Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome

by Champagne Spring

  'Oh, fiery jets ... hissing steam ... glass cauldrons full of bubbling liquid,' she trailed vaguely, then faltered, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous the description must have sounded.

  She chanced a shamefaced glance and found, just as she had expected, that his face had creased into laughter.

  'At times I have been accused by jealous competitors of being something of a sorcerer,' he assured her, 'but I'm afraid the success of my blend is achieved by a mundane combination of a degree in bio-chemistry, good eyes, a sensitive nose, and a well trained palate. I wish I could live up to your illusion that I am some kind of wizard skilled in the mixing of magic potions, but unfortunately I can claim to be nothing other than a mere male.'

  Her lips were quirking by the time he had finished mocking her naïveté, but as their laughing eyes held humour faded, leaving the room full of silent tension.

  'Chantal ... !' he groaned, jerking her into his arms. 'Je me consume pour toi! You must admit that I have been good—how much longer must I wait until I receive my reward?'

  'Reward!' The word acted like a bright green warning light. Rewards were sought in exchange for favours—obviously the ring she had received from him had been given not as a present but as a bribe ! 'Ought I to feel flattered to be considered fair exchange for the family bauble?'

  With his lips pressed against a pulse throbbing in her throat he went suddenly still. Slowly his head lifted to scour her pale, resentful face, then with wordless revulsion he pushed her aside and strode out of the room.

  For a long time after he had gone she stood by a window battling with a threat of hot, shamed tears. 'He's a beast,' she assured herself fiercely, 'a selfish, unfeeling brute, a consummate actor capable of convincing without words that he has suffered deep and irrevocable hurt... !'

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE grapes were beginning to ripen. For almost two months Chantal had existed with nerves on a knife edge, her personal problems aggravated by a tension that was being felt throughout the vineyards as anxiety mounted about the constant danger of late frosts damaging the vines. An abundance of fruit depended upon successful pollination; if a heavy frost should occur while the vines were flowering disaster was inevitable.

  Tempers at Trésor d'Hélène had worn decidedly ragged, but as the days had grown progressively warmer, the atmosphere more humid, tension had eased, faces had begun to smile again. Now, the dried-up remains of flowers had been dispersed, small green pellets of fruit had ballooned almost to the size of maturity, and skins were gradually starting to change colour.

  Concerned that Chantal's pinched features still showed signs of strain, Hortense had told her, 'You need worry no longer, mademoiselle, all that we now require for a successful harvest is as much warmth and sunshine as le bon dieu can provide.'

  Chantal had felt like screaming aloud. No need to worry! Her life had developed into a disastrous mess, her emotions tortured each morning by a visit from an outwardly affable, outwardly solicitous fiancé whose cool kiss of greeting was a cross that was becoming harder and harder to bear. Why he bothered to keep up such pretence was a mystery. Not once during the past weeks had he attempted the least move towards intimacy, not once had he pressed her to change her mind when she had declined to accept invitations proffered with a casual indifference she found insulting. Yet still he persisted in trying to preserve an illusion that nothing had changed between them, lulling any embryo suspicions Peter or Hortense might have harboured by dropping into the conversation odd references to alterations that were in progress at the Château supposedly for the benefit of his new bride. His clever insinuations had not gone unrewarded, for in spite of lack of confirmation, Hortense and Peter seemed to have concluded that the wedding was to take place in autumn once the harvest had been gathered.

  Chantal had fretted and puzzled over his motives, wondering how much longer she could endure having this blond, blue-eyed Adonis striding into her life each morning—wondering when, if ever, the devious Marquis would provide proof of his own and his cousin's duplicity.

  She was standing gazing out of the kitchen window, so could not avoid seeing Peter exchanging a prolonged and affectionate farewell with Nicole. In common with her cousin, she rode over to Trésor d'Hélène most days with the sole object, Chantal had no doubt, of ensuring that her victim remained firmly pinned beneath a weight of adolescent adoration. She squirmed when, as she watched, Nicole reached out to stroke Peter's cheek, then stood on tiptoe to tease his youthful ardour with a final kiss.

