Chantal glared at the vision dressed in dusky pink, resenting the immaculate hairdo, the fascinatingly accented voice, the perfect make-up, exquisite nails manicured to the shape of almonds and tinted a slightly paler shade than her dress.
'Don't be unkind, Nicole.' The Marquis's censure was indulgent to the point of approval. 'Mademoiselle Barry,' he tossed across his shoulder as he prepared to start up the car, 'may I introduce to you my young cousin—Nicole Mortemart. Nicole, meet Mademoiselle Chantal Barry and her brother Peter.'
'Enchantée!' With a bored wave Nicole acknowledged the introduction, then turned her back, dismissing them as unimportant.
With temper flying high rags of colour in her cheeks, Chantal tried to relax as the car purred up the mountainside, but found it impossible to shake off the sense of inferiority conjured by the girl's expression of resentment of their intrusion, an expression which—aided by the flicker of an eyelash, the twitch of an elegant nose—had managed to reduce herself and Peter to the level of servants daring to impose upon the generosity of their betters.
'Why didn't you let me know you were coming?' The Marquis's concern sounded genuine. 'I would have met you at the station.'
Peter, who from the moment he had bolted inside the car had been unable to tear his eyes from Nicole's delectable profile, was shocked from his trance. 'But we did!' he blurted. 'I sent you a telegram.'
The Marquis frowned. 'I did not receive it,' he denied curtly. 'When was it despatched?'
'Yesterday morning, at ten o'clock,' Peter told him promptly. 'We'd planned to arrive unannounced, but at the last moment had second thoughts—hence the telegram instead of a letter.'
'Strange .. !' The Marquis's frown deepened.
'You think so, mon cher?' Nicole queried prettily. 'I do not. Have you forgotten how faithful our people are to the dear Comtesse's memory? How bitterly they resent the intrusion into their lives of relatives who ignored her existence? It is my guess, chéri, that the telegram was ... er ... mislaid, before it even left the post office.' She swung round to address a space above Chantal's head. 'You will discover that the Champenois are possessed of a loyalty as sturdy as their vines. They will neither forgive nor forget the taste of bitter wine.'
Unbearably goaded, Chantal retorted, 'Isn't it just possible that sometimes the bitterness present is not in the wine but in the mouth of the taster? I don't like forming hasty opinions, nevertheless it seems to me that the few Champenois I've met so far all appear to be suffering from a surfeit of sour grapes !'
The stunned silence that followed her words was broken by a shout of laughter. 'Bravo, mademoiselle !' The Marquis was grinning widely. 'That type of acid repartee is one in which your grandmother excelled. She would have been delighted to know that her granddaughter is a true Champagne Girl—all sparkle, wit, and fire.'
'And ready any second to pop her cork !' Peter muttered in an undertone so low that only Chantal overheard. To his relief she seemed to find his quip amusing; tension drained from her, she relaxed against the cushioned seat, the beginnings of a curve lifting the edges of her still-mutinous mouth.
Sensing, perhaps, that her verbal ammunition was inadequate against the fire of the red-haired English virago, Nicole retired into a cool shell, remaining completely silent while the car wended its way through neat, impersonal villages, not in the least pretty or picturesque, just rough plaster-covered walls, roofs of drab blue slate or occasionally of red tiles, and a total absence of paint on walls, doors and window frames.
The few inhabitants that appeared also impressed Chantal as being severely functional—men with brown, weather-beaten faces, their sturdy frames draped in muddy blue overalls; rosy-cheeked women, strong, buxom, and unsmiling, wearing well-washed aprons and shepherding clutches of equally well-washed children.
She had to acknowledge that in one respect at least the Marquis was right. On their own, they would never have managed to find Trésor d'Hélène, tucked away as it was, well off the beaten track with neither a signpost nor nameplate to aid any searcher.
'Is this it?' She could barely suppress her disappointment—dismay, even—when the car drove through a stone gateway flanked by wooden gates hanging drunkenly ajar. This house, if it was a house, appeared to be completely windowless, the symmetry of its bricks broken only by a small stone lintel accommodating the inevitable unpainted door.
