Chantal's gasp of relief filled the quiet vacuum left behind when Hortense lapsed into silence. Her acceptance had sounded like an admission of defeat, yet given sufficient time, she assured herself with soaring optimism, it should not be impossible to woo her on to their side. Obviously, Louis was her Achilles heel, which made it imperative for them to gain his allegiance. Once that had been achieved the Marquis could be completely routed!
A great deal of argument was needed before Hortense agreed to seal their contract with a celebratory glass of sherry. She remained adamant, however, that Louis and herself should continue to eat in the kitchen.
'My son would be nervous and ill at ease,' she excused. 'The very idea of eating with strangers would scare him half to death.'
Peter, whom Chantal had swiftly put in the picture, immediately intervened. 'I'll ask him, shall I? We've spent the past hour talking together and he did not seem the least bit put out by my presence. I have so much to learn, madame, that I must make use of every second Louis can spare. From him I hope to learn all there is to know about the art of viticulture.'
'Alors!' Hortense threw up her hands in a gesture of mock despair. 'That is the one conversation he will carry on until Doomsday! To every other subject he responds with grunts and snorts, but once vines are mentioned he becomes a veritable chatterbox.'
And so it turned out. Throughout a superb meal that began with an excellent onion soup, then progressed to chicken cooked in wine, terminating with a superb, deceptively creamy cheese with the kick of a culinary mule, Louis' voice droned in the background, his slow, gentle tone often hesitant when seeking for a particular word, but threaded through with an enthusiastic undertone.
'They seem to be getting on well,' Chantal smiled.
Still not quite at ease, Hortense swept imaginary crumbs from a spotless tablecloth. 'Your brother is good at putting people at their ease. In looks, he resembles his mother, but not in character—she was a shy, quiet girl, uncomfortable in the company of strangers.'
'You knew my mother well?' Even as she uttered the surprised question Chantal realised its superfluity. Undoubtedly, having lived as one of the family for so long, Hortense must have known her mother intimately.
'Knew her ... ?' The old woman bridled. 'Was I not present at her birth? Did I not nurse her through every childhood ailment, comfort her adolescent fears, and later was I not torn in two by her confidences about the young lieutenant who had Wept her off her feet? I loved her as my own child, but I wronged her when I bolstered her hopes that the Comtesse might allow her to marry him. Just as I wronged my mistress by encouraging her daughter in her secrecy.' Her eyes clouded, her voice sank to weary depths, so that Chantal became aware that although the old woman was physically present her spirit had winged back to days long past.
'I never dreamt that the breach between them would be so prolonged,' she muttered almost to herself. 'Knowing the depths of affection they shared, how could I be expected to guess that bitterness would be allowed to separate them both for ever? With the passing of the years my conscience has eased, too much so, perhaps, for it seems that le bon dieu, in his wisdom, has sent images to remind me of my guilt—a girl who is a replica of her grandmother and a boy made in the image of his mother!'
Moved by intense sympathy, Chantal reached out to take her hand. 'You mustn't blame yourself, Hortense, you loved them both, they had no right to place such an intolerable burden upon your loyalty.'
This truth seemed to reach her. She raised her head to show thin lips almost, but not quite, stretching into a smile.
'You echo the sentiments of the Marquis, who assured me: "You are too straightforward to drive on a twisting road, Hortense. Absolve yourself of guilt by remembering that the Comtesse was a little too impulsive, a little too possessive, and far, far too lenient towards a daughter who, from all accounts, was a vain, wilful little fool." '
'How dared he make such remarks about my mother!' As Chantal's head shot up, light from an overhead lamp endowed her hair with a thousand fiery sparkles. 'By what right does he presume to sit in judgment?'
