“These are from the Boulangerie Julien. Like I said, it is the best.”
Blondine bent down to extract butter from the small refrigerator. She cracked several eggs into a bowl, added a dollop of cream and some fresh chopped herbs, and whisked them together with a practiced hand.
“So, when is your father due back?” asked Emma.
Blondine made a face. “Soon, I think.”
“Gaspard’s a character,” Emma told Rosalyn. “He’s what I like to call a ‘great man.’”
“I thought you said he was a little . . .” Rosalyn held back in front of Blondine.
“I don’t mean ‘great man’ as in a great humanitarian. He has ‘great man syndrome,’ thinks his you-know-what doesn’t stink. Like all those artists and authors who walk around like they’re God’s gift, and never acknowledge all the women in their lives who do the cooking and the cleaning and the raising of children so the menfolk can focus on themselves. Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway—you know the type. Larger than life. Gaspard expects everyone around him, including his darling daughter Blondine, to do what he says, when he says it, and to accommodate him so he can continue with his great, important work.”
“I don’t know about this,” said Blondine with a shrug. “But it is true that he is . . . a character.”
They fell silent. Rosalyn changed the subject. “So, seriously, is it typical to drink champagne for breakfast here?”
“Only on special occasions,” said Blondine. “It is more common for lunch.”
“And for apéritif, and with dinner, and after dinner . . . ,” added Emma.
“Back home, we associate champagne with celebrations,” said Rosalyn, “though we’re hoping to change that by getting more bars to offer it by the glass.”
“We drink it for celebrations as well,” said Blondine. “But really, for us it is our local wine, like that of any other region. Bordeaux, Burgundy, Vin Jaune in the Jura. The locals drink it with everything, actually.”
“So how did it become associated with celebrations?”
“Ah, good question,” said Emma. “That was the work of Madame Jeanne Pommery.”
“As in the Pommery Champagne House?” asked Rosalyn.
“Yes,” said Blondine, pouring the egg mixture into a hot pan greased with a mixture of butter and olive oil. “Champagne used to be very sweet, so sweet that it was said only the British would drink it. No offense.”
“None taken,” Emma said. “She’s American, and I’m Australian. No Brits here.”
Blondine shrugged, as if it was all the same to her. “Anyway, Madame Pommery was the one to stop adding so much sugar. She invented brut—you call it dry—champagne. She was a young widow and took over the business from her husband, just like the veuve Clicquot, who also had children to support. They both became major players in the champagne industry in the nineteenth century.”
Veuve meant “widow,” Rosalyn knew, but she had never really thought about the meaning of the famous champagne named Veuve Clicquot.
At least Rosalyn had no child to worry about when Dash died, though that always felt like a double-edged sword. “Too bad you didn’t have children to remember him by.”
Grief brain again. Rosalyn forced herself to refocus on the conversation between Emma and Blondine. Although Emma had claimed her French was bad, and even Rosalyn could hear she had an atrocious accent, she displayed a good command of the language.
“In Champagne we say that we would be nowhere without the widows,” said Blondine.
“That’s a saying?”
“Oh, sure. Les veuves Clicquot and Pommery, and later Lily Bollinger, too,” said Emma. “And England’s Queen Victoria—another widow—was one of Pommery’s best customers, and helped to popularize champagne in Britain. The history of champagne is a history of widows.”
Rosalyn wasn’t the only one.
“Emma, didn’t Lucie and the others take refuge in the caves of the Pommery winery?” Rosalyn said.
Blondine tilted her head, a questioning look on her face.
“From my letters,” said Emma, explaining to Blondine the correspondence between Émile Legrand and her aunt Doris. “Lucie is the name of a young woman Émile mentions often. She and her family took shelter in the Pommery caves during the German bombardment.”
Blondine waved off the idea. “I don’t like war talk. The old people always go on and on about the war.”
“Wrong war,” said Emma. “This was the First World War, the Great War. Meant to end all wars.”
“They got that wrong,” said Blondine.
“They did, indeed.”
“I did always hear about the smiling angel of Reims, though,” said Blondine, taking the pan off the heat. She tilted it with a practiced hand, and the omelet slid smoothly onto a platter. “I think that was from the First World War.”
“Do I want to know what happened to the smiling angel of Reims?” Rosalyn asked, wincing slightly.
“Her head fell off,” said Blondine, drawing a finger across her neck in a dramatic gesture, “during the bombings.”
“She never stopped smiling, though,” said Emma. “Talk about a metaphor.”
“The Reims Cathedral was bombed by the Germans,” said Blondine, dividing the omelet in three and placing the slices on plates, garnishing them with chopped parsley and a croissant, and setting the plates on the table nearest the counter. “It was a scandal, a true outrage, that such a monument should be destroyed. All of the kings of France were crowned in the Reims Cathedral, and even Joan of Arc came there in her triumph. It was barbarous of them to destroy such a treasure, the whole world agreed.”
