Dutifully, Chantal tilted her mouth upwards and waited with eyes closed to experience the sweet, surging thrill his kisses never failed to arouse.
'Forget it, Chantal.' Her eyes flew open at the distant sound of his voice and widened even further when she saw that he was standing at the far side of the room, clenched fists dug deeply into his pockets. 'Duty tastes as sour as the grape of the wild vine,' he told her bleakly. 'I'll wait a little longer and perhaps reap the sweetness of a cultivated harvest.'
She maintained a hurt, puzzled silence as they drove in summer sunshine through landscape whitened as if by a fall of snow, every hill and field shrouded in a veil of powdered chalk that shifted with each gust of wind and rose in furious puffs around the feet of men and grazing animals—the chalk upon which the whole of the district was built.
Brut made no attempt to break the silence until the butter-coloured edifice of the Château loomed in front of them. The road was deserted when he drew the car to the side of the road and switched off the engine.
'I have a present for you,' he surprised her by saying, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a small leather-bound box. When he released a spring the lid flew open, revealing a ring so huge, so deeply green, it could only be made of paste. Reaching for her hand, he slid her signet ring from her third finger and replaced it with the heavy, cumbersome stone, then, keeping her hand cupped within his palm, he elevated one sharply defined eyebrow, awaiting her comments.
Wondering what exactly he was expecting of her, she struggled for words, discarding delighted adjectives as being too hypocritical, feeling annoyed that he could consider her naïve enough to be deceived by such vulgar imitation.
'Well, have you nothing to say?' He seemed surprised by her prolonged silence.
'Oh ... er ... it's very nice,' she stammered, 'very nice indeed.' She began twisting her wrist to display the ring at different angles, wondering what more she could say about the beastly object.
He sat back in his seat looking disappointed, as if he had expected a far more favourable reaction. But how could he? she asked herself. How dared he expect that she would be fooled by a so very obvious sham?
'May I keep this?' Her signet ring looked fragile hooked around the first joint of his little finger.
A denial sprang to her lips. The ring had been a present from her father and as such was precious to her, yet for some inexplicable reason she could not refuse his request even though, after she had gone, it would most likely be tossed into a drawer and forgotten as easily as she would be forgotten.
'If you wish,' she gulped. 'It's of very little value.'
'I will carry it always in the pocket nearest my heart,' he assured her with deceptive gravity. When he lifted the ring to his lips her heart gave a sudden lurch. 'To me, it will always remain priceless, treasured because it is a part of you.'
As if anxious not to tire her, he started up the car, to continue their journey towards the Château. 'My aunt, Nicole's mother, is anxious to meet you,' he told her, swinging the car into the avenue of plane trees, 'so I invited her to join us here this morning. I expect she will be waiting inside.'
Every sensitive nerve cringed from the thought of having to be polite to the woman Chantal knew was her enemy. As Brut ushered her into the Château and across the hall she clenched her fists, steeling herself for the encounter.
They discovered Madame Mortemart sitting at a table set out on a terrace thickly fringed with ferns and cooled by the shade of tall trees bordering a baize-smooth lawn dotted with colourful flower beds. She looked exactly as Chantal had imagined, intimidatingly assured in a suit easily recognisable as an elegant creation of one of the leading fashion houses. Predictably, it was black—the colour most favoured by mature Frenchwomen—its severity only slightly relieved by a silken grey and white blouse, its neckline filled by a three-strand necklace of pearls. On one lapel a diamond brooch glittered —hard and bright as the stare directed by the silver-haired woman who lose to her feet with the lissom ease of a girl.
But a deeply-scored brow and lines of dissatisfaction pulling down the edges of her mouth betrayed bitter discontent.
'So you are Mademoiselle Barry whom I have heard so much about?' Her expression became transformed the moment Brut effected an introduction. 'May I please be allowed to call you Chantal? The likeness between yourself and your late grand'mère is so pronounced that already I feel I have known you for a very long time.'
