Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome

by Champagne Spring

  'True ...' She managed a cool nod, struggling to hide her pleasure at his annoyance. 'But somewhere along the line, either you've been misled or you've jumped to an erroneous conclusion. You see, monsieur, the situation is not so cut and dried as you seem to imagine. It's quite possible,' she drew in a steadying breath, 'indeed, it's highly probable, go that my brother and I might decide to run Trésor d'Hélène ourselves.'

  Sensing Peter's tense jubilation, she outstared the Marquis, prepared for argument, for angry recrimination, but not for the shout of laughter that greeted her words. Furiously she waited, willing a tide of humiliated colour to recede from her cheeks. That his amusement was as genuine as his contempt was made obvious by the length of time he took to regain his composure. Grinning widely, teeth flashing white in a tanned face, he finally mustered sufficient control to deride :

  'Mes enfants, if you truly are contemplating such a foolish step, I beg you to reconsider !'

  'Why?' Peter's one demanding word drew the attention of the Marquis, whose head swung round to pinpoint bold blue eyes upon the boy's defiant face. What he read in Peter's expression must have communicated his determination, for every vestige of amusement disappeared from his face before, with a look that dared Peter to flicker so much as an eyelash, he spat the steely words :

  'To one of normal intelligence the reason would be clearly obvious. However, as you seem unable to comprehend the utter folly of your proposal, let me outline to you some of the more obvious difficulties.'

  'It cannot be argued too strongly that the nucleus of a really good bottle of wine lies in the skill with which the grapes are grown. It is all too easy for some to make bad wine from good grapes, but only a miracle can change poor grapes into good wine. The Champenois wine-grower has perfected the art of viticulture, an art that calls for skill, patience, strong will, and the ability to overcome the many problems caused by our unpredictable northern climate, but it has taken him many centuries, during which time knowledge gained sometimes by chance, sometimes by mistakes, has been passed down from lather to son to grandson. You may, in your ignorance have concluded that the cultivating of vines is as simple as farming in your own country. Nothing could be further from the truth. The vine must be cosseted, it is fussy about soil and climate, a hailstorm can set it back for weeks, it must have water when it needs it because it will show immediate resentment if it is left parched.

  'So you see,' he sat back, his mouth curled into an indulgent smile, seemingly confident that his explanation would result in a satisfactory outcome, 'the odds against your achieving success as a winegrower are formidable.'

  For the first time in her placid, uneventful life, Chantal was tempted to strike another human being, when the man she had decided she loathed picked up the offending Agreement and rustled the paper invitingly before advising with a patronage that set her teeth on edge.

  'Stick to doing whatever it is you do best. You, mademoiselle, are a schoolteacher, I believe?' He smiled, prepared to be kind. 'In my opinion, it is a profession to which you seem ideally suited. And as for you, young man,' he turned to Peter, 'your future is crammed with endless possibilities, especially now that the money you are about to receive in exchange for your land can be used to further whichever career you eventually decide upon.'

  A slim silver pen was thrust beneath Chantal's nose. 'As you are the elder, mademoiselle, you are entitled to the privilege of being first to sign.'

  She sensed Peter mutely urging her not to give in, but she had no need of his guidance; already her mind was made up.

  Ignoring the proffered pen, she rose to her feet, feeling surprisingly calm, surprisingly determined.

  'I'm afraid my brother and I have caused you the inconvenience of a wasted journey, monsieur, for however much it might upset the plans of the Etablissement La Roque à Remi, we are neither of us prepared to forfeit our inheritance.'

  'Mon dieu!' In one swift, lithe movement he was towering over her. 'You can't be serious!'

  'Mais oui, mon cher monsieur, we are indeed serious,' she mocked solemnly.

  His face darkened. In a voice stern as the cut of his suit, he spelled out coldly: 'Then you need expect no welcome in our province. The Champenois were passionately fond of your grandmother and are unanimous in their condemnation of the family whose neglect brought her so much grief. Casual visitors find it difficult to penetrate their natural reserve which is often mistakenly attributed to boorishness. Imagine, then, the reception that will be given to anyone who has offended against their code. Be warned, both of you, that if ever you should take up residence in Champagne every door will be closed against you, every face will be turned away !'

