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As autumn was gathering itself to take over from summer, Sophie held her traditional picnic in the nearby vineyards for her workers. The talk around the table was the rebuilding of Reims.
Charlie sat back quietly to let the conversation flow around him; this was not really his place, although curiously he had never felt more at home than here in Épernay. Sophie was finally his. What a delicious notion – not just belonging at long, long last, but looking forward to being married in the future and belonging to her. He suddenly wanted it so badly he had to look away from her happy expression as she held court. He’d not heard how the meeting with Louis went because they’d had no time to discuss it, but his enquiry had been met with a wan smile.
‘It was unpleasant, as I expected, but it is done,’ she’d said and it seemed she wished it to be left at that.
He heard her soft rebuke from the other end of the table as she responded to someone’s remark. He hated being so far away from her but to be closer would be to risk reaching under the table and squeezing her hand or offering to pour her a drink to find a reason to touch her fingers. No, he must not let her down in front of her workers until she was ready to tell them and so he kept his distance.
‘Marie, we must not complain. We have all lost people close to our hearts so we are allowed to be melancholy, but we must not set our pain above the pain of others. I heard about a town only a few days ago that had been taken, lost, and retaken by the Germans over and again since 1914. It’s been ravaged. The women have lost everyone: husbands, sons, lovers, brothers, fathers, uncles, and even sisters and mothers. They are so alone, their town destroyed. And those few women, caring for their children with so little, are talking about rebuilding. We must bear up. We grieve, yes, but we will rebuild our town, our lives, our hopes and the future for our children.’
Nods and murmurs of assent followed this.
Charlie looked around the makeshift table that had been set up haphazardly among the rowdy vines, now strewn with the remains of the picnic.
‘I wonder now what the Ministry of Food will do?’ he said to lighten the topic. ‘Their members are surely redundant.’
‘They’ve taxed everything they can,’ someone said.
‘We are starting again,’ Sophie said. ‘I heard on a recent visit to Reims that France has lost up to half of her agricultural land that she had before the war – it is ruined.’
‘Mainly in our parts,’ one of the old men said.
‘Certainly north,’ Charlie agreed, remembering that traumatised landscape. ‘It will take some years for it to recover,’ he said, grateful for the cheese and fruits they’d managed to scrounge. There was no meat at this picnic but Sophie’s workers had produced a thick, savoury broth that tasted meaty in its intensity from local mushrooms and dense beans. He had been astonished to see loaves of bread, which everyone had greedily shared, and he’d had to presume that Sophie had somehow exercised her incredible powers of persuasion within her network to find flour for those loaves. They wouldn’t taste such largesse again for a while, Charlie was sure. Their gaze met across the table, lit by a golden light from the last of the summer sun on its downward journey.
The shadows of bottles and tall pottery jugs on the table were long as the sun sat low in the sky. He had not taken off his jacket and he couldn’t be sure whether it was because he felt the chill or because he wore it properly now, not with one empty sleeve. He flexed his hand, feeling so much stronger now. The women sensed autumn’s arrival, beginning to pull their shawls more tightly around them. The canopy of crispy golden and red leaves in the vineyards would soon fall like an imperial cloak. The vines would know the right time to say farewell . . . and it was as though they were urging him to do the same. Time for their sleep. Time for the romance of summer to end. Not for him, though, because he was in love and the woman he adored loved him in return . . . so why did he feel melancholy?
Sophie surprised him out of his thoughts by tapping her glass. The sound tinkled across the vineyard and the conversations dried up quickly until all gazes were on her, including his.
‘Thank you, everyone. I’m sure we have all enjoyed this special treat in the vineyards.’ She paused while hands banged on the table and her guests smiled back indulgently. ‘Next time we gather like this, I hope I can put on a spread that harks back to the 1912 autumn feast that to date has had no equal.’ Charlie smiled to hear the cheers erupt – obviously, it had been a memorable celebration. Someone remarked about missing her annual charlotte cake. He looked over at Sophie and saw her blush at this. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, but the glance she cut towards him at those words and the way she looked back at the woman who’d spoken them to hush her caught his attention. What was that undercurrent around the table? Why was this cake so significant that Sophie didn’t want it elaborated upon? Was it Jerome? Was his ghost circling the table where they feasted?
