The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  “We are looking for a big black trunk, yes?” Blondine asked, noting her distractedness.

  “Right. According to Madame Bolze, it should be in the corner.”

  “There are four corners.”

  “True. Divide and conquer,” Rosalyn replied. “I’ll take these two corners and you take those two.”

  At long last, they located the steamer trunk hidden beneath a pile of old curtains.

  It took both of them to lug the heavy trunk a few inches away from the wall so they could open the lid. Rosalyn unlatched the big clasp, then paused.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked Blondine.

  “I don’t know, really. I just needed a moment.”

  “Take your moment, then,” Blondine said. “But the sooner we open it, the sooner we can get out of this firetrap.”

  “Fair point,” Rosalyn said, and lifted the lid.

  The trunk was packed full of items, which they lifted carefully, one by one, and set aside. There were books, journals, and old papers; several pairs of black leather button-up baby shoes; a christening gown of silk that now hung in shreds; carefully folded linens and quilts that had once been beautiful but were now decaying.

  “I think we found what we were looking for,” Rosalyn said as she perched on a footstool and started sorting through a stack of antique documents bound with ribbon. Many were written on ornate letterhead marked: Orphelinat de Champagne: pour les orphelins de guerre. “The Orphanage of Champagne: for the war orphans.”

  “I don’t see any letters from an Australian woman,” said Blondine, digging deep into the contents of the trunk. “Isn’t that what Emma was hoping for?”

  “Yes, though I’m not sure why they would have ended up here, anyway,” said Rosalyn. “I think we’re looking for any link at all to her great-aunt, Doris Whittaker. Yet another wealthy widow.”

  “Oooh, look at this,” said Blondine, paging through a thick leather-bound ledger. She handed it to Rosalyn. “It’s a roster of the orphans.”

  Rosalyn balanced the ledger on her knees and skimmed the handwritten entries. As in Émile’s letters, the old ink was fading and at times was hard to read, but at least the ledger hadn’t been subjected to Anastasia’s scissors.

  “All those poor children,” said Rosalyn, running her fingers lightly over the dozens—hundreds?—of names meticulously recorded: Louise Rose Beaulieu; Reims. Paul Marc Martin; La Neuville-aux-Larris. Clement Luc Laurent; Épernay. Jean-Claude Travers; unknown origin; Augusta Page Mercier; Cuchery. Some entries included the names of deceased parents and other family members, or the names of those who adopted the children; others simply listed the child’s name and origin, with no clue as to what had happened to them.

  “Sometimes I think we’ll never get over it,” said Blondine. She set down an ancient pair of baby shoes and came to join Rosalyn, who was flipping through the pages. “So many of these little ones grew up and were sent into battle in the next world war, just two decades later. And the young adults who survived the First World War had to send their own children to fight—and to die—in the second. Something like that must live on in the national consciousness, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, of course. To be occupied, and brutalized over two generations . . . That’s got to leave a scar. A deep scar.”

  “Champagne has always been a theater of war. There were the Gauls and Romans, and then the Hundred Years’ War, the Napoleonic Wars, the Franco-Prussian War, and then two World Wars. All of them right here, on these lands. Some say this is why the grapes began to fizz, to bring us joy, to balance things out.”

  Blondine dove back into the trunk, leaning over, ostrichlike, rummaging through the contents.

  “Look at this!” Blondine handed Rosalyn a manila envelope full of ancient sepia-toned photographs.

  There were several of children playing in the courtyard of what was now Madame Bolze’s house, and a few individual photos of children with their names scrawled on the back. Most astonishing was a handful of photographs of the schoolrooms that had been set up in the champagne caves.

  “These are amazing,” said Rosalyn. “I tried looking this up online, but I didn’t find anything like this. So they really did have schools in the caves.”

  “Can you imagine? It must have been so hard down there, no electricity, no fresh air. . . .”

  “And no plumbing.”

  Blondine wrinkled her nose. “I never thought of that.”