Hortense began gathering up the used dishes. That she considered the matter trivial was evident when in a matter-of-fact voice she consoled, 'The Marquis was merely repeating an opinion he has heard expressed from childhood. His father and your mother were betrothed before she eloped with her lieutenant. Because he wished for an heir, his father did eventually marry, but it was a marriage without love, so far as he was concerned. Fortunately for his bride, she died young, but I have always felt pity for the son left behind to bear the brunt of his father's bitterness. Many times over the years I have tried to repair the damage done to your mother's reputation, to rid him of misguided opinions passed down to him from his father, but without much success. You must try not to let his attitude upset you, mademoiselle,' she sighed, 'it will help you to forgive if you bear in mind the fact that throughout his boyhood the Marquis was taught to regard the name of Camille d'Estrées as being synonymous with selfish, cold-blooded deceit.'
CHAPTER FIVE
'WE have a problem, Chantal!' Peter's young face looked grave. They had been at Trésor d'Hélène for two weeks, a period which to Chantal seemed no less than a couple of hectic, hard-working months.
Louis and his mother were strict taskmasters. Hortense, although her actual activities were confined to the house, planned out their work programme with the efficiency of a general deploying his troops. Each morning she demanded of Louis : 'How are the vines progressing?' and listened carefully to his detailed reply. The short winter rest during which the vines slept was almost over, and each week brought further indications that they were about ready to stir into life.
The whole of the previous week had been spent freeing vine shoots from the wire to which they had been attached the previous spring—a job so back-breaking that by the time all the short pieces of straw had been removed and burnt in order to destroy any harboured pests, Chantal felt she had developed a hinge in her back that creaked and groaned each time she bent or straightened.
This morning Hortense had directed her usual question. 'How are things, Louis?'
'Fine, Maman,' he had told her with slow, careful diction. 'The shoots are all untied; the water stops have been dug.'
'Good!' It was hard to decide when Hortense was pleased, because her expression seldom altered. Yet. she somehow conveyed satisfaction in her sharp instruction. 'It is now time for the épandage des fumiers. We will require extra hands—go down to the village and fetch two of our usual helpers.'
'Oui, Maman.' Louis had risen from the breakfast table to collect a ramshackle bicycle from one of the outhouses then he had cycled off towards the village. Half an hour later, as she washed up the breakfast dishes, Chantal had seen him return.
She stacked the last of the plates and turned with sinking spirits to face Peter who was lounging dejectedly on the threshold. 'What sort of trouble?' she questioned lightly, determined not to become embroiled in his tangle of adolescent emotions-one minute elated, the next in the depths of despair.
'The local men are refusing to work for us. According to Louis, the same workers turn up here year after year in search of casual employment. He was surprised at having to go in search of them, being experienced workers they know as well as he what jobs are to be done, and when. When he eventually ran them to ground they refused point-blank to work for us. Apparently, everyone in the village is of the same mind—not only are they opposed to us, but Madame Hortense and Louis are also to be ostracised. Because they're helping us, the villagers have labelled them traitors, disloyal to the memory of their late patroness.'
'Oh, hell!' With a vexed grimace Chantal ran angry fingers through her hair. 'The Marquis de la Roque is responsible, of course,' she fumed. 'His strategy is obvious—without assistance the work can't be done, so we'll be forced to appeal to him for help—which will be readily given, providing we agree to sell out!'
'But, Sis,' Peter protested, 'a successful
harvest is as important to him as it is to us!'
'I'm beginning to doubt that!' she snapped. 'The devious Marquis must have prepared his ground well. One bad year will break us, but will it break him? Obviously not, or he wouldn't be prepared to leave us to flounder !'
'You could be right.' Peter gave a soundless whistle of dismay. 'Each year at least one eighth of the new wine is put into reserve, so he's bound to have stocks to fall back upon.'
'The cunning devil !' Peter stared at his normally placid sister, whose vocabulary was becoming libellous. 'Then there's nothing else for it—we must manage alone. I'm determined that insufferable brute will not get the better of us !'
'Have you any idea what you're letting yourself in for?' Peter choked. 'The èpandage des fumiers is no job for a woman !'
Without waiting to translate, she told him fiercely, 'The job can be no more menial or back-breaking than those I've tackled these past two weeks. Lead the way! Whatever form the work takes I'll do it!'