'I would be honoured, Madame.' Chantal quaked, inwardly repelled by a hypocrisy that welcomed with a smile that was not reflected in eyes hard with rancour. 'You knew my grandmother well?' She dropped into the seat Brut had drawn forward, thankful for its support against her trembling knees.
The other woman's eyebrows rose. 'Has no one mentioned that for many years I acted as your grandmother's companion? I was also her private secretary, her confidante, sharing in everything—her hopes, her fears,' delicately, she hesitated, 'and in the great sadness caused by the rift between your mother and herself. No one knows better than I the great pain she suffered when time after time the letters she wrote, or rather that I wrote to her dictation, remained unanswered. It was très tragique, don't you think, that your mother was never able to forgive?'
Stiffly ill at ease, Chantal fought to find excuses for her parents' behaviour, but she could think of none. If, as Madame Mortemart had so positively stated, the old Comtesse had subdued her pride and written not once but many times in an attempt to bridge the separation, then her parents' refusal to respond was inexcusable. She lapsed into embarrassed silence, willing Brut, who had moved out of earshot, to come to her rescue.
It seemed as if her mute signal had reached him when he strode towards them carrying a dark, gold-foiled bottle.
'Champagne!' Chantal could not help sounding rather shocked. 'Isn't it rather early in the day?'
'The first mid-morning glass tastes the best of any,' Brut assured her with a grin. 'According to Madame de Pompadour it is the only wine that leaves a woman beautiful after drinking it, lending a sparkle to the eye, but leaving the skin unflushed. Not that I expect any improvement in you, chérie,' your freckled beauty could never, in my opinion, be surpassed.'
Conscious of his aunt's hard stare, Chantal concentrated her attention upon Brut as expertly he removed the gold foil from around the cork, twisted off a wire muzzle, then holding the base of the bottle in one hand and the cork in the other, with his thumb over the top, he gently twisted both base and cork in opposite directions. She tensed for the expected loud pop but was surprised when the cork and the bottle parted company with little more than a sigh.
Correctly interpreting her expression, Brut smiled. 'It is also unnecessary to swathe the bottle in a white napkin. Why should we go to the bother of supplying an extravagant package if it is not meant to be shown?' With a steady wrist he poured a stream of pale gold liquid into fluted glasses, then lifted one of them aloft so that she could see the host of tiny bubbles streaming upwards.
He took time to pass a glass of wine to his aunt, together with a plate of sweet biscuits, but turned immediately back to Chantal to clink the rim of his glass against hers, holding her eyes with a look so intense it was easy to forget they were not completely alone.
'Dare you sip the devil's wine, mon ange?' he queried softly, tiny flames leaping in the depths of his eyes.
Controlling a swift blush of awareness, she lifted the tall misted glass to her lips and as she sipped felt bubbles breaking beneath her nose and sniffed a fragrant bouquet that went straight to her head. 'The devil seeks slaves and claims obedience,' she quipped, hating her own inane, nervous giggle. 'I'm not sure that I'm prepared to pay so dear a price. However, I expect some exchange will have to be made for indulging in the wicked extravagance of drinking champagne while early morning sun shines.'
'We French drink champagne when we feel like it, chérie,' his aunt's voice iced into their absorption. 'You will learn,' she paused to smile thinly, 'if you are with us
long enough, that le vin diable is not reserved purely for festive occasions.'
Unnerved by the animosity the older woman was projecting, Chantal gulped down wine that had turned sour in her mouth and made to return her glass to the table. But her hand holding the glass was shaking so much she raised the other hand to steady it, bringing into full view the huge stone glowing emerald green in the sunlight.
Madame Mortemart's scandalised gasp was clearly audible. 'Brut!' she exclaimed, seemingly mesmerised by the ring. 'Why is she wearing the La Roque emerald?'
'Why should she not?' Lazily, Brut smiled into Chantal's startled eyes. 'The emerald is an heirloom that for centuries has been presented by the men of my family to their prospective brides. Naturally, I have followed tradition by presenting the La Roque emerald to the girl who has promised to be my wife.'