  She felt barely able to restrain a torrent of angry condemnation when her brother strode into the kitchen.

  'Can you spare a moment, Sis?' He hooked a lanky leg across a kitchen chair.

  'I can,' she told him tartly, 'but can you? Do you think it's fair to leave so much of the work to Louis?'

  'That's what I want to talk to you about.' To her amazement she saw that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, his youthful frame stiff with embarrassment. She braced to combat the outpouring of infatuated words that seemed inevitable, telling herself that she must not fall into the trap of showing animosity towards Nicole, but must employ gentle reason, appeal to his sense of responsibility as she tried to outline the pitfalls of an early marriage.

  But his first words took the wind out of her sails. 'It's Nicole,' he blurted. 'I don't seem to be able to make her understand that a chap's work has to take precedence, especially at this time of the year. I know she tries to be helpful,' he jerked, running a harassed finger around the inside of his collar, 'but I waste more time than enough getting her out of difficulties, dancing attendance.' Glaring at Chantal as if .she were the cause of his problem, he accused hotly, 'Why can't women understand how important a man's work is to him? My life, my whole future, is tied up in viticulture, yet when I try to explain how essential it is that jobs are finished on schedule she just laughs and teases and tries to coax me to leave the work to Louis and go off with her for the day. As the wife of a vineyard owner she'd be impossible !' he exploded. Colouring, if possible, a shade deeper, he fixed his eyes upon his shuffling feet. 'And there's something else,' he mumbled, acutely embarrassed. 'She keeps going on and on about marriage! When she first brought the subject up I thought it was rather a lark, so I played along,' his head jerked up to fix eyes full of anxious pleading on her face, 'but Nicole is taking it all so seriously, Sis! I don't want to get married!' Panic showed in his movements as he jerked to his feet. 'But how can I say so outright? She's so sweet, so tender, so loving, I couldn't possibly hurt her. You're an expert in these matters, please tell me what to do !'

  Chantal wanted to dance and sing and cheer, if she had been wearing a bonnet she would have tossed it into the air. As it was she had to struggle to retain an expression of composure. Dropping her lashes to hide the bright, exhultant sparkle in her eyes, she began gently:

  'I'm pleased you've felt able to tell me about it, Peter. I can understand how you must feel faced with a seemingly insoluble problem, but believe me,' she reached out to clasp his hand, 'you have no need to worry.'

  'No need to worry !' With an incredulous look he snatched his hand away. 'How can you say that?'

  'Because being a woman myself, I understand the working of a woman's mind,' she insisted firmly. Determined, at this delicate stage of the proceedings, not to upset him by disparaging Nicole, she continued, tongue in cheek, 'Nicole is a young and inexperienced girl. You, being more mature, were the first to realise that marriage between you two wouldn't work, but given time Nicole would also have arrived at the same conclusion. All girls of her age fall in love with the idea of getting married —at the moment she thinks she's in love with you, but actually she's just infatuated with the thought of wearing a wedding ring.'

  'You think that's all there is to it?' he breathed, an expression of hope lightening his features.

  'I'm sure of it,' she nodded. 'All you need do is be less available, less anxious to rush to her side— even arrange to be out a couple of times w
hen you know she's due to call. After a few weeks of such treatment she'll become disillusioned and your appeal as a husband will gradually diminish.'

  Looking infinitely relieved, Peter promised with respectful awe, 'I'll never underestimate you again, Sis. I can almost believe your plan will work !' He flung his arms wide, flexing his shoulder muscles as if relieved of an intolerable burden. 'Suddenly the future seems full of possibilities—thanks to you and Brut.'

  'Brut ...?' She queried, her smile rather fixed. 'What part has he to play in your future?'

  Made complacent by the knowledge that she could hardly object to his discussing their affairs with the man she was about to marry, Peter confided, 'Brut has suggested that in order to further my career I should attend a college of viticulture and oenology. He's also promised that if I do,' he paused to suck in an exultant breath, 'I can look forward to joining the Etablissement as his personal pupil chef de cave !'

