The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Mama!’ Alys flew to her, to drop a kiss on the widow’s cap of black and white lace. ‘Fifty-six isn’t so very “late”! And I told you at the outset, when it was first mentioned ‒ I’m only too happy that you and Gri-gri can have a life together at last.’

  Nicole smiled. ‘It will be strange. I’ve been The Widow Tramont so long …’

  ‘The Marchioness of Grassington ‒ it’s an elegant title.’

  ‘And that too is strange, Alys ‒ and ironic. You won’t remember, but Old Madame was so keen to have the title back ‒ the de Tramont title. She worked half of her life, trying to make your father the Marquis de Tramont. It does seem odd that I, the peasant girl, should be the one to bring nobility into our household!’

  Lord Grassington had explained to Nicole that of course the title could not be inherited by any of her family ‒ his son William would be the next Earl. Likewise his estates and his money, which were considerable, would be handed on to the heir. ‘I can only offer you myself, really, dearest,’ he’d said in an apologetic tone when he had set it all out for her.

  ‘Gerrard, you’re angling for a compliment! You know you yourself are all I ever wanted.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it’s nice to hear you say it after all this time, Nicci.’

  They had been lovers for almost twenty years ‒ discreet, devoted. Gerrard’s wife must not be hurt, his political career must not be damaged by scandal. They had waited the obligatory year after Emma’s death.

  It was a greater change for Nicole than for Gerrard. She had agreed to spend at least half the year in England so that he could attend parliamentary sessions and look after his estates.

  It meant handing over control of the House of Tramont to Gavin and Robert. She did it gladly, reserving to herself those things she did best ‒ correspondence with shipping agents, visits to foreign markets. Six months in England and perhaps two more spent in travel she wouldn’t be seen nearly so much at Calmady.

  ‘But I’ll always be there for the vintage, my boys,’ she had assured them. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you … It’s just that I could never be happy anywhere else in the world in September!’

  The plan was that the honeymoon should be spent first in a tour of those parts of Germany now considered romantic thanks to the works of Herr Wagner. Business could later be done with some rich importers in Berlin. In August Gerrard wished to be at home to open the grouse season on his moor. In September, they would come to Calmady to watch the first vintage produced under the aegis of the two young men.

  Alys could hardly envisage it. Ever since she came home in 1873, Mama had been the guiding spirit of their lives. What would it be like without her in their handsome house in the Avenue d’Iena? What would it be like without her in the great mansion in Calmady? What, most of all, would it be like without her in the cellars, in the pressing-house, in the gleaming new laboratory where the tests were carried out on the new wine?

  Estelle knocked, to bring in a tea-tray laid out in the English style. They drank a cup, and then the maid reappeared. ‘Time to get dressed, Madame,’ she said, tears gleaming on her lashes.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll stay and help, Mama.’

  ‘No, dear, you go and put on your own finery. You know you and the others must go first to the Mairie.’

  Alys nodded, kissed and hugged her, went out.

  Nicole de Tramont turned to her maid. Today, for the first time in a quarter of a century, she was to wear colours. Today she would put off forever the widow’s weeds that had become her trademark.

  It was a great change ‒ for herself, for the House of Tramont …

  Chapter 2

  Although the wedding was quiet and dignified, next day seemed flat by comparison. Netta Hopetown-Tramont went for a brisk walk in the Bois, lingering at La Potinière to hear the latest gossip. The talk was all about Madame de Greffulhe’s party of that evening.

  ‘You’ll be going, of course, Netta?’

  ‘I haven’t had an invitation, Cosette.’

  ‘As if that matters! You and she are so alike in your interests ‒ she’ll want you to be there. I hear Monsieur Rimsky-Korsakov is to be among the guests. Tomorrow he is to conduct some suite or other with the Orchestre Pallarde ‒’

  ‘Yes, “Prince Igor” ‒ from an opera by his friend Borodin, about a captured Russian prince.’

  ‘Good gracious, then perhaps it will be worth listening to! At least it won’t be in four movements and send one to sleep.’

  ‘Cosette, you’re impossible! Why do you go to concerts if you haven’t any interest in music?’

  ‘Dearest, you know very well,’ Cosette Brissiac said with an expressive pout. ‘It’s because Mama makes me. Now you, on the other hand, are very strange. You actually go to concerts and operas without your mama. But it’s very naughty of you, because you never trouble to follow up any of the advances the young men make.’ She linked her arm in Netta’s to draw her away from the rest of the group. ‘Mama was saying only the other day that if you had put yourself out, you could have had Monsieur de Brigonte ‒ he positively pursued you in the Opera Bar.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Netta said, laughing. ‘It was simply that he went to fetch me an ice, and when he returned, I’d moved somewhere else.’

  ‘My goodness, if Monsieur de Brigonte was looking for me, I’d take care to be where he could find me.’

  ‘Cosette, you know as well as I do that the only thing to recommend Monsieur de Brigonte is his inheritance. Otherwise he’s of no interest ‒ he has protruding teeth, inflicts his opinions on you, and never listens to what you say in reply.’

  ‘Oh, if that’s all ‒!’

  ‘Don’t make light of it. I’d rather die an old maid than marry the likes of Esme de Brigonte.’

  ‘Don’t say such things! Or if you do, touch wood! Really, Netta … Sometimes you alarm me. You’ll end up with an arranged match if you keep frightening off the possibles.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, de Brigonte is impossible. Besides, though he goes to the opera and looks solemn, he isn’t the least interested in music.’

  ‘As if that matters, Netta!’

