The Widows of Champagne Read online

  It was no empty threat.

  The fork found its way into Josephine’s hand. And then, she took her first bite. She chewed slowly, and with very little enthusiasm. In that moment, as Gabrielle watched her grandmother struggle with this common task of feeding herself, grief exploded inside her heart, fueled by helplessness and bone-deep sorrow at the irrefutable fact that Grandmère was becoming too old to work the vines.

  But she was not there yet. Her iron will was still very much alive. She would do her part this year, if slower and with difficulty. Even if Gabrielle didn’t need the extra pair of hands, she wouldn’t take that away from her grandmother.

  She stepped into the kitchen. “Bonjour à tous.”

  “Ah, Gabrielle, ma chère.” Grandmère smiled, her eyes tired but clear of confusion. That alone was a triumph. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.” She took her place at the table.

  Marta set a plate in front of her, followed by a mug of coffee. The liquid was hot and dark as petrol, exactly as Gabrielle preferred. The housekeeper moved to stand beside Josephine, a fist parked on one generous hip. “You eat like a bird.”

  “I am not much bigger than one.”

  The two women glared at one another. But there was softness in their manner now, a deep affection born from years of proximity and routine. Suddenly, Gabrielle felt as if she were on the outside looking in, an observer only, separate and wholly apart. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. It shouldn’t hurt. But, oh, it did.

  “There was a day...” Marta let the rest trail away, perhaps deciding it best not to remark on Josephine’s recent weight loss. At an age when most women fattened up, Grandmère had grown too thin. More signs of what was to come.

  The housekeeper shuffled to the sink, filled it with water, then went to work scrubbing a dirty pan. Like Josephine, age was catching up to Marta. She moved slower these days. The passing years showed in her stooped shoulders and the lines around her eyes and lips. A road map for her anguish. The previous war had taken her only son in the first wave of battles.

  Too much death in this home, Gabrielle thought. Too much loss. She sipped her coffee and turned her attention to her grandmother. “Pierre and I are in agreement. We’ll start on the north end of the vineyard. And work our way south as the picking progresses.”

  After a moment of strained silence, Josephine set down her fork. “Do we... Is that...” She seemed to search for the words. “Is it usual for us to begin so far away from the presses?”

  The question cut deep. Gabrielle glanced away, unable to bear the light of confusion staring back at her. “The grapes suffered less rot atop the hills,” she said softly, dropping her words onto her own untouched food. “We’ll focus on the best, before we deal with the worst.”

  Silence met her explanation.

  She dared a glance across the table. Josephine had gone unnaturally still. Thinking, or possibly trying to grasp what Gabrielle had just explained. “I understand, yes. Yes, I see.”

  But did she?

  Abandoning her post at the sink, Marta went to Josephine and placed her hand on one of the bony shoulders. “Come, mon amie. Let’s get you dressed for a day with your vines.”

  Josephine put her hand on the table and, with Marta’s help, hoisted herself to her feet. “I will need my boots, I think.”

  “Oui. And your coat. The air is cold this morning.” Marta shared a troubled glance with Gabrielle, then guided Josephine out of the kitchen.

  We won’t have many more harvests together. Despite its futility, she prayed for five more seasons with her grandmother. No, ten. And still, it wouldn’t be enough.

  Before her grief could spiral into something darker, the sound of her mother’s heels clicking on the stone floor heralded her arrival. Hélène’s perfume entered the kitchen first, the woman two beats later. Dressed smartly in a belted, two-piece suit with a tightly fitted jacket and slim-cut skirt, she looked fashionably chic. She carried white gloves in her hand, as if she planned to take tea with her friends at the Ritz.

  “Maman, you cannot think to travel to Paris this morning.”

  “It is Wednesday.” She spoke as if that explained all. And perhaps, in her mind, it did.