  Chantal's short span of happiness came to an abrupt end. Shaken by the depths of the Marquis's duplicity, she sank into a chair and managed to gasp, 'And what, might I ask, is to happen to the Trésor d'Hélène? You can't expect Louis and me to manage the vineyard on our own while you go off to college.'

  'Of course not!' He looked astounded at the very thought. 'Brut will send in his own workers—you needn't worry about Hortense and Louis—he's promised that their position will remain unchanged. The price he's offered for the vineyard is more than ample to cover the cost of my education and to tide me over until I'm ready to join the staff of the Etablissement. Thank goodness, your future presents no problems—once you're Brut's wife your well-being will be assured.'

  Chantal sat well into the early hours of the next morning huddled in an armchair in her bedroom, brooding over the clever tactics employed by the Marquis. With infinite cunning he had turned the tables on both herself and Nicole; like pieces on a chessboard, he had manoeuvred each of them into exactly the position needed to enable him to achieve victory.

  Peter must have posed the least problem of all. By pandering to his enthusiasm for the work he loved, the Marquis had won him over with promises of an interesting and profitable career. Annoyingly, she could find no flaw in such a scheme, for its benefits ran exactly parallel to the ambitions she had nurtured on his behalf.

  For Nicole, she felt little sympathy—was, indeed, glad that her plan to blackmail the Marquis into marriage had been neatly annihilated.

  The only one of his pawns deserving of sympathy was herself. What was to happen to her once the farcical engagement had been broken off? She could not refuse to sell her share of the vineyard because to do so would be to jeopardise Peter's future, which was unthinkable. Where would she live? Their house in England had been let furnished and would not become available for at least two years and, once the Marquis took over control, the door of Trésor d'Hélène would no doubt be closed to her.

  Refusing to wallow in self-pity, she jumped to her feet and began pacing the floor. She was beaten, frustrated, but even with her back to the wall she would fight until there was no breath left in her body. The wary bachelor, Nicole had called the Marquis, implying that he was a man who guarded his freedom jealously. No doubt, before asking her to marry him, he had carefully weighed up the odds and concluded that they were all in his favour. If they had not been, nothing would have induced him to risk his freedom. Well, he was the last man in the world she wanted to marry, but he did not know that, nor would he know it until she had made him squirm !

  She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the floor, her heart pumping madly. She would call his bluff! Make him sweat under the illusion that she intended to keep him to his promise, right up until the day of their proposed marriage! Then, at the very last moment, she would fling the deeds of the land in his face before storming out of his life, destitute of everything—except pride.

  If Brut was surprised by the warmth of her greeting the following morning he did not show it. Following his usual custom, he bent his head to brush a kiss across her cheek but found himself instead kissing lips that had turned eagerly towards him. He took time to relish the unexpected offering, prolonging the kiss until Hortense began to chuckle and Chantal tore out of his arms, scarlet-faced.

  Shaken to the core by the message he had secretly communicated, she avoided his glinting eyes and questioned nervously, 'Have you made any special plans for today?'

  'No, I am yours to command,' he mocked, keeping narrowed eyes trained upon her face.

  Determined to confound him, she forced brightness into her reply. 'I would like to see how work is progressing at the Château. There's so much to be done—do you realise,' boldly she challenged him, 'that we haven't yet set a firm date for our wedding day?'

  This time he really was surprised. Emotion flared in his eyes—bright, startling, but unreadable. Confident that his reaction was one of dismay, her optimism soared to such heights that she was able to ask Hortense, 'Do you suppose we could take a second look at my grandmother's wedding dress? I should love to be able to wear it. With a little alteration here and there I feel certain it will fit. Oh, and another thing, Brut!' she was enjoying herself so much she had begun to sound quite imperious 'Do you think your aunt would help me to get up a list of wedding guests?'

  'I'm certain she would be delighted.' His reply was smooth but the look in his eyes remained keen. 'She and Nicole are holding one of their many committee meetings at the Château, if we hurry we might catch them before they leave.'

  Chantal expected an inquisition about her change of attitude as they drove towards the Château, but he surprised her by generalising about the weather the state of the crops, and the expected size of the harvest, touching lightly upon each topic, progressing with such smoothness from one to another that no break occurred in the conversation throughout the short journey.