Sophie continued quickly. ‘But now, as our vineyards become peaceful – and I mean that in every possible way . . .’ She paused as everyone applauded loudly for the end of the war. ‘I have something very important —’ she shrugged — ‘something exciting that I’d like to share with all of you because you share my life and the champagne house with me.’
People fell quiet again and she waited until there were no more murmurings.
‘Our single English soldier, who has become a familiar face and a good friend to us,’ she said, nodding his way, ‘opened a doorway for me today that previously I couldn’t see.’
Charlie blinked as the gazes now slid his way. He looked down, surprised at his self-consciousness but mostly by how much their approval mattered to him.
‘You all know our problem with not being able to make a champagne this year. I know you share the sorrow and feel it as deeply as I do that in this of all years, when we should be celebrating peace, we feel unable to produce a vintage. It is what our lives revolve around and what we’ve worked so hard for through such difficult times.’ There were nods and fresh murmurs of assent. Once again, she waited for silence. ‘Well, our own Captain Charlie Nash has come up with an idea that may – no, will – solve our dilemma for the daring all-chardonnay wine that is ready to be finally corked for sale.’
The stares intensified and there were soft noises of surprise and urgings for her to continue. Sophie wasted no time in telling them that their generous stocks of ratafia would replace the sugar they lacked for this year’s production.
Étienne smiled benignly, already in on the secret and impressed by its daring, but the quiet around the table was complete, its diners almost forming a still-life painting. Charlie could hear distant birdsong. That in itself was so special he wanted to home in on that delicious sound, which had been absent from the battlefield. Birdsong was taken too much for granted, he thought – it was only noticed when it was gone. He recognised a robin’s familiar series of whistles, which could sound particularly cheerful or just as equally plaintive. The bird’s welcome sound only magnified the stiffening silence of the people around the table.
It was Sophie who broke it. ‘Well?’
Voices exploded into the peace, drowning out the bird. Large, gnarled hands of old men smacked him on the back and women sighed and clapped modestly, smiling at him.
Sophie beamed. ‘Captain Nash, that sounds like unanimous approval.’
He cleared his throat; they couldn’t know how much their praise meant. ‘Blimey, the silence before was frightening, though.’
More laughter.
‘No one has thought of this before. It is a unique idea, Charlie, so everyone was surprised,’ Sophie explained unnecessarily but it made everyone cheer again. ‘It is such an inspirational idea that I plan to waste no time – our wine is ready and calls to us. I have tasted the trial sample he made with Étienne – thank you,’ she said, raising a glass to her elder. ‘And I plan to disgorge tomorrow. Instead of topping up the wine with sugar, I shall add only the ratafia. Everyone, please pray this
works, for all of us.’
The catcalls and cheers intensified, glasses were raised and approving glances shifted his way.
Yes, this was the life he wanted. Nothing could stop it now.
Night was falling faster now. Soon winter would be nipping in the air. She could feel its threat against the windowpane, as the coolness drifted across the landscape she loved. The negativity of her life was retreating – it was feeling easier somehow to accept that Jerome was gone; meanwhile it was a plain relief to know that Louis was gone too, and she didn’t care how much his absence would cost her. The war was fading, peace was surely imminent, and now she was permitting herself to be in love. What a release it was to cast off the shackles of grief to allow herself the thrill of anticipation. Sophie had bathed, brushed out her hair, perfumed her skin and was contemplating the wonder of allowing a man to touch her in a way she hadn’t felt in years. She was both terrified and excited.