Instead of braking, however, the Marquis swung the car around the side of the house and drew up in the middle of a courtyard offering a completely different aspect. From this angle the two-storied house looked attractive, even elegant. Flowered curtains fluttered at numerous windows, vines clung lovingly to outside walls, and many flower troughs edged the house, empty at present, but promising a riotous display of blooms during the spring and summer months. There was a garden full of shrubs surrounding a handkerchief-sized lawn, outhouses waited to be explored, a greenhouse full of flowering plants and a garage with doors ajar exposing the bonnet of a small Fiat.
'Do you drive, mademoiselle?' The Marquis nodded towards the car.
'Yes, my father taught me,' she began eagerly, then, remembering her dislike of him, she hesitated, 'but as I've never driven on the Continent I doubt if I shall ever have sufficient confidence to make use of the car,' she finished abruptly.
'Just as well, then, that your visit is to be a short one. Private transport is essential in this area unless one is prepared to live in complete isolation.'
There he goes again, Chantal fumed—implying that she and Peter were a pair of idiots who had to be humoured! The Marquis was certainly slow to admit defeat; even now, with feet firmly planted on their own ground and with suitcases packed with every article of clothing they possessed, his manner was that of a polite host welcoming a couple of casual visitors!
'Solitary confinement will suit us very well, monsieur. We've come here to work, not to be entertained. I expect we shall be far too busy during the coming months to make the acquaintance of even our nearest neighbours.'
'So !' The exclamation was terse. 'You really do intend to stay?'
'Mais certainement,' she tilted, reverting to his own language for an added touch of mockery. Then with pointed finality she extended her hand. 'Goodbye, monsieur, thank you very much for the lift, there's no need for you and Mademoiselle Mortemart to delay a moment longer.'
His head jerked back, as if reacting to a slap, but cold blue eyes did not waver from her face. Ignoring her outstretched hand, he lashed her confidence to ribbons.
'Au revoir, mademoiselle, not goodbye. I would prefer to leave you to your folly, but conscience will not permit it—if the blind insist upon leading the blind someone must be prepared to pull them out of the ditch.'
CHAPTER FOUR
JUST as the Marquis's car roared out of the courtyard a woman stepped from inside the house and remained with hands loosely clasped in front of her, silently waiting. As they approached the elderly woman her severe expression showed no sign of welcome. Dressed from neck to toe in black, her waist encircled by a leather belt supporting a bunch of keys, and with grey hair scraped into a tight bun exposing a profile that seemed chipped from granite, she looked formidable, an impassable femme de charge.
Even Peter's irrepressible spirits were doused by her obvious antagonism.
'Bonjour, madame,' he began soberly, 'my name is Peter Barry and this is my sister, Chantal. We're the new owners of Trésore d'Hélène.'
'Usurpers!' The venomous hiss chilled the blood in Chantal's veins. 'The Comtesse—God rest her soul—' swiftly the old woman crossed herself, 'will not rest easy while you both remain here!'
'Now just a minute ... !' Peter reacted with heat.
'Be quiet, Peter !' Possessed of sudden dignity born of an intuitive recognition that the churlish old woman needed to be impressed, Chantal adopted a tone of authority. 'Am I right in assuming that you are the housekeeper, madame?'
'And have been so for many, many years !' The old woman drew herself tall.
'Good.' Coolly, Chantal stepped past her. 'Then when you have shown us to our rooms you may return to your duties.'
The housekeeper stared. As Chantal had guessed, she had been a domestic all her life, from childhood she had been taught to respect authority, to react to it like a slave to the crack of a whip.
'Peter,' Chantal tossed across her shoulder as she sauntered towards the house, 'I'm dying for a wash and a change of clothes, would you mind bringing in the luggage?'
As Peter stooped to oblige, the housekeeper sprang into action. 'Non, non, monsieur, my son will do that ! Louis! Louis!' She called out. 'Ici!'