  Gabrielle’s heart twisted in her chest, this time with frustration. How she wished for her mother to be, somehow, a different woman. Any other woman but this perfectly groomed creature with such a careless attitude toward recent events. The thought was a betrayal of the worst kind, Gabrielle knew this, hated herself for thinking it. Hélène was her mother. There’d been a time when that meant soft hugs and comforting words. Now, she didn’t know what to think of the woman who had given her birth. “You do recall we’re at war?”

  Her words came out harsher than she’d planned.

  Hélène didn’t seem to notice. “It’s been six weeks and the Germans have left us alone. Today will be no different.”

  “You can’t know that for sure.” Gabrielle tried to keep the judgment from her voice, the fear. She failed at both. “It’s safer to stay in Reims.”

  But that wasn’t entirely true. During the previous war the trenches of the Western Front had cut through the heart of Champagne. Constant, heavy shelling had uprooted countless rows of chardonnay and pinot noir vines. Gabrielle still remembered being herded into the wine cellars with the others, unsure what they would find when they returned above ground. She’d clutched her mother’s hand and had found comfort from the assurances whispered in her ear.

  As if she could read her daughter’s mind, for a moment, Hélène seemed to visibly soften. She touched Gabrielle’s hair, kissed her cheek, leaving behind a trail of perfume as she stepped away. “Do not trouble yourself, ma chère. The Maginot Line will hold the Nazis to the other side of the border. That’s what it is there for.”

  “Concrete and barbed wire will not stop a German panzer.”

  “Then the French army will.”

  This wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument. Same song, new verse. “We shouldn’t be so complacent as to—”

  “The Maginot Line will hold.” Her mother’s tone held no room for further discussion.

  Gabrielle attempted a different approach. “The harvest begins today.”

  She could use an extra pair of hands in the vineyard, though perhaps not her mother’s. Hélène was not one to dig around in the dirt.

  “Then it is better I make myself scarce.” With the elegance of a born Parisian, Hélène straightened her suit jacket with quiet precision. “I will take Paulette with me.”

  Of course her sister would accompany their mother to Paris. Gabrielle had expected nothing else. Hélène was teaching her youngest daughter to move through the world as she did herself. Paulette had no interest in the vineyard, or the champagne house, and their mother seemed to encourage the girl’s indifference.

  Gabrielle despaired of ever changing her sister’s mind. Who, then, would take over when she followed in Josephine’s footsteps? When it was Gabrielle’s turn to succumb to old age, who would carry on the LeBlanc legacy?

  “I’m not late, Maman,” came a voice from the doorway. “I’m merely running a few minutes behind schedule.”

  Paulette wandered into the kitchen at an unhurried pace, one shoe on her foot, the other dangling from her fingertips. She wore a fashionable blue day dress that accentuated her slender frame, small waist and narrow hips. Even her manner was reminiscent of Hélène’s confident air.

  “Do not trouble yourself, ma chère.” The same words Hélène had said to Gabrielle, although spoken with far more affection. “We’re in no hurry this morning.”

  Paulette returned her mother’s serene smile, then turned a bland stare in Gabrielle’s direction. “Bonjour, sister.”

  “Bonjour.”

  And that was the end of their conversation, no different from most days. How could they sha
re the same mother and father and yet be so different? Gabrielle had no interest in art or fashion. Paulette thought of little else, except maybe flirtations with local boys. She also showed an artistic talent that went beyond the ordinary, as evidenced in the countless drawings she created in her mother’s studio while Hélène painted her landscapes.

  “I’m nearly ready to leave, Maman. As soon as I put on my—Oh, are those fresh croissants?” Without waiting for an answer, Paulette plucked a pastry from Gabrielle’s plate with her free hand, the shoe still dangling from the other. The move, seemingly small and insignificant, revealed the young woman’s ever-increasing thoughtlessness. If a croissant lay in front of her, it was hers for the taking. No matter that it was meant for another.

  “By all means, Paulette, help yourself.”