Half an hour later she was fighting to suppress waves of nausea while she forked manure into bags to enable Louis and Peter to carry it to the vineyard where it was to be spread along channels carved out between rows of vines. Gritting her teeth, she plunged her fork deeply into the decaying mass, trying not to worry about how she was to rid her clothes, skin and hair of a stench so pungent it seemed to have seeped into every pore.
Louis had registered horror when her decision had been communicated to him. 'Mais, non, mademoiselle!' he had protested, before appealing to Peter in stumbling haste. Peter had listened patiently, then after Louis had stomped away, still muttering dissent, he had pleaded uncomfortably :
'Look here, Sis, I've just been made to feel whatever's the present-day equivalent of the old-fashioned cad. Louis seems to blame me for the fact that you're even within sniffing distance of that stinking muck. Unfortunately, he was unable to obtain a supply of local manure which I gather is comparatively sweet-smelling compared to this—the droppings of cows and sheep, dead leaves, pressed grape skins, vegetable matter and the like—so he had to resort to buying les boues de la ville de Paris which, believe it or not, consists of the contents of Parisien dustbins. It's brought here by rail in sealed tanks, but only during autumn—in warm weather the stuff becomes so ripe that even the locals protest.'
Chantal stopped bagging just long enough to direct one fiery question. 'When Louis said there was no local manure available did he mean there was none at all or that there was none available for us?' He nodded briefly, confirming her suspicion. 'Very well,' as she stooped to pick up the fork he caught a glimpse of a very determined jaw, 'let's get on with our work.'
Hortense brought them coffee and sandwiches for lunch, then, wrinkling her nose in disgust, she scurried back to the house. Chantal, who found it impossible to eat, had to turn away from the sight of Peter and Louis wolfing down bread that had been contaminated by smell the moment the sandwiches were unwrapped. Even her coffee tasted repugnant and was emptied on the ground after one tentative sip.
It was almost nightfall by the time they had finished. Feeling little elation, they stood regarding the fruits of their labour—rows of vines, their sparse branches rearing high as if anxious to outreach the stench of rotting garbage striping the vineyard. Odd bits of newspaper floated on the breeze; cigarette packets, cardboard cartons, vegetable peelings and many other items of household rubbish that by rights ought to have been ground to extinction by the suppliers, lent the appearance of a rubbish dump to the once tidy plots.
'Don't feel despondent, Sis.' Peter sounded as cheerless as she felt. 'In a few weeks this lot will have decomposed and will look exactly as manure should. Let's get back to the house. I hope Hortense has delayed dinner, because I intend to spend at least an hour in à steaming, antiseptic bath!'
Chantal could not have been more in agreement. She felt bone weary, aching all over, her face and hands streaked with dirt, her most dilapidated jeans and oldest jumper daubed with blobs of revolting, smelly goo. Every stitch she had on would go straight into the dustbin, she promised herself as she followed the others down a narrow lane, feeling grateful that at least there was no one about to witness their discomfiture.
The thought had no sooner registered when the sound of horses' hooves warned of a rider's approach —two riders, she noted, scrambling aside into a deep patch of dusk. Her heart jerked at the sound of a girl's laughter, then, when a familiar masculine voice replied, she felt an urge to throw herself into an accommodating ditch.
'Well, well, what have we here?' The Marquis reined in his horse to stare down at her, openly amused.
'Quel horreur! Brut, what is that obnoxious smell?' Nicole peered through the dusk. 'Mademoiselle Barry?' she questioned on a high note of incredulity. 'It surely cannot be ... ?'
Simultaneously the Marquis and Nicole burst into laughter. Not one whit put out, Louis and Peter stood grinning sheepishly, enjoying the joke at their own expense. But the humour of the situation entirely escaped Chantal. Nicole was, as usual, immaculately dressed in riding clothes tailored to hug the seductive contours of her lithe young body. A peaked riding cap lent to her face the look of a cheeky infant, but there was no childish innocence contained in the words she addressed supposedly to the three of them but which Chantal guessed were aimed exclusively towards herself.