In response to her shout a man appeared in the doorway of one of the outhouses and began shuffling his way across the courtyard. Curiously, Chantal eyed him, wondering why such a young, tall, superbly built man should be walking with dark head bowed and with such an awkward gait. He kept his eyes upon the ground and responded by sinking his chin further into his chest when his mother explained with appalling candour :
'My son is a niais—a simpleton, you understand. But a good worker,' she added with a fierceness that helped to vindicate her in Chantal's eyes. 'Though he cannot read or write, there is nothing he does not know about the art of viticulture.' Her last words were almost swallowed by an abrupt choke of pride that went straight to Chantal's heart.
Slowly she walked towards Louis who was stooping to pick up their suitcases. Placing a hand upon his shoulder, she encouraged him upright and directed a dazzling smile into his brown, doe-gentle eyes. 'How do you do, Louis,' she shook his hand. 'I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance, and I know that my brother is just itching to pester you with questions!'
His response was voiceless, a mute stare of adoration that embarrassed her so much she was forced to turn away. In search of diversion, she smiled at his mother. 'May we know your name, madame?'
Tears that had welled into the housekeeper's eyes were fiercely blinked away. Her expression remained hard, her mouth retained its tight unsmiling line, so that in contrast her voice sounded startlingly soft. 'Like your late grandmother, you are of a catégorie hors-classe, mademoiselle. My name,' her voice quavered, 'is Madame Budin, but the Comtesse always called me by my Christian name, which is Hortense. I should be honoured if you and your brother would do the same.'
The interior of the house was furnished and decorated with a restraint that became apparent the moment they stepped inside a hall with walls hung with hunting trophies and engravings of local country scenes. Upon a floor of octagonal tiles were dotted chairs of wood and woven cane with floral patterned seat cushions. In the living-room the decor was a pleasant mixture of elegance and rusticity, with checked blue and white curtains making an unexpected contrast with a Louis XVI table and matching chairs.
Chantal craned her neck to examine a ceiling crisscrossed by ancient beams, then her attention was caught by a fruitwood stand inset with Delft tiles that had been utilised as a charming jardiniere. Every corner of the house held some pleasant visual surprise, unexpected forms of still life placed in numerous nooks and crannies, beautiful Sèvres vases and bowls glowing with colour against whitewashed walls, watercolours depicting scenes of subdued serenity.
Hortense preceded her up the stairs and flung open the door of a room with a flourish. 'This, mademoiselle, is the main bedroom, part of what used to be the Comtesse's personal suite. I'm sure you will find it comfortable.'
Chantal held her breath as she stepped inside a room that was a veritable bower of roses. The same rose-patterned print had been used to cover walls, ceiling, bedcover, and one plump armchair placed close to a window stretching the full height of one wall. Porcelain table lamps with rose-coloured shades were strategically positioned, one on the bedside table and the other on top of a writing desk shining with the patina of old, polished wood. But the outstanding feature of the room was a stove of white faience, its decorative flue pipe recalling to mind the funnel of a bygone steamboat. Carpet flowed from wall to wall, thick and green as summer grass.
One errant piece of fluff had dared to float down upon its surface. With a click of annoyance Hortense stooped to remove it, causing Chantal to smile as she likened the old woman's action to that of a child picking a daisy. When the housekeeper raised her head she assumed the smile to be one of pleasure.
'Mademoiselle approves ...?' she queried with an encompassing wave around the room.
'It's breathtaking,' Chantal sighed. 'I'm finding it difficult to equate such luxury with the austerity of the exterior. Approaching the house, one could be forgiven for mistaking it for a prison.'
'Ah, yes, there is a very good reason why we French keep hidden from view the true quality of the surroundings in which we live. Because of an iniquitous tax levied on all signes exterieurs de la richesse prudent householders take care never to parade their possessions before the public eye, so to speak. As the law now stands, it is a profitable thing —if one is wise—to appear poor even if one is rich.'
'I'm beginning to understand why the French have gained a reputation for thrift,' Chantal teased, her smile robbing her words of any sting.
Madame sniffed. 'It is true that we believe in practising economy, but never at the expense of comfort or taste. For instance, we French do not believe in merely eating—we must always dine.'
'Just as you must always be autocratic, individualistic to the point of being ungovernable, and oozing with conceit and self-confidence!' Chantal mentally registered, her thoughts upon one particular Frenchman.
