Chantal flinched and was drawn tight against Brut's side. But the significance of his aunt's remark did not register until, in a deadly cold voice, Brut questioned :
'Would you mind telling me how you knew that Chantal's mother had died young? My father was not aware of it, I'm sure of that, and neither was the Comtesse, so how did you come by the information?'
For a fraction of a second his aunt looked afraid, then hatred and desire to air revenge that had lain festering for years sprang to the forefront. 'From letters that her father,' she glared at Chantal, 'wrote to the Comtesse and which I intercepted. Oh, he was clever, the young lieutenant,' she snapped her fingers with contempt, 'his letters were carefully phrased so that any reference to poverty or self-pity was omitted, but he was not clever enough to hoodwink me! I knew that his basic aim was money, and a home for his children—by destroying his letters I made certain that he received neither !'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A HEAVY, sweet smell hung over the whole of the Province. The vintage was in full swing. Since the first basket of grapes had arrived outside the sheds for pressing work had began and was due to continue non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, until the last of the many baskets filled with luscious amethyst grapes had been disgorged into waiting presses.
Chantal had seen little of Brut since the vintage began, a few snatched moments of conversation were all he had allowed her as, wearing overalls and gumboots, he had worked side by side with men who, bleary-eyed with weariness, had cheerfully abandoned family, leisure and even sleep to become part of a world consisting solely of tons upon tons of grapes.
She had visited the sheds only once, just as huge vats filled with must were beginning the bouillage, a phase during which grape skins floated to the top of the pressed juice and formed layers through which gas erupted in a froth that foamed, bubbled and hissed, creating an atmosphere of stormy anger similar to that that had broken over the head of Madame Mortemart seconds after she had confessed her treachery to Brut. The following day she and Nicole had left hurriedly to begin a prolonged visit to relatives in a distant neighbourhood, but for many days afterwards Brut's anger had remained active as the bouillage and even yet traces of a still-simmering storm could be detected in eyes that had hardened to a cold, hard blue. It was as if he held himself partly to blame, Chantal told herself, vexed by the inconsistency of his shouldering responsibility for a deed perpetrated when he was no more than a child.
'It is his pride that is hurt, mademoiselle.' Intuitively, Hortense had guessed the cause of her worry. 'As head of his family, he feels his aunt's action as a slight upon his personal honour.'
Chantal had dismissed the surmise with a shrug. However much it hurt to believe it, however much she wanted to disbelieve it, the fact remained that honour had no place in the make-up of a man who had schemed successfully to wreck her future.
Standing in the kitchen of Trésor d'Hélène, she stared bleakly out of the window, hating the thought of leaving the house she had come to regard as home, of never again seeing the green, quiet, graceful landscape which, like the man uppermost in her mind, possessed a douceur, a sweetness that compelled affection, as well as a tendency towards sudden storms, shocking in their intensity.
Hortense cut short her orgy of misery by rapping the table with a ladle. 'You did say that you would give me a hand with the food for tonight's cochelet, did you not? All this extra work,' she grumbled, 'yet instead of helping you stand for hours mooning at the window !'
'I'm sorry, Hortense,' Chantal whipped round to face her, knowing that the old woman's sharp utterances were shielding concern, 'tell me what I can do to help you.'
'You can prepare the vegetables for the potée champenoise,' the housekeeper relented with bad grace. Lifting the lid, she peered into the interior of a huge boiler inside which was simmering a mixture of salted breast of pork, stewing beef, sausages, ham, chickens, seasoning and spices which was to form the basis of the cochelet, the huge meal traditionally supplied to the vineyard workers when picking was drawing to an end. 'Hand me the large fork,' she instructed Chantal, then began fishing inside the monster casserole for the sausages which she removed, then popped inside the oven to keep warm. 'Will Monsieur le Marquis and yourself be joining in the festivities this evening, mademoiselle?'
'I doubt it, Hortense.' Carefully Chantal continued shredding cabbages, hoping she would take the hint and abandon the subject.