With visible effort of will, his aunt regained her composure, nevertheless, damped-down anger smouldered in her eyes when, with thin lips barely moving, she charged Chantal, 'You realise, I hope, that the emerald you are wearing is one of the few of its size in the world that is completely flawless and that it is therefore priceless?' Luckily for Chantal, whose vocal cords, in common with the rest of her, were paralysed with shock, she did not wait for an answer but stabbed out a second hard statement. 'It is very important that you realise also that in addition to its monetary value the emerald is of great sentimental value and must always remain with the family. What I am telling you is this. When,' quickly, she amended, 'should your betrothal ever be terminated there is no question of your ever being allowed to retain possession of the ring.'
After she had strode rigid-backed from the room Chantal withdrew the huge emerald from her finger and laid it carefully upon the table.
'I thought it was made of paste,' she quavered, 'otherwise I would never have dared to wear it. Why didn't you explain its history?'
'I eventually would have done so, but that aspect did not seem important at the time,' Brut clipped, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. 'Please excuse my aunt's interference. Over the years I have allowed her too great a say in my affairs, with the result that she now seems to consider herself blessed with unlimited licence. I shall insist that you receive an apology.'
Noting his rock-hard jaw, the steel hardness of his eyes, she felt a sneaking sympathy for his aunt. 'She was quite rightly trying to protect your interest,' she pointed out gently, 'and I'm glad she did. Now that I know the truth I can't possibly take responsibility for its safe keeping.'
'The truth?' His hand flashed out to grip her chin, forcing her to endure a look of probing anger. 'When have I ever lied to you, Chantal?' His effrontery made her gasp. Their whole relationship was built upon lies, he and Nicole had evolved a coldly calculated plan to ruin her own and Peter's future, yet he dared to ask such a question!
Nevertheless, because the finale was not yet in sight the farce had to be played out. 'The fault may have been mine,' she stammered. 'I misunderstood, jumped to the conclusion that because of its size the jewel had to be sham.'
'You actually thought that I would mark our betrothal with a ring that was not genuine?' His low monotone had more impact than a furious tirade. When dropped lashes conveyed her shame he condemned over the top of her bent head, 'I suspect there are other misconceptions harbouring behind your cool shell. Would this not be a good time to begin sorting them out? You have been proved wrong once, Chantal and could be again.' Swiftly he swooped upon the ring and thrust it back upon her finger. 'Wear it!' he crisped. 'Let its presence act as a reminder that you have promised to be my bride.'
During the short time it took to drive from the Château to the site of the wine cellars she had time to think and was amazed at the ease with which he had managed to fill her mind with doubts and uncertainty. The idea of having felt shame on his behalf was, with hindsight, so ludicrous she almost laughed aloud. How he must be enjoying manipulating her emotions, she thought bitterly, how amused he must be by her naïveté, how satisfied with his success! But success breeds complacency, she consoled herself. Keeping the beast complacent would help to hasten his downfall.
Though everything about the Champagne country interested her, what lay beneath was astonishing. 'The ageing of bottled wine has to take place very slowly,' Brut explained, 'and in a very cool place devoid of draughts, because any abrupt change of temperature can cause the bottles to explode.'
In the cellars running like rabbit warrens beneath the towns and villages of the district conditions were ideal. Chantal shivered as he led her through vast galleries hewn out of chalk centuries earlier by slaves carrying out the orders of conquering Romans. Alert, as always, to her needs, Brut shrugged off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders, then without removing his arm he guided her through long underground tunnels holding thousands of neatly racked bottles.
His voice echoed through pyramid-shaped caverns as he urged her to keep tight hold of wrought iron rails edging each flight of steep dimly-lighted steps, and instructed her on the processes undergone by the wine before it was ready for marketing. They walked from cellar to cellar, each one more awe-inspiring than the last, great vaults of chalk with light projecting through scrolled ironwork so that decorative panels filtering against dark surfaces seemed to hang like paintings on the walls of a dim, silent cathedral.