“It’s true,” said Emma in English as they all sat down to eat. “The German destruction of such a beautiful and historic building was used as anti-Hun propaganda—Germans were said not to respect religion, or art. But to me the worst part was that the cathedral had been used as a makeshift hospital, with the wounded sleeping on straw on the floor. The incendiary bombs caught some scaffolding on fire, which melted the lead from the roof and rained molten metal down on the wounded, lighting the straw on fire. It was a bloodbath.”
“That’s horrifying,” said Rosalyn. The food on the plate in front of her lost its appeal.
“Enough war talk,” said Blondine. “With the festival of Saint Vincent coming up, you will see bottles opened to accompany breakfast—that is sure.”
“Speaking of celebrations, Rosalyn, you’ll want to investigate the region before the craziness starts,” said Emma. “These sleepy little villages will be inundated in a few weeks, and you won’t even be able to park.”
“That’s why I came early,” said Rosalyn. “I was supposed to connect with François Martin, and reach out to a few other producers, before the festival.”
“Martin is in Martinique,” said Blondine. “A lot of the producers leave after the Christmas celebrations, because things are quiet in the vines.”
Not for the first time, Rosalyn wondered why Hugh had booked her on a flight departing immediately after Christmas. He had to have known that everyone she was supposed to meet in France would be somewhere else during the holidays. Now that she thought of it, why had he made all the travel arrangements himself, instead of having her do it, as he usually did? Had he understood, better than she had, that she’d needed a break—and thought he knew just what kind of break she needed most? Typical Hugh.
Bless him.
“Speaking of the festival,” said Blondine, “you’ll need a costume.”
“Excuse me?” Rosalyn’s heart sank. She wore a mask every day; if only they knew. “I’m not what you would call a costume person.”
“Don’t worry. I will help you. It’s simple: a skirt and a blouse, a red cape, and the lace cap. It’s traditional, and maybe seems silly, but we all do it.”
“So, I was thinking .
. . ,” said Emma.
“You see? I knew she had something up her sleeve,” said Blondine. “She thinks because she is rich she can do whatever she likes.”
Emma just smiled, Cheshire cat–like, and continued addressing Rosalyn. “You said you didn’t want to work for me, and I respect that. But you’re looking for small champagne producers, right? Jérôme Comtois mostly grows grapes for others, but he has started to make his own champagne—a small vintage, but I hear it’s quite good. What if you went to talk to him about representing his champagne in the United States?”
Rosalyn blinked. “I sort of met Comtois already, though he wasn’t what I’d call overly friendly. And I got the feeling from the folks at the store today that he doesn’t care for Americans.”
“They were gossiping about him at Dominique’s?” Emma asked. “It figures. There’s no café or bar in the village, so the store’s gossip central.”
“You forgot about the auto repair shop,” mentioned Rosalyn.
“Monsieur Bonnet does not allow gossip at his shop,” said Blondine, her tone grave. “He was a victim of it himself.”
“Comtois might not like Americans,” said Emma, “but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like selling his champagne to Americans. Business is business.”
Blondine stuck out her chin. “This is not a bad idea. Everyone likes the idea of being represented in the American market. Americans can be strange, but they are good customers.”
“But . . .” Rosalyn couldn’t think of a reason to object, except that she still cringed at the thought of what had happened at the gas station. On the other hand, it would provide the perfect opportunity to pay him the money she owed him. “I really do have other work to do.”
“Like what?” Emma asked. “Martin is out of town, and according to Blondine, he’s a real pain in the ass anyway.”
“Never did I say this,” Blondine denied, in English.
“You didn’t have to; everyone knows it’s true,” said Emma. “Anyway, Rosalyn, what could it hurt? You’ve got time, and Comtois is around. He was sighted at the co-op outside Reims last night.”
“How is it you know so much?” Rosalyn asked. “You just arrived in town.”
“She’s rich,” quipped Blondine in a dismissive tone.
“I have an inquiring mind,” Emma said. “And a lot of friends. So, it’s a plan, then: Rosalyn will go talk to Comtois about representing his wine, and then cleverly work the conversation around to his collection.”
Rosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Sure, that’s a natural segue—from asking about his wine crop to inquiring as to the whereabouts of a century-old bundle of your aunt’s letters.”
“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“Because everyone here knows her,” said Blondine. “She is not popular.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings.” Emma’s chuckle belied her words. “The Champenois don’t particularly like foreigners and they don’t like interlopers, and I fear I have a reputation as both. But I like to think I’m exceedingly popular, all things considered, for a foreign interloper.”
“That reminds me,” said Rosalyn. “I should ask: Is your champagne represented in the U.S.?”
“Of course. For years now. How do you think I got so rich?”
“Oh, good for you, then,” Rosalyn said as she carried their dirty plates into the kitchen sink to wash them. “Thank you for the omelet, Blondine. That was delicious.”
“De rien. It is nothing.”
“One more thing, Emma,” said Rosalyn. “Let me give you back your letter, before I forget.”
Emma seemed to sense her reluctance, her hawk eyes never leaving Rosalyn’s face.