'But you must both put in an appearance at the cochelet!’ Hortense protested, scandalised. 'A girl will have been chosen to present you with a bouquet of wild flowers and vine leaves and in return the Marquis will be expected to hand round champagne. And you mustn't miss the fair ! There will be roundabouts, live trout to be fished for and taken away in plastic bags full of water, and many prizes to be won on the sideshows. And yet,' she sighed, 'the vendange is not what it used to be. When I was a girl, the arrival of the vendangeurs was a great event. They came here in mule carts with wheels so rickety they looked ready to fall off the spindles— nevertheless, children and old people were piled aloft while younger, fitter members of the family followed behind on foot. Not like today,' she sniffed, 'when we are choked with the dust from lorries overcrowded with people and deafened by the noise and whistles of a generation that seemingly cannot exist without commotion. Only one thing remains the same,' she grinned suddenly, 'and that is the number of tummy-aches we are called upon to cure. They never learn,' she shook her head mournfully, 'warnings are always ignored. For the first few days they gorge themselves silly—especially the children. Do you know, mademoiselle, in the old days we were forced to muzzle even the donkeys because they, too, could not resist nibbling the crisp, sweet grapes !'
'I shall be glad when it's all over,' Chantal sighed, pushing a heavy wing of hair back from her hot forehead, 'for your sake, especially. The arrival of the pickers has caused you a great deal of extra work.'
'They deserve a treat,' Hortense replied simply. 'It is not an easy job, picking grapes from dawn till dusk, especially when they have to be handled so carefully—as if they were globes of fragile glass— in case they should become bruised and start fermenting. They work hard and play hard,' she concluded severely, 'and if I were you I would encourage the Marquis to follow their example.'
Once the vegetables had all been diced and laid aside with peeled potatoes to be added to the casserole during the last hour of cooking, Chantal prepared the batter for Hortense's speciality sweet, tarte de Cambrai, peeled and sliced pears for decoration, then sprinkled them with lemon juice to prevent discoloration.
'There, that's the finish !' Her sigh betrayed weariness and deep depression. 'If there are no more chores to be done, Hortense, I think I'll go to my room and lie down for an hour.'
Throwing a quick glance outside to where heavily-foliaged trees were casting pools of shade on to a sward of lawn, where flowers, heavy with petals, were nodding in the path of a gentle breeze and the droning of bees flitting from blossom to blossom added depth to a symphony of peace and tranquility, Hortense seemed about to protest but then, surprising a look of dejection on Chantal's face, she changed her mind.
'Do that, chérie,' she urged, her face puckering with concern, 'and don't worry about over-sleeping, I will give you a call long before the festivities are due to begin.'
Chantal did not bother to undress but stretched out supine on the top of her bed, turning her head sideways so that the wedding dress draped across a hanger was in full view. Hortense had worked her usual magic upon the gown of stiff, heavy brocade that even in the days of the notoriously extravagant 'Champagne Girls' had been considered costly. Doves outlined in tiny seed-pearls chased one another, cooing and preening, around the hem of the very full skirt; pearl-studded hearts and lovers' knots embroidered upon cloth aged to the colour of buttercream continued the theme of idyllic love and nuptial harmony.
The image blurred and faded, washed out of sight by a flood of scalding tears. She wept long and silently—p
ainful, aching tears shed on behalf of the home she was about to lose, the friends she was about to leave behind, and because of the separation imminent between herself and Peter, her only living relative. There was no other reason, she told herself firmly, digging clenched fists deep into the flower-sprigged eiderdown, no other single person whose absence she would regret, yet even while she railed, resisted, denied herself so much as a mention of Brut's name she knew deep within that she was lying.
When at last she surfaced from the depths of despair her mind was cleared of pretence, her heart prepared by her ordeal to face the fact that treacherous, cold-blooded, heartless though the Marquis might be, she was painfully, hopelessly, deeply in love with him.
Accepting this truth brought great relief, no longer would she need to search for excuses for flashes of irritability, for silent, introspective moods, for depression that descended like a cloud at the mere mention of Brut's name. But facing the truth also brought the realisation that she had reached the limit of her endurance; things could not continue as they were, therefore the only solution left to her was to put a swift, sharp end to an intolerable situation.