'Honest labour bears a grimy face,' she trilled, 'but must it be accompanied by such a revolting smell?'
'Don't condescend!' Chantal was appalled by the surliness of her own voice. 'There's no shame in hard work, why don't either of you try it some time? But then half a day would probably kill you ...'
When a deluge of tears began aching behind her eyes she knew it was time to make an escape. Ill-mannered though it was, she stalked off with her nose high in the air, grateful for gathering dusk that cast a veil of secrecy over her tear-stained cheeks.
But she was not fated to escape so easily. At the sound of following hoofbeats she began to run, but was cornered by her tormentor when she had to stop to fumble with the fastenings of a gate stretching the width of the lane. She had opened up a space almost wide enough to slip through when a hand grasped the top bar and banged the gate shut. She whirled to face him and, dangerous as a trapped vixen, spat out her resentment and scorn.
'Why do you follow me, monsieur? To gloat upon the results of your campaign? You may have reduced me to the level of the dung-heap, but I'm by no means on my knees !'
Leisurely he dismounted, leant an elbow on the gate, then bent closer to peer into startled green eyes.
'Tears ... ?' The softly spoken word teemed with questions' she was not prepared to answer. When he reached out a finger to detach a crystal drop from her lashes she jerked from his touch as if scalded. 'There is a sweet sort of sadness in tears; are you sad, mademoiselle?'
'Would it gratify your abominable conceit if I were?' She had to whip up anger to combat an inner riot caused by his false tenderness. 'A woman's tears can also be activated by temper,' she reminded him fiercely.
'Why are you angry?' He seemed determined to humour her, to act the part of a benevolent patron. Chantal found his hypocrisy sickening.
'Why ... ?' She almost choked on the indignant word. 'You curtail our supply of local manure so that we have to resort to using the contents of filthy dustbins, you command the locals not to work for us so that we're forced to do the whole of the work ourselves, then, to complete your satisfaction, you turn up here, choosing your moment well, in order to gloat and laugh at us—yet you have the gall to ask me why I'm angry!' It was obvious that of all the charges she had laid at his door she considered his unkind amusement the most rankling. She glared up at him, incensed by a suspicion that he was once again having difficulty in suppressing a smile.
Yet his features were composed, his voice pelt-smooth, when he apologised, 'I'm sorry if you found my amusement hurtful, it was not meant to be. We Champenois possess a sense of humour so peculiar strangers can seldom appreciate it. A ne
ed to laugh is our outstanding characteristic, laughter rises within us like the bubbles inside a bottle of champagne and is dispersed just as quickly. But our laughter is never deliberately unkind, never meant to hurt. Believe me, mademoiselle, though we are a dour, unsociable, rather cruel-tongued race, we do possess one redeeming feature known as la douceur Champenoise—a sweetness to temper the sour.'
Close knowledge of her brother's nature made it possible not to contradict, for Peter had inherited all the traits the Marquis had outlined—though voluble, he spoke softly, seldom raising his voice; his movements were invariably slow yet in his steady fashion he accomplished much. He, too, had a wit that stung, but like a bee, once he had disposed of his small amount of venom he went winging on his way, thoughtlessly unconcerned.
Consequently there was less heat than she wished in her barb. 'Are you attempting to excuse your actions by implying that you are less wrong-minded than thoughtless, monsieur?'
'I am trying to make you understand my first reaction to the sight of a dejected scaramouche wending her way home after labouring all day on a task that most men would find daunting. Custom decrees that men may not weep,' he jerked, his tone developing a hard ring, 'which is why, had I not laughed, I might have communicated my displeasure in a much more physical fashion.'
His unexpected hint of concern left her floundering in a morass of confusion. She took a step away from him, hoping to quell pounding heartbeats, to control blood that was gushing through veins with the effervescence of champagne reacting to a cork popping from a bottle. She stared through the deepening dusk, green eyes sparkling resentment of the intoxicating emotions laying siege to her abstemious soul. Had she sipped some devil's wine? Succumbed to some devilish spell?
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 5