The Widows of Champagne Page 8

  “Now that the introductions have been made, you will continue showing me around your home.” He spoke directly to Josephine, and she flinched under the brutality in his tone.

  Gabrielle opened her mouth to scold him for his insolence. How dare he speak to Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc in such a manner? She chose a less combative tactic. “I will finish the tour of our home. Marta, come here, please.” She motioned to the housekeeper lurking in the shadows like a frightened mouse. “Grandmère has grown tired from all the excitement of the day. She needs to rest. You will take her to her room.”

  Josephine put up a half-hearted argument that seemed to drain her of what little energy she had left, which only proved Gabrielle had been right to take over. She put her grandmother in Marta’s capable hands, then directed von Schmidt to follow her. “We’ll start in the parlor.”

  The room looked as though it had been abandoned in haste. A half-filled coffee cup sat on the small table near the window. Newspapers lay spread on the seat around the window recess. At least someone had thought to turn off the wireless. She did not want to hear details of the German invasion with one of them standing beside her.

  Jaw set, she guided von Schmidt to another room. He became engrossed with the contents and studied one of the paintings very closely, a Renoir, then went on to the next, a Degas, and the next, a Monet. Gabrielle half expected him to pull out a notebook so he could keep a tally.

  She led him to another room. Again, he took his time inspecting the contents. As she watched him taking his mental inventory, her fear began peeling off, exposing the fury beneath. This was her home. This man’s very presence was an insult, an outrage. A LeBlanc had lived within these walls for two hundred years. Von Schmidt had walked on these floors for less than an hour and was already treating the contents as if they belonged to him.

  His conceit was too much.

  “A word of advice, Madame Dupree.” Von Schmidt’s exquisite French broke into her internal tirade. “Your dislike means nothing to me.”

  It would be unwise to respond. She would not speak well for herself, or for her family. They were her top concern. She must maintain her composure for them.

  Von Schmidt seemed to approve of her silence for he gave her a small nod. “I can be of great service to your family.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can protect you from certain...realities of occupation.” He let this hang between them for several seconds. “I can be your friend or your adversary. The decision rests with you.”

  How simple he made it seem. Even he must know that having a choice was not the same as having control. “And if I choose wrongly?”

  He slid his gaze over her face. “I think you would not wish for a misfortune to befall your grandmother.”

  Her breath clogged in her throat. In that moment, she knew, with unavoidable certainty, that this man’s control over her and her family was absolute. Her fury didn’t vanish under the weight of the revelation, nothing so sudden. It dissipated like a fragile mirage fading from view. “I will keep your advice in mind.”

  “See that you do.”

  She led him into the main salon with its white-and-gold Louis XIV decorations. He ran his fingertip along the edge of the mahogany table once used by Napoléon during his Elba exile. As it had in the previous room, his interest moved to the paintings on the walls. One in particular caught his eye, an equestrian scene by Delacroix. Gabrielle attempted to take in the room from his perspective. All she could see was lost hope and renewed despair.

  The tour of the first floor came to an end. She felt sick that she must show him the upper levels where her family slept. Once he chose a room for himself, the invasion of their privacy would be complete. For a terrifying moment, she could not continue. Her legs felt boneless. She had to reach out to the nearest wall to steady herself.

  Von Schmidt’s eyes went to her hand and she saw the look of pleasure in his gaze. He knew what this “tour” was costing her. Her hatred for him became a burning rage so profound she hardly recognized herself. Despite her distance from God, this was a disturbing turn for a woman raised in the Christian faith. She was supposed to love her enemies.

  Not this one.

  “Are you unwell, Madame Dupree?” The question sounded like a taunt.

  Gabrielle would not allow herself to react. “It’s nothing. I lost my footing for a moment, that is all.” She feigned a carelessness she didn’t feel. “The bedrooms are on the second floor. I assume you would like to see them now, perhaps pick the best for yourself?”

  If von Schmidt noticed her disdain, he did not remark on it. He mounted the stairs ahead of her, passing so closely that she smelled the tang of his cologne. Another scent she would never forget. It would always remind her of her own capacity for hate.

  A whiff of brimstone would not have been so foul.

  Something her father said during one of his lucid moments came to mind. Courage is not a single act, Gabrielle, but a mindset that, like the vines, requires constant tending.

  “We will start with my sister’s room.” She gave a cursory knock before opening the door. To her relief, the room was empty.

  “Your sister could use a lesson in discipline.”

  Gabrielle saw no reason to respond. Paulette’s disregard for order showed in the pile of discarded garments on the floor, the bed, everywhere but the hamper.

  She led von Schmidt back into the hallway. Without commentary, she showed him her mother’s room, then her own, both of which were larger and tidier than Paulette’s. He took his time among her belongings. She endured the indignity in fuming silence. When he picked up the framed photograph from her wedding day, she moved swiftly, snatching the picture away and setting it back on her dresser. “My grandmother’s suite of rooms is at the end of the hallway.”

  With a hitch of her chin, she indicated he take the lead.