  Not a student of subtlety, the young woman nibbled the croissant without acknowledging Gabrielle’s remark. She took another dainty bite and turned to her mother expectantly. “Where shall we shop first?”

  “I think Mademoiselle Ballard’s atelier.” The shop was a favorite of both women, and the designer, unlike Coco Chanel, had continued selling her clothes despite the declaration of war.

  Hélène sat beside her youngest daughter. The two leaned in close, their heads nearly touching as they set their plans for the day. A wave of longing crashed over Gabrielle. What would it be like to have her mother as a confidante? Josephine had once filled that role in her life. And some days—most days—she still did. But not as often as before.

  Gabrielle would be alone soon, more even than when Benoit had died. She already mourned the loss of her grandmother. But now. This moment. The vineyard called to her. There was only one thing to do.

  Answer.

  Chapter Six

  Josephine

  Josephine lost track of the day. Her sense of time and place had disappeared. The harvest was underway, but she couldn’t remember when the picking had begun. Possibly last week. Maybe only yesterday. She should have marked the date in her journal. Now, the memory was only a smudge of its former self, a mere blur in her mind, like so many before it.

  She looked down at her hands, as if the answer lay in the shriveled skin and crooked joints. When had she acquired that series of scratches across her knuckles? This morning? Yesterday, perhaps?

  It was hard to think when she was so tired.

  Every muscle in her body ached as she reentered the château. She could hear her own breathing, labored, filled with exertion. Today, it had been harder to hide the ravages of time. All morning, she’d struggled to keep the limp out of her steps and the creak out of her bones. Gabrielle had noticed anyway. And had sent Josephine back to the house to “rest.”

  Her pride had wanted to argue, but the look of pity and fear on her granddaughter’s face had been too much to bear. An insult that left her feeling ashamed and exposed. Josephine had been unable to spend another minute stripped of her dignity by her own flesh and blood. For the first time in her life, she had left the work unfinished. Tomorrow would be a better day.

  “That scowl will scare the mold right off the grapes.”

  “Oh.” Josephine gave a little start. “Marta...you...” She swiveled to face the housekeeper, the move costing her precious energy. “You startled me.”

  “Forgive me, mon amie.” The other woman flashed an apologetic grimace as she exited the pantry, her arms full of flour and eggs, sugar and butter. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Of course not.”

  Marta dumped her load onto the chopping block, her eyebrows pulled together. “You should not be back so early. What happened to chase you indoors?”

  “Nothing has happened.” Josephine snapped out the words as unwanted emotions rose to the surface before she could tamp them down. Fury, humiliation. She hated how well Marta could read her, as if Josephine were a book the other woman had read many times over.

  “You are especially tired today. More than usual.”

  For a moment, Josephine could only stare at the other woman, mortified by her uncanny ability to voice what she would never openly admit. “I’m cold.” When she saw the skepticism on Marta’s face, she added, somewhat defensively, “The thermoses are empty. I came for coffee.”

  “You will have to pour it yourself.” Marta hitched her chin toward the empty mugs sitting near the sink. “Then you will tell me why your granddaughter sent you home. And why you are acting as surly as a scolded child.”

  “Gabrielle did not—” She closed her mouth, thought over her response, attempted another try. “I am not—”

  “Lie to yourself, Josephine,” Marta said, relentless as only she could be. “Do not lie to me.”

  “You—you know nothing.”

  “I know enough.” Marta’s expression softened. “Now, get your coffee and sit down before your legs give way.”

  Josephine poured the hot liquid. She did not sit. Her pride was too great. She leaned against the counter and watched Marta sprinkle flour into a bowl. Butter came next. Milk, eggs. Then, the kneading. The finished pastry would become something greater than the individual ingredients. The process was not unlike the LeBlancs’ technique for making the finest champagnes in the world. The methode champenoise was a careful, artful blending of juices from several harvests, three at least, but as many as five.

  Marta’s hands paused. “I know what you are thinking.”