The promise contained in the housekeeper's words was fulfilled to the hilt when later that evening they sat down to dinner. When Chantal had washed and changed into a dress of fine wool to combat the chill of the winter evening, she went downstairs to discover a table set for two in a small salon. Guided by the sound of pans rattling on a stove, she went in search of Hortense and found her in the kitchen about to sample the contents of one of many simmering copper saucepans.
Surprised by her entrance, Hortense swung round from the stove and lowered her tasting spoon. 'Dinner will be ten minutes or so, mademoiselle—just time enough for yourself and your brother to enjoy an aperitif.'
'That will be lovely,' Chantal smiled, 'but we'll wait until you and Louis are ready to join us. Where do you keep the cutlery, I'll set two more places at the table?'
'Mais non, mademoiselle,' Hortense protested, 'it is not comme il faut for servants to eat with their employers.'
Firmly Chantal quashed this notion beneath a determined foot. 'Now listen to me, Hortense, and listen well. My brother and I have not come here to play lord and lady of the manor, we have come to work. Trésor d'Hélène is to be our livelihood, we have no source of income other than what we expect to receive from the sale of our product, so a successful harvest is essential to us. Without the help of yourself and Louis we can't hope to survive.' Thoughtfully she traced the wood-grained table top with a fingernail. 'You see, Hortense,' she continued carefully, wondering if she was being wise, 'I'm laying all my cards on the table. Peter and I could pretend, try to bluff our way through, but honesty plays an essential part in any good relationship and we want to establish a team—you, Louis, Peter and myself, all working harmoniously together.'
She kept her eyes lowered, continuing her idle tracing, but was inwardly tense as she awaited the old woman's response. Without her cooperation they were lost. Was the small breach they had made in her defences sufficient to overcome deeply-ingrained mistrust? Usurpers, she had called them—takers of possession without right. Was it foolish to hope for a change of heart from a woman whose views were as rigidly held as her backbone? Chantal chanced an upward glance and saw indecision written across the housekeeper's face. Worry-lines scoring deep into her forehead told of the struggle taking place between a flattered ego and family loyalty.
Suspecting she had lost, Chantal sighed and walked towards the door.
'Un moment!' She halted, hardly daring to hope, then feeling vaguely encouraged slowly turned a
round.
Hortense's dark eyes mirrored sombre decision. Loudly and firmly, as if to drown the voice of inner conscience, she stated, 'You have paid me the compliment of honesty, mademoiselle, therefore the compliment must be returned. I confess that when first I heard that the Comtesse's grandchildren were to inherit the vineyard I was dismayed, not just because the legacy ran contrary to her wishes, but also on Louis' account. I am getting old,' she straightened stooping shoulders, subconsciously decrying her own words. 'I was just fourteen years of age when I was taken into the d'Estrées household with the object of being trained to take over the duties of lady's maid to the newly-wed young Comtesse. During long, happy years of service your grandmother and I became very close—' she paused, her mouth working, then marshalled iron control in order to continue. 'In spite of the difference in station, we became friends and confidantes, rejoicing in each other's happiness, sharing each other's joys, having our friendship strengthened by the grief of bereavement when within the space of a few months we were widowed as a result of the war. Hard times followed for both of us, yet, sheltered as I was beneath the wing of my benefactress, I never once felt threatened—until now.'
Chantal's head jerked upward. 'Until now?' she stressed incredulously. 'You feel that Peter and I represent a threat?'
'Do not misunderstand me, mademoiselle,' the housekeeper's expression grew even graver, 'the Comtesse left me well provided for, I could move tomorrow into a cottage in the village and prepare to end my days in idleness. No, it is for my son's sake that I worry—Trésor d'Hélène is the only home he has ever known, every shovelful of earth is important to him, each individual vine receives from him the tender loving care of a mother anxious to rear a strong, healthy child. Such is his devotion to his work, he many times succeeds where others fail—which is why offers of work have poured from every-where in the district. But for him to leave here would be tantamount to depriving him of his family and might result in disastrous damage upon his simple mind. Consequently, mademoiselle,' she admitted, her honest chin outthrust, 'though my true loyalty lies buried with the Comtesse, I feel forced to accept your offer.'
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 4