She prepared for the confrontation as if for the most important night of her life, paying particular attention to her hair which, after it was washed and dried, hugged her shapely head like a cap of bronzed satin. Knowing from experience that no amount of make-up could disguise her scattering of freckles, she stroked a line of green shadow across her eyelids, brushed a mist of pink over lips that would not be still, then with a dejected shrug stepped into a dress of flowered chiffon, its swirling skirt and full sleeves supplying the touch of dignity required of the Marquis's future bride, its softly muted shades of pink, lilac and blue lending to her pale, pointed features the delicacy of a slender spring flower. Her hand hovered over a phial of Muguet des Bois perfume, then withdrew. Perfume, meant as an aid to trick the senses, would be wasted during a scene of confrontation, but then, more as an aid to courage than as an attempt to make their parting memorable, she reached out for the phial and sprayed the haunting fragrance generously on to her skin.
When her toilette was finished she sat gazing with unseeing eyes out of the bedroom window, waiting in a state of numbed acceptance for the time to pass. Vague sounds impinged upon her conscience, the lusty, raucous laughter of pickers returning to makeshift quarters in the outbuildings, Peter's footsteps as he raced, two at a time, up the stairs, then the sound of his unmelodious voice issuing from the bathroom where he was scrubbing away the sweat of the day and preparing himself for the evening's festivities.
Hortense's call, when it came, sounded strident as an alarm. 'Time to get dressed, mademoiselle, the meal is ready and waiting to be served. Monsieur le Marquis has already arrived !'
Calmly, because in her frozen state haste was impossible, Chantal stood up and crossed over to her dressing-table to withdraw a bundle of papers from a drawer. Thrusting them deep into her handbag, she snapped the clasp shut, then walked steadily, with head held erect, towards the door.
Trestle tables covered with chequered cloths were ranged around the courtyard. Incredibly, the pickers who less than half an hour earlier had trailed hot, tired and sweaty from the vineyard were already washed, changed and seated, waiting for the meal to be served. Someone began playing a concertina and a couple began to dance. The sound of voices teasing, flirting, arguing rose loudly on the air.
She stiffened, feeling an impulse to flee, when she saw Brut approaching, but as if he had sensed her thought he quickened his step and captured her hand in his to raise it high in acknowledgement of lusty greetings.
'Smile, ma petite ...' As he bent to murmur in her ear their watchers gained an impression of intimacy which they evidently found enjoyable. A rousing cheer rang out, followed by a male voice impudently urging, 'Kiss her, Monsieur le Marquis ! All women prefer to kiss rather than to talk !'
Chantal blushed a fiery red when the pickers, already well fortified by wine, fell about laughing. Yet even her sweet solemnity was no proof against the wit of a woman who yelled out a denial. Not always, Jacques—whichever woman you might kiss would be wise to count her teeth !'
The ensuing ribaldry set the tenor of the evening. The setting was perfect, balmy air, sunshine adding warmth to the intimacy of the enclosed, flower-filled courtyard, music rising above the sound of happy voices to mingle with the delicious aroma of food being dished out by Hortense and her willing helpers.
'You must try not to mind their rather earthy humour,' Brut murmured as they took their seats at the head of the centre table.
'Of course I don't mind.' She managed a nervous smile, very conscious of the nearness of his plank-lean body. He was dressed in black—the colour of devilment—and beneath the collar of an open-necked shirt a chain glinted gold against his chest, a chain that shifted as he moved, revealing its burden—a tiny, insignificant signet ring.
Panicked by the unexpected sight, she grabbed the object nearest to her, a pepperpot, and began feverishly sprinkling its contents over the bowl of thin soup that had been placed before her. Sensing his questioning stare, she burst into a babble of embarrassed conversation.
'It's easy to guess that these people are strangers to the neighbourhood—their looks, speech, even their attitude to life is noticeably different from that of the locals.'