'So many bottles !' she gasped, more than a little bemused by the realisation that the work carried out in the vineyards was a mere preliminary to many hours of labour by many workers concerned not merely with the processing but also with a vast range of work that was less glamorous yet equally vital—the maintenance of ventilating shafts that permitted air to circulate; of water pipes that enabled the cellars to be kept clean; of drainage systems that carried off used water and the spillage from broken bottles, the lifts that needed to be kept in working order, the staircases, ramps and tunnels that needed to be maintained in tip-top condition to ensure that the movement of bottles from cellar to cellar was accomplished easily and smoothly.
But the best and most delightful surprise Brut kept to the last. 'Close your eyes,' he instructed, halting outside a heavy wooden door that was barely discernible through the gloom of a chalk tunnel. Unmoved by her questioning look, he refused further explanation and waited with a half smile playing around his lips until she did as he had asked.
With a mystified shrug she obeyed, and remained with lashes downcast wondering what further surprise was in store. She heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, the creak of hinges as the door swung open, then felt his hand upon her elbow urging her forward.
'You may open them now.' His tone of whimsical indulgence increased her curiosity. Her lids flew upwards, then widened as she stepped inside a chalk grotto flooded with delicate blue light. It was empty except for a pedestal holding a jewel-encrusted statue of the Virgin and Child expertly positioned so that hidden spotlights played upon the Madonna's face, highlighting an expression of devoted motherhood that seemed uncannily human. The folds of her dress seemed to move in the draught from the doorway, as did the hand of the infant stretching out to clutch His mother's shawl.
'How ...? Why ...?' she gasped, awe-filled eyes fixed upon the exquisite tableau.
'The statue is very old,' he told her, 'so we are not certain of its precise origin. It came into the possession of the House as a wedding present given many years ago to the bride of one of the partners. For years it was housed in the Château, then some forty years ago some inspired person designed this unique and special setting hundreds of feet below ground.' His arm slid around her shoulders as softly he murmured, 'Each time I look at it I am reminded of the saying: "There is no slave out of heaven like a loving woman, and of all loving women there is no such slave as a mother." '
Chantal's mouth felt suddenly dry. His words held a message that turned her bones to water, yet she resented the intrusion of further deceit into an interlude of deep reverence.
Brut frowned when a shudder racked her slim body. Swiftly h
e tightened his arm, hugging her closer to his side. 'I ought to have remembered to warn you about the coolness of the cellars. We will return to the surface; you have starved long enough.'
Feeling in no mood to argue, she allowed him to lead her back to the surface where in the bright light of day the tenseness of her expression was mistaken for regret.
'We will come back another day when you are better prepared,' he assured her, sounding slightly teasing. 'But if you would like to continue your exploration perhaps my laboratory would be of interest?'
The invitation could not have been broached more casually, yet she sensed that he was pleased by the eagerness she forced into her acceptance. 'May I be permitted to visit the holy of holies? According to Hortense, few outsiders are allowed admittance to the sanctuary of a chef de cave!'
'I'm sorry to have to disappoint you,' he grinned wryly, 'but the reason visitors are discouraged is because there is so little to be seen. I admit that when I am working it is vital that the air around me does not become polluted by cigarette smoke, perfume, and suchlike, but otherwise my surroundings are completely unremarkable.'
Reminded that she had once again acted upon her grandmother's advice and applied a liberal amount of perfume, Chantal made a small moue of disappointment. 'In that case ...' she began.
'I know,' he interrupted. 'The reminder of woods in springtime has teased my nostrils all morning, but as this is not one of my working days the only havoc caused will be to my senses.'
The laboratory was situated nearby, a bare brick building set close to the entrance to the caves. Her first impression when she stepped inside was one of light, air, and clinical simplicity. Strictly functional furnishings—chairs, cupboards, a table scattered with an assortment of unidentifiable utensils— completed a scene totally lacking in comfort.
'What were you expecting to see?' he queried, amused by her downcast expression.
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 12