  “I imagine things got pretty basic at times,” Rosalyn said, studying a photograph of a schoolteacher. She was unsmiling, clothed head to toe in black, but she stared at the camera with a steady gaze, a determined tilt to her chin. “But they persevered. They taught the children. They brought in the harvest. They didn’t just survive. They lived. Astonishing.”

  “Why would these photos be included with the papers from the orphanage?” said Blondine.

  “Maybe some of the teachers came here after the war, to continue taking care of the children?” suggested Rosalyn.

  “That would make sense. Hey, look at this.” Blondine opened a silk pouch that contained several long knitting needles. “Do you suppose needlework was part of the curriculum back then?”

  Rosalyn had learned the word tricoter, French for “to knit,” while reading Émile’s references to Lucie’s mother knitting socks and sweaters.

  “Maybe so, especially if you consider they were still training girls to fold linen napkins according to the occasion.”

  “Aha!” said Blondine, suddenly straightening, holding a framed certificate in one hand.

  The fancy scrollwork made it hard to read, but they could make out the roster of the orphanage’s board of directors. The first name listed was Doris Dickinson Whittaker, veuve.

  “So Emma was right. Her aunt was involved with the orphanage,” said Blondine. “I thought she was making it up.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Blondine shrugged. “I never know with Emma. But then, we don’t see that many Australians around here, so I suppose it makes sense.”

  Satisfied that there were no letters from Doris in the trunk, Rosalyn and Blondine gathered the most interesting items—the ledger, the certificate with Doris’s name on it, the silk pouch of needles, and the photographs of cave life—and carried them downstairs, carefully picking their way along the crowded stairs, stepping around the piles of books and magazines.

  “I can’t believe how well you navigate in those heels,” Rosalyn said.

  “How do you mean?” asked Blondine.

  “I’m a klutz in heels,” said Rosalyn, realizing she had learned this word—empotée—from Emma. If she were to stay another few months in France, she might actually begin speaking the language with confidence.

  “Did you lock the door?” asked Madame Bolze as Blondine and Rosalyn entered the sunny living room.

  “Oui, madame, bien sûr,” said Blondine, placing on the table what they had found and handing Madame Bolze her keys. “Thank you for letting us go up there. Look at what we found! There were no letters from your aunt Emma, but we did find her name on a certificate listing her as one of the directors of the orphanage. Truthfully, though, there’s lots more stuff up there, so one never knows.”

  Madame Bolze wrinkled her nose. “They smell funny.”

  “Just the smell of old papers,” said Emma, picking up the certificate. “This is amazing. I knew she loved France, but I didn’t know about all this.”

  “It makes sense that she would want to help after the war,” said Rosalyn. “She understood better than most how the region had suffered. According to Émile’s side of the correspondence, at least, they seemed close.”

  “We also found these photos,” said Blondine as she spread the photographs out on the table. There were several portraits of women with names on the back.

  Emma held o
ne up. “Look! On the back it reads: ‘Lucie Maréchal, dans les crayères du Pommery, Dec. 1916. Assistante.’”

  “Lucie?” Hungrily, Rosalyn studied the image of the dark-haired, pale young woman she had read so much about. Lucie Maréchal wore a black high-necked dress and stood with a young girl at her side; they were both unsmiling and almost seemed to be glaring at the camera. The expression on Lucie’s young face was resolute, unyielding.

  “Not what I expected,” said Emma, voicing Rosalyn’s thoughts. “Émile describes her as soft and young, with the sweetest face.”

  “She had been through a lot by then,” said Blondine, taking the photo from her and gazing at it. “War isn’t kind to people. Deprivation, responsibility, the weight of grief . . .”

  Rosalyn nodded; she barely recognized herself in the mirror anymore. Her face was that of a stricken stranger, her eyes—the feature Dash swore had been the first thing he’d noticed about her—were open wounds. She shrank from having her picture taken nowadays.

  Madame Bolze picked up the silk pouch and unfurled it atop the table. She ran gaunt, blue-veined hands over the selection of tools.

  “Now these, I remember. Bone needles.”