  “You have begun reading minds in your spare time?”

  Shaking her head, Marta’s hands resumed molding the dough. “You are thinking of war.”

  “Non. I am thinking of champagne.”

  Marta gave Josephine one of her penetrating stares. “You carry too much worry in your head and too much burden in your heart. It’s unhealthy.”

  “I fear what is to come.” She set down the untouched coffee. “Our family may not survive this one.”

  “Now you are thinking of war.” Marta sighed. “And it’s my fault.”

  “War is always in my mind.” LeBlanc history was a tale of blood and death. Their home was at the center of Europe, with no mountain barrier, nothing to protect the land, putting this region—the LeBlanc lands—in the path of invading armies. The Goths, the Visigoths, and others had marched through Champagne. Yet of all those wars, the last one had been the worst, a festival of slaughter.

  Why could she remember so much about the long-ago past and so little of the first day of harvest? “This new war will be harder than the last,” she said in a whisper.

  Marta laid her hand on the table, no longer working the dough, but paused in a moment of rest. Like Josephine, the gnarled fingers, now covered in flour, carried the signs of age and daily toil. “Many young lives will be lost.”

  Face tight with emotion, Marta joined Josephine at the sink. In shared silence, they studied the vineyard beyond the terrace with its centuries-old balustrade.

  “They are my old friends.” Josephine didn’t need to expand her meaning. Marta knew she spoke of the vines. “And yet, these days, they have become strangers.”

  “You are looking at them with the eyes of the past.”

  Marta was only half-right. “I am looking at them with the eyes of an old woman.”

  Her vision wasn’t what it once was, and perhaps that explained why everything looked wrong in the vineyard today. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps it was the dark, ominous clouds rolling in from the north and casting a pall over the vines. They seemed to strain against the wires that held their trunks steady, fighting their confinement like souls trapped between this world and the next.

  “We will survive this harvest,” Marta said.

  “Yes, we will.” The vines had an uncanny ability to wither one season and thrive the next. War, however, left its horrors on the land and its people for generations.

  Signs of past battles were everywhere. If Josephine craned her neck
to the left, her eyes would fall on the Monument to the Heroes of the Black Army of Reims. The five bronze figures represented a group of French and African soldiers united in their defense of the city in 1918.

  There had been great heroism in the midst of brutality. She closed her eyes, lifted up a prayer for...what? She didn’t know what to pray for anymore. A fine harvest? A quick end to a war that had yet to begin? So many uncertainties.

  One thing was clear, Josephine must find a new brand of courage. Now, today, before she lost her will, she must safeguard her family’s future as she’d done during a previous war.

  She could not do it alone.

  She turned to her companion, purpose filling her. “Marta, I require your assistance.”

  * * *

  Later that night, the two women left the house in the veil of darkness, the moon their only light. The buzz of a German plane sounded overhead. Josephine’s hand reached out to grip Marta’s. Frozen in place, they looked to the sky. Marta crossed herself as the plane flew dangerously low, skimming across the sky almost lazily. It was alone. Although not the first to take this circuitous route from Germany to Paris and back across the border again.

  The random flybys were meant to intimidate. The tactic often worked. The people of Reims would fall into a stupor, lulled by Germany’s silence. But then a lone plane would appear in the sky, and everyone would snap to attention. For a time. Eventually, they fell back into their flimsy sense of complacency. Until the next roaring dot appeared in the heavens.

  Josephine continued watching the plane. Marta stood quiet and unmoving by her side. Only once it was swallowed up by the dark western sky did the housekeeper break her silence. “It’s gone.”

  “Let’s continue.” Josephine led the way.

  She and Marta each carried a heavy cloth bag laden with jewelry, statuettes and other small valuables plucked from Josephine’s private collections. In total, the pieces were worth a small fortune. There were larger items that would have to be hidden. But not yet. Not until the fighting began. Any sooner and she would draw attention to what she was doing. With suspicion came questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.