  She sensed that the ploy was deliberate, that he wanted no showdown to erupt—just yet. Consequently, her nerves felt as brittle as the laughter with which she responded to some quip as he helped her from the car.

  The committee meeting was still in progress, they were told as they entered the hall. 'Please ask Madame Mortemart to speak with me before she leaves,' Brut requested the servant who had greeted them at the door, then he took Chantal's hand to lead her through the salon and outside on to the terrace where they had sat once before.

  'Are you in the mood for further wickedness?' When her lashes flew up over guilty eyes, he qualified with a faintly mocking smile, 'Would you like a glass of champagne?'

  'Oh ... are you having one?'

  'Certainement.' He moved towards an ice bucket and withdrew a gold-foiled bottle from a nest of cracked ice. 'I have no qualms about indulging myself, whatever the time of day or night, providing the experience is pleasant.'

  As the cork sighed from its resting place she watched a spiral of vapour hovering momentarily before dispersing into the atmosphere. Carefully, he poured a measure of champagne into each of two glasses, then passed her one, instructing, 'Grip the stem of the glass tightly with the thumb, index, and middle fingers, then twirl it briskly, so that the wine is thoroughly disturbed from its slumbers.' When she did as he had requested he continued, 'Now, beginning with the eyes, test the appeal of the wine to your senses. Is the froth snow-white? Is the colour good?'

  'Exactly what colour should it be?' she quavered, almost seduced by the mellow timber of his voice.

  'Good champagnes come in a vast range of shades, from the paleness of straw to the bright bronze that tips your lashes,' he brooded down at her. 'But it should never be insipid, if the colour is not sharp and pleasing then the wine is imperfect.'

  She tingled with awareness when he enclosed her hand in his, but he was merely urging her hand upwards so that the bubbles in her glass laughed down at her. 'See,' he nodded, 'how the bubbles form right down at the base of the stem, then shoot upwards to the surface? Now listen.' He guided her hand until the glass was resting against her ear, then fell silent.

>   'I can hear the bubbles crackling !' she cried, delighted by the discovery.

  His smile reached to the depth of her soul. 'Champagne !' he toasted in a whisper, clicking the rim of his glass against hers, 'the only wine possessed of the ingredients essential to a perfect love affair—j a touch of wickedness, a hint of fun !'

  Their absorption was broken by a polite cough. 'Excuse me for interrupting,' his aunt walked on to the terrace, her gimlet eyes taking stock of the uncorked bottle, the half-filled glasses, and two heads close as one. 'I believe, Brut, that you wish to speak with me.'

  'Not I—Chantal.' He stood up to peck the cheek his aunt proffered.

  'Oh, yes ...?' She placed questioning emphasis on the two short words.

  When Chantal floundered, utterly incapable of finding a suitable opening, he came to her rescue. 'We were wondering if you would like to help compile a list of names of all those who you think ought to be invited to attend our wedding.'

  His aunt stepped backwards, obviously stricken. 'You cannot be serious?'

  Looking decidedly vexed, he returned curtly, 'But of course I am—have you ever known me to joke about serious subjects? Chantal and I,' he pulled her close into his side, 'are to be married in the autumn. If for some reason you do not wish to assist us with the arrangements then kindly say so.'

  Noting the look of shock in his aunt's eyes, Chantal guessed that it was the first time that he had ever spoken to her in such a harsh manner. For a moment her face worked as if she was about to burst into tears, but then she drew in a deep breath and relieved her anger by directing an outburst of venom towards Chantal.

  'You cannot marry this girl—this upstart ! Have you forgotten that she is the child of parents who broke the Comtesse's heart? That she is the child of the woman who humiliated your own father? Both she and her brother are here under false pretences,' she hissed, 'scroungers, both of them! But she,' she pointed a shaking ringer at Chantal, 'is the worst of the two, a devious brat just like her mother!' Her eyes, full of hatred, speared Chantal. 'To bear two children, then fade from the scene leaving the bother of their upbringing to others, was typical of spoiled, mollycoddled Camille d'Estrées !'