  CHAPTER THREE

  As the train rattled its way through a long valley Chantal turned away from the window to observe, 'What flat, boring countryside! I'd expected France to be exciting, different, but it's almost identical to home.'

  'Which is hardly surprising,' Peter countered, 'when you consider how close the two countries are. If you want hot sun and golden beaches you must travel farther south; in Northern France the climate is much cooler, frost is just as likely to occur here as in England, at this time of year.'

  Gloomily, she resumed her contemplation of miles upon miles of stark landscape nursing beds of sleeping vines, their bare, wizened branches sticking like skeleton limbs through a blanket of snow. She shivered, beginning to wish she had not allowed temper and a desire to thwart the wishes of an arrogant marquis to eject her into an awkward situation which he had threatened would hold nothing but unfriendliness and strife should they be unwise enough to prolong their stay.

  'I wish,' she addressed Peter in a small, troubled voice, 'we hadn't come.'

  With a sigh of resignation he laid aside the book that had absorbed his attention throughout their flight to Paris and during the comparatively short journey by rail.

  'Cheer up, Sis! It is January, remember, the worst possible time for pulling up roots and moving to a new home. Like the vines out there,' he nodded towards the window, 'your sap has run low, but in a few weeks it will rise with the temperature, buds of optimism will begin to sprout and roots will be put down, so that by the time spring arrives you'll emerge a strong healthy plant thriving in your natural environment.'

  'If frost doesn't cast a blight over me first!' she shivered, pulling the hem of her coat closer around knees exposed to icy draughts.

  He laughed, refusing to share her pessimism, 'There's less likelihood of frost on high ground than here in the valley. Look!' he pointed out of the window. 'There's the mountain where our vineyard is situated.'

  Chantal twisted round to peer at a bulk that had appeared, towering hundreds of feet above the plain, its flat top capped by thick forest, its lush greenery gouged here and there by what looked like either ravines or quarries. Splashes of heather daubed the spaces between red-roofed cottages.

  'Oh!' she exclaimed with surprise. 'I hadn't imagined we'd be living on the side of a mountain. Is it usual to find vineyards on such high ground?'

  'According to this,' with a thumbnail Peter tapped the book he had been reading, 'those stretches of mountain vineyard are the prize vine-growing areas of the province. Seemingly, the vins de la montagne, as they're known, possess a highly developed vinosity that adds greatly to the quality of champagne.' He leant forward, his face earnest, and continued to impress his wide-eyed sister with knowledge gained from many hours of concentrated study.

  'The most important stage in the manufacture of champagne is the preparation of the cuvée. Each House aims to produce a champagne of consistent flavour and quality year in, year out, despite the inconsistencies of the weather which can impose subtle differences upon each harvest. This is where the experience of the chef de cave plays an important part—it's he who has to prepare the cuvée, which is the selection of still wines he chooses to make up his blends.'

  'But surely,' she frowned, 'each brand of champagne owes its taste and quality to the grapes of one particular
vineyard?'

  'Not at all,' he contradicted, 'the fruits of many different vineyards are employed. In the manner of an artist mixing paints, the chef de cave takes a little of this, a little of that, a soupçon of the other, experimenting, discarding, trying again, until a blend of perfect harmony is achieved. What I find interesting,' he told her thoughtfully, 'is that while studying the subject I discovered one important piece of information cropping up time and time again— that the area of the Falaises de Champagne is one in which the highest quality grapes are grown. Our vineyard, especially, is listed as catégorie hors-classe, which means that it's recognized as being one of the ten plum growths in the wine field province.'