She expected Charlie late. He had decided to go back into the cellars with Étienne to assist on a final count of the wine and ratafia bottles for tomorrow. He would be gone in a few days and then she didn’t know how long it might be before they saw each other again, so tonight was important to both of them. It would consummate their love and their intentions. They might even begin to let others know of their desire to be a couple.
Sophie looked around the attic, her private space for so many years now; it was probably time to start thinking about moving back down into the main house, although leaving here would be poignant. She’d grown used to bending beneath its rafters, the smell of the timber and the beautiful light that seemed to shimmer just for her through the dormers. Her gaze scanned the sparse furniture – not that much to move, really – and fell on the Swiss gazettes that she’d brought from Charlie’s dormitory. They were the only unfamiliar items. She switched on the single light overhead and settled back into her mother’s chair, still feeling a sense of astonishment that she had not known about the internment camps. Why? Had she become so distracted that she hadn’t paid attention, or had this news somehow escaped her?
She read through several, feeling a sense of wonder at the life these men had been allowed to enjoy as prisoners. They looked so happy in the photographs. Some had lost limbs, others wore bandages across their faces, some stood with the help of crutches, and still others appeared healthy, although she knew they likely were not. Life in the neutral zone was surely improving their health but perhaps those smiles, now that she studied them, covered the true feelings of being isolated, cut off from the soldiers with whom they’d begun the war, and confronting the reality of their personal losses.
Two of her workers – strong, wonderful women, both with children to care for – were waiting on news of lost husbands. Like Jerome, they’d simply disappeared: injured, killed, taken prisoner, no one knew any more than she did of her husband. Sophie had diligently read the prisoner gazettes published out of Germany for their names with no success. But here was a new hope, perhaps. Charlie had already confirmed Jerome was not among the internees so she was scanning only for the other men. What joy she might bring if she could find a single name. Remuer ciel et terre. It was her father’s favourite saying and she would practise it now – she would indeed move heaven and earth if it meant bringing one of her town’s lost soldiers home to his family.
She checked the date of the gazette in her hand; it was from last month, and contained photos of concerts put on by the internees. She was amused at the thought of the men in costume with brightly made-up faces. Such jollity must be healing in its own way.
Sophie found a spread of photographs from an opera and smiled to realise it was Mirette they’d chosen – a comic opera that had originally been written in French but was ultimately recast for Britain’s Savoy Theatre. Clearly the soldiers had put on a good show for everyone – and unlike the German prison concerts, she noted, plenty of women had participated, so the men hadn’t had to dress up as women. She wondered if they were nurses or Swiss hotel employees. What fun amateur productions could be.
She gave a wistful sigh and checked the time. It was nearing nine. Charlie wouldn’t be far away. After tonight she couldn’t have a change of heart. He’d been strong because she’d demanded that of him but her relenting had now weakened his resolve to the point where there was no turning back. Spending the night together and getting to know each other so intimately would change their lives irrevocably. Are you ready for this, Sophie? Earlier in the day she’d felt sure, her confidence and passion overwhelming them both. Now, looking at these gazettes, she felt heartsore again – guilt had crept back and was tapping her on the shoulder. Or perhaps it was just the ugly confrontation with Louis and his horrible threat at the end. She still didn’t know what it meant and she assured herself that frankly, she didn’t want to know.
Sophie flapped the newspaper with disgust and was about to fold it up and set it aside when her gaze snagged on a photo of one of the players. The caption read: Jacques Bouchon’s rousing baritone amused and entertained a large crowd who enjoyed his rendition of the gypsy character, Bobinet.
Sophie stared at the eyes looking back at her. The man was in full stage make-up and garbed with loose sleeves. His breeches were tucked into his boots and he wore a waistcoat that tied with thongs. One arm was missing. He also wore an eye patch. Despite the costume and the unruly hair, she knew that searching gaze viewed the world with eyes the colour of the night sky, that deepest of dark blues. She couldn’t swallow, even though her mouth was dry. Sophie read the caption again. Jacques Bouchon. How could it be when this man was surely Jerome Méa!