'Which is hardly surprising, considering their vastly different backgrounds,' he defended. 'Approximately ten thousand people come here each year to pick the grapes, the hard core of the influx consisting mainly of miners and industrial workers who are encouraged by their own local inspectors of health to spend their holidays in the clean, pure air of the vineyards. Others can be classed as agricultural vagabonds, forever on the move, following the direction of whichever crops are ready for harvesting. The rest is made up of gypsies, students, and the unemployed.'
Chantal pretended to concentrate on her soup, yet was unaware of its peppery bite upon her tongue. 'They must enjoy coming here if they arrive regularly, year after year,' she mumbled, thrashing the utmost out of the conversation.
'For most of them this is the only type of holiday they can afford, for others it is a case of carrying out a family tradition, but all of them, whether they come from habit, for money, or,' he twinkled, 'as in the case of the younger element, for sex, they all make certain that on this night especially they thoroughly enjoy themselves.'
Once more, hot colour was goaded into her cheeks by his deliberately wicked reference. Deciding that such earthiness was best left ignored, she pushed aside her plate and looked around the table, anxious to lose herself in the anonymity of casual conversation. But every man present seemed to have but one objective in mind; each had an arm hooked around the waist of a girlfriend, leaving the other hand free to ply fork or spoon; each was busy whispering words so amusing most of the girls had collapsed into helpless giggles, each was intent upon ensuring that glasses were kept filled to the brim with vin diable, the devil's wine.
'Drink up,' Brut urged lazily, topping up her half-filled glass.
A surge of anger brought about by the gullibility of her own sex found relief in a scornful refusal. 'No, thank you! Looking around, it appears to me that "drink in, wits out" is a maxim that has the full approval of your male associates !' Bravely she challenged his amused glance with eyes of bright, courageous green. 'Sorry to disappoint you, but your traditional sport doesn't appeal to me—I have no intention of accepting a bottle of bubbly in exchange for a toss in the hay !'
To her fury, instead of being deflated Brut threw back his head and roared with laughter. She wanted to jump up and run, but protocol demanded that she should remain; in the eyes of the vendangeurs the Marquis was the grand seigneur, it was unthinkable that his betrothed should not be proud and happy to wait his pleasure.
Suddenly, with a softness more startling than a shout, he bent close to admonish, 'Don't tempt fate, ma petite, we Champenois hold a belief that has seldom been proved wrong—it is that the
harvest will be ready to be gathered ninety days after the first lilies have flowered. Today is the ninetieth day!'
He had no need to elaborate, to spell out that his reference to the reaping of the harvest had nothing whatsoever to do with the gathering of grapes. For ten long, weary days and nights the men labouring in the vineyard had been in no mood to embrace anything other than celibacy, but now, as stripped of weariness as the vines were stripped of grapes, they were ready and willing to seek intoxication either from a bottle or from a woman's lips—but preferably from both !
It was almost midnight by the time Chantal decided that she had stood as much as she could take of the man in whose restless shadow she felt trapped. Not once had he left her side. For the whole of the evening as riotous gaiety washed around them, she had been made very aware of his intimidating presence, had felt like a mouse being stalked by a tiger, her every stride outmatched, her every evasive tactic thwarted. She was dancing woodenly in his arms, fighting against an urge to match the hypnotic rhythm of his body as he held her against him, communicating with a light touch of fingers along her spine an urgent plea to relax, to become soft and pliable.
Sensing his eyes lazily assessing her reaction, she stumbled, then jerked out of reach before his arms could tighten.
'I don't want to dance any more,' she gasped, 'I'm tired. But before I go to my room there's something we must discuss.' Wildly she looked around, seeking escape from the mill of noisy pickers who were becoming more boisterous by the minute. Shrieks of laughter coming from inside the house made plain the uselessness of seeking solitude there, so, taking her by the hand, Brut guided her out of the well-lighted courtyard in the direction of the dark, deserted vineyard. Furtive movements and half-stifled giggles betrayed the presence of other couples taking advantage of night's dark blanket, but these sounds gradually died out until, by the time they stopped to lean against a gate, a dull throbbing pulse of silence lay all around them.
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 14