow.
She broke free of Charlie’s kiss, relaxing into his arms, and sighed herself free of her rambling thoughts. This felt right.
‘Sophie,’ he whispered, his voice croaky with desire. ‘Can I see you tonight?’ She knew what that would mean.
She nodded. She wasn’t going to analyse this but simply respond to her feelings. ‘Yes. I want to see you too. Come to the house. There are only a couple of people remaining on the ground floor. I’ll give my housekeeper the night off.’
‘May I stay? I daren’t let you go.’
She smiled. ‘I want you to stay, and then I can let you go and do whatever you have to do before you come back to me for good.’
‘This is real, isn’t it?’ he said, and pinched himself to make her smile.
‘Yes, Charlie – as real as the war ending. I don’t know how long it will take but we must all work hard to put back the structure in our lives that we all had. Reims will have to be rebuilt and that will take many years, but the notion of having shops reopening and people being able to move around freely, without fear, will be a novelty. I’m imagining the pleasure of schools welcoming back pupils, and soon the banks will reopen and we will no longer have to use emergency banknotes. We have so much work ahead of us here in Épernay too, rebuilding the vineyards that have been destroyed. And remind me to smash down the fake wall that Gaston suggested I build behind the parlour.’ His eyes widened. ‘There’s another in one of the animal sheds, to house Delancré’s most prized collection.’ She smiled, recalling how Gaston had shown her how to mislabel the bottles to protect her most precious vintages and cuvees. ‘And I have a life to look forward to again . . . with you.’
He hugged her and she felt him bury his face in her neck and they stood like that, in silence, for a full minute, savouring what those words meant for both of them.
‘I love you, Sophie,’ Charlie said, finally breaking the embrace. ‘I have never said that to anyone, unless you include a pet snail that I kept outside beneath the window next to my bed. I admit, I really did love Ermintrude but that love pales in comparison to how I feel about you.’
‘I’m honoured,’ she admitted, laughing, stroking his face. ‘Beautiful, funny, clever Charlie. What a lucky girl I am to have found you. I think you’ve just saved my life.’
‘You saved your own. The ratafia was always yours.’
‘But it took a soldier and former chemist to make that clever connection. Thank you for saving my life, Charlie. I can’t wait to tell Louis I don’t need his sugar.’
‘Or his ring. Wear my ring, Sophie. Marry me if you’re going to marry anyone again.’
She kissed him, slow and tender. ‘Only you, Charlie. Tonight I’ll prove it.’ She gave him a look of wickedness that didn’t need a verbal response for her to know how that made him feel. The throb of desire against her made her giggle helplessly. What a power it was that women held over men.
‘Can I even make it to tonight?’ he groaned.
‘You have to,’ she said, delighting in teasing him by deliberately pulling away from his body.
Charlie gave a small roar as though having to test the warrior within. ‘All right, then. I need distraction. Now is the moment that Sophie Delancré makes her dream come true. Let’s begin making the new champagne with the ratafia using only chardonnay.’
She gave a sobering swallow. ‘You know I will be risking my most precious chardonnay wine?’
It was rhetorical but he answered anyway. ‘Of course I do but risk it, Sophie. You have everything to gain. It will work, I promise.’
Their gazes met and held as she grappled with the idea that had been in her heart for so long now it was a part of her. It was her secret, her private treasure that she took out to admire from time to time. But she’d always put it back, locked it away, left it alone – until the next time. Charlie was making it sound so real, so achievable . . . so terrifying. What if it was a disaster? What if the ratafia and the all-chardonnay champagne was a failure, a complete misjudgement? Would her abortive effort make her the butt of laughter in champagne circles? Would the men of champagne be able to nod in her direction and make remarks about why they don’t like women meddling in their business?
Well, to hell with that! came sharper voices – women’s voices. It was Veuve Clicquot and Madame Pommery, laughing at her lack of nerve. And she knew they were right to scorn her. ‘We took risks,’ they chorused. ‘You must be brave to achieve surprise in this industry – to gain more respect. It’s harder for a woman but you have our shoulders to stand on.’
Heavens! She was going to do this. It felt so suddenly right, and besides, all those men were busy struggling with how to make their champagnes without sugar. She was the fortunate one.
‘Tell me how an all-chardonnay champagne might taste,’ Charlie said, taking her hand, entwining fingers, no doubt aware of the internal battle raging, wanting to help deflect her fear.
It was the right question.
‘Ah,’ she sighed in a tone as if she’d just slipped into a warm bath. She let go of his gentle hold as an indulgent smile creased her expression and she closed her eyes to imagine for him. ‘Bright on the palate, a sense of dazzling lightness but not quite that specific. She will give up her gifts gradually. First a hint of brioche that comes through as a buttery quality, which eases away to deliver a flavour of dried fruit, and then just as you’re being seduced by that richness, you’ll be surprised by the crisp pleasure of citrus. It will feel supple in your mouth – there’s no better way to describe the sensation – it could go anywhere, depending on her mood, and most importantly, on yours.’
‘What does that mean?’
She opened her eyes briefly to regard him. ‘Well, Charlie, if you were feeling low, she would give a different taste sensation than if you were in love, for instance. It is individual, as well – your gloom and my gloom might make her taste differently on our palates.’
‘I’m betting our love might taste the same, though?’
She gave him a lazy smile and closed her eyes again. ‘But my chardonnay champagne will always finish on a mineral note because that’s her strength. The goddess knows from where she’s come . . . she respects the chalk soils and the limestone caves that have nurtured her. And
then she will finish lively on your tongue in a refreshing spritz.’
‘I want to taste that,’ he pleaded and made her laugh.
‘I haven’t told you about her bubbles yet.’
He reached around her waist but Sophie twisted away playfully, more strands coming loose from her chignon, giving her such a wanton look she suspected Charlie wanted to make love to her right now. How close she was to losing herself entirely to his love: feeling their whole bodies against one another, all of their skin touching, Charlie inside her, and moving together in a way that made everything else in life seem irrelevant for a while.
‘The bubbles are petite and so finely chiselled they are like ballerinas on the palate, rising elegantly through the wine, linking hands at the surface to take a bow.’
He applauded her description, clapping awkwardly, able only to make the motion but no sound because of his sling, but nonetheless with genuine pleasure at how well she had described her imaginary wine. ‘We are going to make this wine,’ he insisted, and this time she let him encircle her waist and pull her close to kiss her with longing. ‘Make it, Sophie. Follow your dream.’
‘We shall do it together, Charlie. We shall make love tonight and tomorrow we shall make champagne.’
Crazily but hilariously, they began to sway in a dance to music they alone heard. It felt dizzily romantic and as he gently spun her, Sophie’s gaze landed on some war gazettes stacked neatly in an open cupboard. ‘Charlie,’ she murmured, intrigued. ‘What are those?’
They stopped moving and he followed her gaze.
‘They’re gazettes. Do you remember I told you I met someone who said he was going to help with the clearing parties that are making France safe, reclaiming our boys?’ He shrugged. ‘I was thinking about joining him in that important work . . . if he made it.’ He nodded at the newspaper she’d picked up. ‘I scan for his name each week.’
Sophie left his arms to reach for one of the gazettes, looking confused. ‘I’ve not seen this one before.’
The Champagne War Page 32