  “Bone needles?” Blondine asked.

  “They were made of bone back when I was a child. Cow bone, I think. These were for knitting, and these were for crocheting—see the hook? And these”—she held up the smallest-gauge needles—“were for tatting. Not many people know how to do that anymore. But these were precious instruments, and not just for making decorations like lace. Being able to make or repair sweaters or garments was sometimes the difference between life and death back when I was a child. Every girl was expected to know her needlework.”

  “Madame Bolze, did you ever hear about the schools in the caves beneath the Pommery champagne house during World War One?” Rosalyn asked.

  She nodded her gray head. “A lot of people moved into the caves for safety, to escape the bombs. It must have been dreadful down there; I don’t even like spending much time in my own cellar. I have a few friends from school whose parents lived under Reims as children; I remember them sharing stories about it in class.”

  Emma leaned forward eagerly. “I don’t suppose you know anyone by the family name of Legrand or Maréchal?”

  “I believe I knew a Legrand at one point, but he moved away. But you know, my memory is not as good as it used to be.” Madame Bolze shook her head and gazed down at the things Blondine and Rosalyn had brought down from the attic. “These things . . . they really do need to be organized, don’t they?”

  “They’re of great historic value, Madame Bolze,” said Emma. “Would you be willing for us to take them to the archives in Reims so they can be properly cared for and made available to others?”

  The elderly woman’s hand fluttered to her chest, and she avoided their eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. . . . I would have to go through them first. I’ll go through them, and I’ll think about it. I know I need to get organized. . . . My memory isn’t so great sometimes.”

  “You’re too modest,” said Emma, gesturing toward the display of bottles on the half wall of the living room. “Tell them the names of the bottles.”

  “Mignonette and piccolo,” Madame Bolze said for the two smallest. “This is . . . chopine, I think? And then demi, of course, though sometimes called filette in the Loire Valley. Then there’s the standard-sized bottle, the magnum, the Marie-Jeanne or Dame Jeanne. . . .” She trailed off.

  “I know the Jeroboam, and the Rehoboam,” said Emma. “But that’s the extent of it for me.”

  “Methuselah, Salmanazar, Balthazar,” said Madame Bolze suddenly, as though just now remembering. She smiled, pleased with herself. “I don’t have examples of the Nebuchadnezzar, Melchior, Solomon, Sovereign, or the Melchizedek. Those are too large to be moved, even when they are empty. I don’t think they’re ever used.”

  “Never used, but they were invented and named?” asked Rosalyn.

  Madame Bolze nodded. “They were in our catalog, but as far as I know, we never produced them. My husband always wanted people to have any bottle they wanted.”

  “Now that’s impressive—am I right?” said Emma, switching to English: “‘Name the wine bottles’—a great party trick for wine nerds.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  That night Emma, Blondine, and Rosalyn sat around the table in the Chambre Chardonnay, sorting through Émile’s letters and chatting about what they had found—and what they hadn’t found—in Madame Bolze’s attic. As they spoke, they kept their hands busy slipping aged papers into protective plastic jackets.

  “There’s probably a lot more to be discovered in that house,” said Blondine. “If one had the time and energy to go through everything.”

  “Madame Bolze just ‘needs to get organized,’” Emma said with a sigh. “But yes, I’ll bet you’re right, Blondine. I wish I had been able to talk her into letting us take the things with us. My powers of persuasion failed me just when I needed them most.”

  “I can’t get over that photograph of Lucie,” said Rosalyn. “I feel almost like I know her at this point, through Émile’s letters.”

  “I know the feeling,” Emma said softly.

  “I wish Madame Bolze had let us have the papers and photographs, and the orphan asylum’s ledger,” said Rosalyn. “You’re right. They should be given to the archive and taken care of.”

  “And besides, you want to look at them some more,” said Blondine. “I know. I feel the same. I am not sure why, but your obsession is rubbing off on me. I blame you both. I never cared about boring old history before.”

  Emma chuckled.