  He paused, awaiting some response, but when her expression did not alter he chided with suppressed impatience, 'Don't you see what this means? But perhaps not,' he forgave her hastily, 'I'm only just beginning to understand myself why the Marquis de la Roque was so eager to relieve us of our inheritance. For years the Etablissement La Roque à Remi has had exclusive access to a vineyard whose products are essential to the correct blending of their champagne. Without our grapes, the product that's made their name outstanding among the great champagne houses will never again achieve its legendary perfection. Our relatives, and the Marquis in particular, must find it galling that our grandmother who schemed so methodically to ensure that we didn't benefit from her riches should have allowed to escape her net the one commodity upon which the continued success of the House entirely depends !'

  Chantal sank back into the cushioned seat, impervious to the rocking motion of the coach, her mind revolving with the speed of the wheels rushing the length of metal rails.

  'No wonder he was furious when we refused to sell!' she gasped, her green eyes enormous. 'But surely,' she jerked upright, trying hard not to succumb to a heady sense of triumph, not to gloat too hastily at the prospect of seeing the haughty Marquis forced to bend a knee, 'there must be other vineyards where he could get the grapes he needs? You mentioned ten plum areas of growth ...' she faltered.

  'And a dozen or so great champagne firms competing for the privilege of buying up their harvests !' he assured her swiftly.

  While Chantal's brain was slowly evaluating this information she was startled by a sudden hoot of laughter. She looked up as Peter folded in his seat, convulsed with mirth.

  'What's so funny?' she queried, half fearful, half amused.

  'I've just thought of something,' he spluttered, 'something priceless ... ! An absolute hoot... !'

  'Please share the joke!' she begged with an anticipatory gurgle.

  'I've only just realised,' he gasped, fighting hard for control, 'that although the Marquis insisted that we couldn't win there's actually no way we can lose !'

  Taking pity on her perplexity, he drew in a steadying breath, and spelled out slowly, 'The Etablissement La Roque à Remi depends upon the fruits of our vineyard for survival, Sis! It can't afford to let us fail ! We're therefore in a position to demand whatever assistance we need without fear of refusal. The Marquis himself has stated that good wine can't be made from inferior grapes, so if he wants his wine to maintain its previous high standard he'll be forced to help me achieve my ambition to become one of the foremost viticulteurs in the province !'

  Although the Marquis had been informed of their imminent arrival, there was no one to greet them when they stepped from the train, no vehicle of any description could be seen as they stamped the small draughty platform in an attempt to force circulation through frozen feet. It was no more than a temporary halt, so the train did not linger; mere seconds after they alighted it continued on its way, leaving them in solitary isolation on a concrete ramp exposed to an icy wind that seemed intent upon burying them and their luggage beneath piles of dead leaves.

  'Come on,' Peter picked up the suitcases, 'that hut over there looks as if it might be a ticket office. With luck, it might be inhabited by one of our own species.'

  The wizened face that popped up behind a glazed aperture after repeated knocking on an outer ledge did indeed look human, but a human wearing the sourest, most unfriendly expression Chantal had ever seen.

  'Good afternoon,' Peter began politely, 'could you tell us where we could find transport to take us to Trésor d'Hélène?'

  'Parlez français?' the old man snapped, clamping together jaws reminiscent of a steel trap.

  Chantal's French, in fact, was very good indeed— but not wishing to put her brother in a humiliating position, she left the talking to him. As Peter began painstakingly explaining their needs in schoolboy French, she paced in an effort to keep warm, casting hopeful glances along the road that ran straight past the halt, curving and inclining gradually as it wove between fields of grey mud then plunged into undergrowth clothing the lower slopes of the mountain. She was peering upwards, wondering which one of the red-tiled houses dotting the slopes was theirs, when Peter stomped up behind her.

  'Of all the obstreperous old curmudgeons!' he exploded with fury. 'Do you know, that old devil as good as told me to go back to where I came from ! No, there is no taxi service,' he mimicked. 'No, the bus service is infrequent; it will be two hours before the next one is due!' Then when I asked to use his telephone to get in touch with the Marquis he pretended he couldn't understand my French and disappeared from the window! There's no doubt about it, Sis, the Marquis has prepared the ground well—that old devil knows who we are, and if his uncooperative attitude is a sample of what we can expect from the rest of the locals then we might as well go straight back home.'