  He remained unmoving, his eyes hard and very German beneath the neatly trimmed silver-threaded blond hair. “Madame Dupree. Whether it is out of rebellion or ignorance, you seem not to understand the magnitude of the gift I have given you and your family.”

  Her stomach clenched, but she managed to make her mouth curve. “What gift is that, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “I have saved your champagne from the looters.” He leaned in close and assaulted her with his nauseating scent again. “Is that not a grand gesture on my part? Is that not a show of faith that I mean to be an easy guest?”

  Of all the insults he’d thrown at her today, this false show of kindness was the hardest to swallow. “What payment, I wonder, will you require for this...gift?”

  To his credit, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning. “I ask only that you provide me with fine cuisine and your best champagne from your private stock to wash it down. Not so terrible, you see?”

  She saw his intent very clearly.

  He took a slow, assessing turn around her room then gave a sharp nod of satisfaction. “This one will do nicely. You will have it prepared for me at once.”

  He turned to leave.

  She made to follow him out of the room.

  He stopped her with a hand in the air, palm facing out. “I will finish my inspection of the château without your assistance, Madame.”

  There was nothing more she could do but watch him go, her thoughts as heavy as the despair weighing in her heart. Only an hour earlier, she’d witnessed the barbarity of German soldiers ravaging her city. Rabid wolves, all of them, without a single ounce of conscience. Now, one of them would be living in her home. Taking liberties as he pleased.

  After all she’d done to protect the champagne, it was secondary to another, more insistent worry. If Reims was not safe from the enemy, if her own home was not safe, what of her family? Her mother, her sister...Grandmère. What would become of them?

  You will keep them safe, she told herself, thinking of t
he women she loved. Not herself. Her family, only them.

  You will do whatever it takes.

  No matter the cost.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hélène

  Hours after witnessing German thuggery firsthand, Hélène stepped out of Paulette’s room and drew the door closed with a furious snap. She stared hard at it, wondering if she’d gone too far. Or perhaps, she hadn’t gone far enough. She’d been harsh with her daughter, and there had been real shock in the girl, even a glimmer of fear. But only for a moment, wiped away by a willful refusal to understand the dire circumstances they now faced.

  Reims was under siege. German soldiers looted businesses. They confiscated champagne from wine cellars. It was only a matter of time before they made their way to Château Fouché-LeBlanc. Yet all her daughter understood was that there would be no trips to Paris this week.

  “It is more complicated than a canceled shopping excursion.” Hélène had tried to explain the situation without bringing in her personal reasons for taking greater precautions now that the Germans had invaded Champagne.

  Again, she regretted not listening to her father’s warnings. He’d been worried ever since Hitler took power in 1933 and had kept her informed as a steady stream of Jews poured into France from Germany seeking refuge. He’d left for New York soon after the onslaught began.

  Hélène hadn’t understood his insistence that she and her daughters join him in America. She’d thought he was being unnecessarily cautious. Now, she realized her mistake. With the German invasion came the hardest of questions: How long would French Jews be safe? “We are an occupied nation,” she’d said to her daughter. “Our government has given Champagne to the Germans. They are our rulers now.”

  Paulette had shoved away her concern in a gesture reminiscent of her own dismissive hand flick. “What do I know of politics?”

  Not enough. Which was Hélène’s fault. And so, she’d given it one final try. “Adolf Hitler has an agenda to rid the world of anyone who disagrees with him. His list grows longer by the day, Paulette. For now, he targets social democrats, Marxists.” She swallowed. “And Jews.”

  Paulette’s response was to look away, her eyes troubled, but her voice was as stubborn as before. “We are none of those things, Maman.”

  Hélène had not contradicted her. She’d chosen to let her daughter enjoy her ignorance a little longer and hope that with time Paulette would come to understand the reality of war. For now, Hélène stood in the hallway, feeling desperate and defeated. She considered reentering her daughter’s bedroom. Then decided to give the girl a few moments to think through their conversation.

  Frustrated with herself, with Paulette—with them both—she went in search of more news of the German invasion. As she made her way toward the winding stairs, her heart was full of grief for the man she’d lost. Étienne may have been able to get through to their daughter. Hélène felt the same draining energy she did every time her husband filled her thoughts. The sensation always left shadows on her soul. She’d seen what war did to good men. She knew what Herr Hitler wanted to do to people like her and, by association, possibly, if he changed his brutish laws, her daughters.

  “You are in quite a hurry, Madame LeBlanc,” said a low voice at her back.

  Startled, Hélène swerved around and nearly lost her balance. A hand reached out to keep her from toppling down the stairs. She fought against the hold, and tried to regain her balance on her own, which proved difficult as she found herself facing a broad chest covered in a German field uniform. What was such a man doing in her home?

  Confused, and a little exasperated, she tilted her head and confronted a pair of piercing blue eyes. The man was stunningly handsome, she noticed that right away, also quite tall. His pale hair and angular cheekbones reminded her of every German she had ever met. Her fear was immediate.