Sophie’s breath finally let itself out in a gasp. She stood up and began to pace, habit reminding her to step only on the rafters. She reached for the roof rafter above her and held it tight until her knuckles whitened to match her lips, which were clamped to prevent her from screaming. It couldn’t be, could it? Is that what Louis meant? Louis knew! But how? Had the Red Cross told him? No, because Jean had reassured her.
Her thoughts took off like a flight of swallows swooping and turning back on themselves as one. If Louis knew Jerome was alive, why hadn’t he told her? Why? Because he needed her money, that’s why. Sophie could feel herself shivering as if the window had been opened to let that cool air in. She pulled a knitted shawl from the mirrored dressing screen, whirled it across her shoulders and tucked it around her arms, lost in her thoughts.
She picked up the gazette again. She had no doubt now. That was Jerome in the photograph: a baritone, a French soldier, with identical features.
He was also an internee in Switzerland.
She would start making phone calls immediately. The alarm racing through her body added to the tremble but sharpened her thoughts. She moved towards the door, and as she reached for the handle there was a soft knock.
‘Sophie?’
Charlie! Horror and guilt overwhelmed her. Only honesty could work now. She dragged the door open to see him staring up at her from the stepladder. His flushed face was creased with a bright smile and he was puffing slightly from running up the stairs to reach her as quickly as he could. He looked a little drunk, no doubt after a sip or three with Étienne.
‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. I was held up with —’ He stopped and frowned, noticing her shock, no doubt. ‘Sophie . . .?’
She forced him back, clambering down behind him, and he helped her onto the landing. Sophie stared at him, momentarily unable to speak. She was hungrily committing his beautiful face to her memory, because she understood now she would lose him forever. Those plump lips pursed in confusion and the firm brow knitted and drew his features into a grave expression. His happy tipsiness had disappeared.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Jerome.’
He blinked but his expression didn’t shift. He didn’t say anything, so she had to fill the tense silence. She lifted the crumpled gazette and shook it in front of Charlie. ‘He’s one of the internees.’ Her voice was breathless.
‘Singing opera!’ She sounded even more horrified by that, although she hadn’t meant to.
‘Calm down.’
‘Here, you look. You’ve seen photographs of him.’ She struggled to turn the pages and he took the newspaper from her.
‘Let me.’ He flicked to the centre section with the photographs.
‘There!’ She jabbed a finger at Bobinet.
After only a heartbeat he looked back at her. ‘This says it’s a man called Jacques B—’
‘I know what it says. But that is Jerome, I swear it.’
His gaze landed tenderly on her, full of sympathy, and she wanted to yell, beat him, take out her frustration that she couldn’t have the man she loved now because the man she’d loved back then was still alive. Even to her it sounded like the storyline of a comic operetta of mistaken identity. But it was not fiction. This was her life.
‘I have to go to Switzerland,’ she said, pushing past him.
‘Sophie —’
‘Charlie, I’m so sorry. But this is my husband. Remuer ciel et terre.’ She watched him take a low breath as he took in her full meaning.
He nodded sadly.
‘I’m not asking you to wait.’
‘And yet I will. Because I feel the same way about you. If it takes heaven and earth, I’ll give it.’
She touched his cheek, freshly shaven, she noted, and he covered her hand with his. She wanted to kiss him, knew he wanted to kiss her, but she couldn’t . . . not now with Jerome’s image so large in her mind. It seemed that Charlie, as much as he loved her, sensed that shift. Her pain on his behalf was exquisite, even though she knew she was the cause.
Sophie leaned her forehead against his. ‘I wish I could take it back.’
‘No, it’s all I have of you. I need the memory.’
‘Forgive me, Charlie.’
She knew he was being heroic for her when he dredged up a crooked grin. ‘If I was your husband, I’d be very proud to know you fought for me like this.’
The Champagne War Page 34