“I have a better idea. You’re not doing much at the moment, right? Whereas I am involved in a whole bordel.” Emma waved a big hand in the air. “Really, it’s not worth going into, but suffice it to say that it’s a real pain in my ass. Anyway, since you’ve got all the time in the world—”
“Emma, I already told you: I’m not looking for a job.”
“I get that. But you enjoyed reading the letters, didn’t you? What if you start reading through the rest of them, put them in order for me, maybe continue to translate them or at least make a few notes as you read? You did such a good job on the one you e-mailed me about.”
“Oh, I don’t know. . . .”
“It would be great for your French.”
“Yes, I’ll have a great vocabulary the next time I want to chat about bombs, blood, and barbed wire. But honestly, Emma, you’re asking me to take on a lot of responsibility. What if . . . what if something happened to the letters?” asked Rosalyn. “They’re irreplaceable.”
“What would happen to them?” asked Blondine.
“I don’t know. . . . They could get wet, or burned, or . . .” Rosalyn trailed off with a shrug and reverted to English. “I’m such a klutz lately. The other week, I left my e-reader on my car roof and drove off. What if I spilled coffee on them, or left them in a café somewhere?”
“What is ‘klutz’?” Blondine asked.
“Empotée,” said Emma. “Maladroite.”
“Huh. You’re a klutz?” said Blondine. “Emma’s the one with the broken leg. And last time she was here, she had a cast on her arm.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Emma laughed. “Anyway, Rosalyn, that’s catastrophic thinking, and that’s not good for anybody. Nothing’s going to happen to the letters, and if it does—well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. They’ve been scanned into the computer, so you could read them that way if it would make you feel better. But I warn you: The letters are a lot easier to read in person, what with the faded ink, the old-fashioned handwriting, and the holes and deletions from the military censors.”
As Emma spoke, Rosalyn silently agreed. It was the feeling of the letters in her hands, the tangible connection to history, that had attracted her to them in the first place. Reading digitized images on a computer screen wouldn’t be the same.
“Besides,” continued Emma, “you saw what happened to them on the plane. If they’re going to be damaged or destroyed, it’s much likelier to happen when they’re in my possession than in yours. At least you have two good legs. Blondine’s right. I’m like Calamity Jane.”
More like the Unsinkable Molly Brown, Rosalyn thought to herself.
“At the very least we should put them in plastic sleeves to protect them,” said Rosalyn.
“My father has a whole bunch in the office that we use for our wine tastings,” said Blondine. “Want me to get some?”
“They’re not archival quality,” said Emma. “But they’ll do in a pinch.”
And so the three women spent the next hour carefully inserting old letters into protective plastic sleeves, until Emma had to leave for an appointment and Blondine needed to cover the phones in the office. Later that morning, André brought another two boxes full of letters down to Chambre Chardonnay. As Emma had said, there were hundreds, spanning years.
It dawned on Rosalyn that, what with Emma and André sharing the gîte, Blondine now at work daily in the office, and Gaspard Blé arriving soon, her peculiar countryside hermitage had come to an end.
Strangely enough, the realization didn’t cast her into despair.
Chapter Eighteen
Rosalyn couldn’t help herself: she dove into the letters, and spent the rest of the day struggling with the French and reading the faded—and often censored—words.
She started with an easy one: Doris’s first letter. The script was slanted and florid, with decorative swirls and bobs that looked lovely but were difficult to decipher, like ornate calligraphy. But at least it was in English.
November 13, 1914
Dear Monsieur Legrand:
It seems odd to be writing t
o someone I have never met, and am unlikely ever to meet. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Doris Dickinson Whittaker, and I live near a town named Coonawara, in Australia. Although half the blood in my veins is French, thanks to my dear departed mother, I learned her native language in school rather than at her knee. I am therefore committing the great sin of composing this letter in English first, and then translating it into the French as I remember from school, with the loyal but occasionally unreliable assistance of the great, fat dictionary that sits upon my desk.
A friend of mine told me about the marraines de guerre, the women who write to boys on the front, to boost their spirits and remind them of home and country. And yet you, my poor Émile, must be content with an Australian marraine, one who can’t possibly remind you of home and hearth and country! But I hope that our correspondence may remind you, at least in part, of what you are fighting for.
For I am with you brave French boys, in heart and soul.
Doris
Australia
1914
Doris sat back in her fine leather chair, the unfinished letter on the gleaming mahogany desk in front of her. She gazed at the ornate grandfather clock and the carved marble mantelpiece, the tasseled velvet curtains and the embroidered silk pillows adorning the velvet love seat. The things her husband had provided for her.
Beautiful things, made more so by contrast with the scorch marks that ran along the foundation of her sitting room. Doris had had most of the interior rooms gutted and repaired, but intentionally left that one corner unretouched, the soot and burn marks reminding her of the life she had nearly lost, along with her home.
The phrase “war godmothers” did not sound nearly as romantic as marraines de guerre, Doris thought, and wondered if it was merely a function of the translation, or whether the French language was inherently more beautiful than English. She didn’t like that the English phrase used “god” in the title. Since this war had begun, Doris sometimes doubted whether He had ever existed at all, or whether He had merely grown tired of human antics and forsaken them.
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