  Reims had only just been overrun this morning by the enemy and already she had one of them lurking in the halls of her home. Again, she wondered why such a man roamed unaccompanied on the floor where her family slept? The possibilities were few, each one more terrifying than the last. “You seem to know who I am,” she said, held captive by the icy stare. “But I am at a loss as to how we are acquainted.”

  She could have met him any number of ways. But, really, what did it matter? It was unimportant how they met. Peripheral. This man was one of the invaders. And he was looking at her with a sense of ownership no man had ever dared, not even Étienne. Especially not Étienne.

  The German took a step closer, saying in perfect French, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hauptmann von Schmidt. You may remember me as Helmut von Schmidt when I worked with the Becker and Shultz Import Company.”

  The phrasing and his manner did nothing to dispel her disquiet. Nor did the fact that he was a wine merchant with ties to the region. He watched her closely as she shifted away from the stairs, and then—finally—his grip on her arm. It was that calculating look that brought another image to mind.

  In a sudden rush of memory, she saw this man in a navy-blue suit with a swath of silk peeking from his pocket that matched his bloodred tie. He’d been leaving the champagne house as she’d been about to enter with a question for Josephine about...

  Hélène couldn’t remember what.

  She and this German had exchanged a few words. She did recall that. Their interaction had been nothing more than a nod and a cursory greeting, but she’d been left with a sense of never wanting to repeat the experience. When she’d asked Josephine about him, her mother-in-law had said: This man is not someone you want to be associated with.

  “We met outside the champagne house last year,” she said. “Or possibly the year before.”

  “The year before.” He was smiling at her from his great height, with something not altogether pleasant in his eyes. It was the same look he’d leveled on her that long-ago afternoon. A smile that hit bone and chilled her to the marrow.

  This man is not someone you want to be associated with.

  Her fear became a living, breathing thing. Without betraying her reaction, she ventured in a perfectly reasonable voice, “May I ask after your business here today?”

  She kept the question vague. It was a clumsy attempt at getting him to reveal his intentions and he saw through it. She could see the knowledge dancing in his eyes. “Madame Fouché-LeBlanc has been kind enough to offer me lodgings while I am in the area.”

  Hélène repressed a gasp. Josephine would never have offered this man lodgings. Her low opinion had been formed before he’d dressed himself in a German uniform. “Are we to find separate accommodations for ourselves?”

  “I wouldn’t think of banishing you from the château, Madame LeBlanc.”

  Such a polite way to indicate they were to be prisoners in their own home. It was unconscionable. It was the reality of occupation. “And will we be able to come and go as we please? Or will you dictate our schedules?”

  The question brought an amused twist to his lips, as if he relished his newfound power in a house full of lonely widows. “Your behavior will decide how you are to be treated. Your future, Madame, is completely in your hands.”

  Not true. The future was up to the whims of a wine merchant turned soldier.

  “As I will be holding small, intimate dinners and the occasional party, I will require an impeccable female hostess to represent my interests. You, Madame LeBlanc, will perform this duty for me.”

  What he requested was unthinkable. Her reputation would be in tatters before the first course was served at one of his small, intimate dinners. He might as well have put a stamp on her forehead that marked her as his property.

  Hélène saw the future in her mind, the months ahead, possibly even years of protecting her secret—and the people she loved—with tiny little evasions and insignificant half-truths to hide the biggest lie of all. There would be constant watching what
she said, how she said it, praying she never made a mistake, all the while performing her duties as this man’s hostess.

  So much more to lose besides your pride, she reminded herself. A cold comfort.

  “I am sure my mother-in-law extended you the courtesy that is your due. Let me add mine as well. Welcome to our humble home, Herr Hauptmann von Schmidt.” Could he tell that her heart was in her throat? Could he hear her words were slightly strangled? “Let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay as comfortable as possible.”

  With a long, slow smile, he took her hand in his, placed a kiss on her knuckles. “I see you understand the situation perfectly.”

  Oh, she understood. She had a brief thought of relinquishing the château to this German. It wasn’t hers to give. She had another thought of leaving anyway, of stealing away in the night and taking the women she loved with her. They would never go.

  So, then, neither would she.

  “You and your family will dine with me tonight in celebration of our new alliance.” He issued the invitation as a command. “You will dress for the occasion.”

  “Of course.”

  “I expect the first course to be served at precisely eight o’clock, sharp.”

  “I will see to the details myself.”

  Before she could say more, a door opened and shut from down the hallway. Seconds later, Paulette breezed into view, a magazine in her hand. “Maman, I want to show you—Oh!” She froze at the sight of von Schmidt. A sliver of uncertainty pulled her brows together. Then it was gone. “Well, hello.”

  Hélène did not like the way Paulette recovered from her shock so quickly. Nor did she like the way von Schmidt bounced his attention from her to her daughter and back again.

  A sly smile curled at his lips. She had to press her knuckles against her stomach to still the churning. “And who is this stunning creature?”

  “This is my daughter Paulette.” Hélène made the introductions through gritted teeth. “Paulette, this is Hauptmann von Schmidt. He is to be our guest for the foreseeable future.”