  “This upright cursive of the French . . .” Rosalyn’s eyes blurred as she tried to make out a paragraph of the letter in her hands. “It’s so hard to read. It’s distinctive and beautiful, done with such flair and polish, and yet at times it’s nearly indecipherable.”

  “Rather like the French themselves,” Emma said.

  “Calligraphie, it’s called,” said Blondine, ignoring Emma’s comment. “This is the way we are taught to write. The maîtres in school are very strict, very rigid, and we were in for a scolding if we got it wrong. We practiced on little tableaux noirs at our desks.”

  “What are tableaux noirs?” Rosalyn asked. “Black . . . surely not ‘tables.’”

  “Chalkboards,” translated Emma. “Slates, I think we’d call them. Told you they were old-fashioned.”

  “I’m still amazed the Rémois were able to hold school in the cellars during the war,” said Rosalyn. “I can’t wait to see the Pommery caves for myself.”

  “They’re not open for tourists yet,” said Blondine. “Too early in the season.”

  “And the public only gets a quick tour,” said Emma. “It’s fun to go down all those steps, and to see the graffiti and imagine what life might have been like, but for what we’d like to see, such as where Lucie and her family lived, we’d have to poke around a bit. I’m working on my contacts at the vineyard to get unfettered access to the caves, but it’s slow going. The proprietors of the champagne houses tend to be a bit protective; like a lot of people here, they want to advance the image of Champagne as a glamorous wine region rather than remind people of their painful past. But I’ll keep working on it.”

  “I received an invitation to a party in the Pommery caves,” said Rosalyn. “A ‘Gathering of Vintners,’ they call it.”

  Emma snorted. “Dreary, I can already tell you. I went last year, and they kept all the really interesting parts of the caves cordoned off. Also, it’s more than a hundred steps down, so I think I’ll skip it this year.”

  Rosalyn’s heart fell at the thought of attending the party by herself, meeting all those strangers, but she reminded herself that this was her job. And she wanted to get a sense of the caves, at least.

  “Anyway, those photos, a
nd that register of orphans,” said Rosalyn, going back to their earlier subject, “I hate to think of them up in that moldy attic full of ghosts.”

  Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “You saw ghosts up there?”

  “No,” said Blondine with a quick shake of her head. “But if there were ghosts, that’s where they would live.”

  “Can’t beat that logic,” Emma said wryly. “But I suspect Madame Bolze is haunted by nothing but a long life that is not ending well. While you two were upstairs bothering the ghosts, she confessed how sad she was to be estranged from her children. So we decided she’s going to Tours to see her daughter, and afterward she’ll try to reconcile with her son.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Rosalyn. “Did you have to talk her into it?”

  “It didn’t take much. I told her I would ask André to take her if she didn’t have any other way to get there.” Emma blew out a long breath, and stood to go. “Anyway, I’m done in, going to take a nap.”

  As Emma rose and grabbed her crutches, Blondine said, “Madame Bolze must be so lonely, rambling around that huge old place by herself. At the very least she should have some grandkids running around, playing hide-and-seek, don’t you think?”

  “The Vieille Ruche would be a great house for hide-and-seek,” Rosalyn said, though the threat of a fire still gave her pause. “But . . . maybe we should buy her some rope ladders for the upper floors. Just in case.”

  * * *

  After Blondine and Emma left, Rosalyn sat down to sketch Madame Bolze’s attic while the chaotic image was still fresh in her mind.

  As she drew, her mind wandered. What were ghosts, after all? Our wishes, our desires, our regrets and nostalgia?

  Rosalyn wanted to be haunted by Dash. She sought out signs, hoping he would reach out to her from beyond the gossamer wall that separated them.

  As a child, Rosalyn had been drawn to the mystical in children’s books: worlds full of fairies and elves and faraway enchanted lands where magic was real. Even as she grew up she still believed, not in fairies per se, but in the magic of a hummingbird, the enchantment of the woods. At times the sunset would strike her as a gift from beyond; a happy coincidence would feel like the universe reaching out to her.