  'We most certainly will not!' Chantal rounded upon him. 'I had no wish to come here in the first place, but now that I am here it will take more than surly locals to drive me away. Don't you see, the old man's attitude is part of a very well-thought-out campaign! The Marquis means to get rid of us, to make life so intolerable that we will be glad to sell out and admit ourselves beaten. It's up to us to show him how badly he's misjudged us by staying put and fighting back, whatever the odds !' She stooped to pick up a suitcase then, her back ramrod-stiff, she directed, 'Pick up that suitcase and walk! Somewhere up there,' she nodded towards the mountain mass, 'is Trésor d'Hélène. I intend to arrive there before nightfall even if I have to crawl!'

  After an hour of toiling ascent, she was ready to cat her words. Both spirit and energy had begun to flag. The road was steep, with an awkward camber that made walking difficult, its edges rough, unfinished, littered with potholes and stones ranging in size from marbles to boulders. Flinty slivers kept finding a way inside her shoes—simple, medium-heeled courts that were ideal for travelling provided one did not opt for travelling on foot !

  Sensing her exhaustion, Peter nudged her elbow. 'Let's rest a minute.' He guided her in the direction of a fallen log. 'This looks large enough to take us both. Sit down before you collapse.'

  Needing no extra coercion, she sank down on the log, then looked back along the road and gasped, 'Is that the roof of the railway station?' Her tone begged him to contradict. 'Surely not?' she wailed. 'It's only a stone's throw away—we must have walked farther than that!'

  'I'm afraid not,' Peter sighed. 'All the twists and turns in the road put miles on the journey.' Suddently he stiffened, his eyes trained upon the descending road.

  'What's wrong?' she questioned.

  'Nothing ... For a moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of a car rounding one of the bends.' He slumped back. 'I must have imagined it.'

  Chantal shrugged, then stooped to take off a shoe, intending to remove a piece of grit that had been gouging agonizingly into her heel.

  'Imagination be blowed!' Peter's yell startled her so much she dropped her shoe. 'It is a car! Come on, Sis, now's our chance to beg a lift.'

  It was a superb automobile, a long, low-slung piece of mechanism that purred effortlessly to a halt in response to Peter's frantic wave. One dark red door was thrust open and as Chantal scrabbled for her shoe she caught a glimpse of plump upholstery and cream-coloured leather that twanged a chord
of memory. Her dreadful suspicion was confirmed when a supercilious voice drawled far above her head.

  'You seem to be in difficulty, mademoiselle, can I be of any help?'

  'No, thank you.' Furiously she grabbed the offending shoe, slipped it on to her foot and jerked upright to glare at the thinly-smiling Marquis.

  'We would be grateful for a lift!' Peter did not suffer the same proud inhibitions as his sister. 'We've walked for more than an hour without meeting a soul. Are we anywhere near Trésor d'Hélène?'

  'The vineyard is tucked well out of sight; it will be impossible for you to find it without help,' the Marquis assured him. He reached towards a rear door and held it invitingly open. 'Get in, I'll take you there.'

  'Don't bother,' Chantal tossed her flaming head, 'we'll manage.'

  But to her chagrin Peter ignored her protest and shot into the back seat. Incensed by his lack of pride, she jerked away, intending to walk on alone, but was caught and held by an unkind grasp upon her elbow.

  'You are being foolish, mademoiselle,' the Marquis told her in a voice hard as the flint she had removed from her shoe. 'Get in, don't allow that chip on your shoulder to be the cause of further blisters on your heel.'

  To be forced to back down was bad enough, but her humiliation escalated when she slid inside the car and came face to face with a girl who had twisted round in the passenger seat to watch with keen, observing eyes. She looked no older than eighteen, a brown-eyed, black-haired beauty, expensively dressed, obviously precocious and, Chantal suspected, extremely spoiled.

  That she was either very insensitive or lacking in diplomacy was evident when her faultless mouth curled at the edges as she condemned with a fastidious shudder.

  'Quel horreur ! How hot and dusty you both look—as if you have been tramping the roads for ever ...'