  ‘It matters to me,’ Netta said with emphasis, stabbing the ferrule of her parasol into the turf. ‘I simply couldn’t live with a man who can’t even recognise the main tunes from Carmen.’

  ‘My dear!’ sighed Cosette. They walked a pace or two, arm in arm. They had been schoolfellows, still kept up a friendship although their outlooks were so entirely different. ‘Tell me … Do you think I should accept Henri Margotier?’

  ‘Cosette, you don’t really want my opinion on that. I think he’s a waster.’

  ‘Ye-es … But Papa is willing to pay off all his debts and settle something on him. There’s a lot to be said for him. His family have money ‒’

  ‘But they’ve washed their hands of him because of his gambling. No, no, Cosette, if you’ve decided to take an arranged suitor, get Papa and Mama to find you someone more considerate than Margotier.’

  ‘How difficult you are to please! Margotier’s a ne’er-do-well, de Brigonte is dull. There aren’t so many left, you know, Netta. I should have taken one of the half dozen on offer in my first season, instead of being so choosy. But I still thought then I might fall in love.’

  ‘And so you might, still.’

  ‘Heaven forbid! The more I see of love-matches, the more I think it’s best to leave it all to the parents.’ Netta was shaking her head, and Cosette went on: ‘It’s all right for you! You can put it off as long as you like, with your family’s money behind you! But mind you, I still don’t think you’ll ever find a husband who’ll put up with your ideas to have a career in singing.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Netta, ‘we’ll see.’

  That evening she went with her mother and her brother Philip to Madame de Rime’s at-home. Philip, in his usual gentle way, went at his mother’s instructions to make himself agreeable to a group of you
ng ladies. At eighteen Philip was still too young to be taken seriously as a possible husband by any of those present. Netta was shepherded towards a set of chairs where the chaperones took their ease and kept their daughters by them until a suitable young man came to claim their attention.

  Netta never minded such manoeuvring. So long as she was left alone to talk or be silent with the young man, she was quite happy. She could generally escape when she wanted to, to gossip with the girls, or perhaps look at the books in the library or play with the other children.

  On this occasion, she discovered she was being held prisoner. It was clear that her mother was expecting someone in particular. ‘Mama, it will really be best if you tell me whom it is I’m waiting for. Then I can go and amuse myself, and come back when I see him arrive.’

  ‘You’ll stay here, child,’ Alys said with a playful tap from her fan. ‘I know you! You’ll find the music room and never be seen again all evening.’

  ‘No, I promise. I’ll stay in the salon. Who is it this evening, Mama? Georges Filimor again? Or someone new?’

  ‘My darling, I can’t imagine how we ever brought you up to be so unladylike! It is quite unseemly for you to talk in this way of the young men you may encounter.’

  Mademoiselle Quebrouille, chaperoning her niece, leaned across to nod agreement. ‘Young girls these days … Where do they find these forward notions? I put it down to the unsettled political climate, you know.’

  ‘Political?’ Alys was surprised. ‘I hope my daughter is not influenced by politics, mademoiselle!’

  ‘You misunderstand. I mean these continual changes ‒ from Emperor to Republican President ‒ from one code of manners to another … Under a Republic, you know, morals are always more relaxed than under a prince.’

  The two ladies became involved in an argument about the government which had come into office after the flight of Boulanger last April. Netta seized the opportunity to move gently away towards the windows. They stood open to the terrace, with steps down to a small formal garden. Outside, the April night was balmy. In a house some distance away, a small orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz.

  Netta knew the words. She began to sing them under her breath. ‘Springtime, Springtime, beautiful time, Beautiful season of Springtime …’

  ‘How charming,’ remarked a male voice. ‘A nightingale in the garden ‒ and so early!’ She turned. Leaning against the balustrade in the shadows was a young man in the required evening dress. The red light from the end of his cigar showed up a thin dark chin and full lips over the gleam of his dress shirt.

  ‘M’sieu, you startled me!’

  ‘I apologise. But it was so surprising to hear someone singing to herself at this dirge of a party.’

  ‘You aren’t enjoying it?’

  ‘I never came across a duller set of people ‒ that is, until I met you.’

  ‘Come, come. You haven’t “met” me. And all you know about me is that I hum Strauss to myself ‒ that’s not very interesting.’

  ‘It’s interesting compared with anything else I expected to come across here this evening.’

  ‘I wonder that you came at all, since it isn’t the sort of gathering you enjoy.’

  ‘Orders are orders,’ he said lightly. ‘My father threatened to cut off my allowance if I didn’t attend.’

  ‘How cruel! But you’ll endure the torment, because you need your allowance.’

  ‘Who doesn’t? Besides, I’m not likely to come to any harm. Some blue-stocking girl is to be introduced and then I can make my escape.’ He drew on his cigar in enjoyment. ‘Now you ‒ you clearly share my views on the company.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have crept out to be alone with the bushes in their tubs.’

  ‘You’re quite mistaken. I didn’t come out because I find the company uninteresting.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘I have reasons of my own.’

  ‘A lady of mystery? And that reminds me we haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Frederic de la Sebiq. And you are?’

  ‘Nicolette Hopetown-Tramont.’

  ‘Ah! Now that’s very interesting!’

  ‘It is? I can’t imagine why?’

  ‘You will find out, Mademoiselle,’ he said. There was amusement in his tone.

  ‘Well, I had better go indoors again. Mama will be looking for me, I dare say.’

  ‘No, stay. Let’s get better acquainted.’

  ‘Not at this point, m’sieu. I’m sure Mama wouldn’t approve of my being alone with a man who hasn’t been properly introduced.’

  ‘She won’t object,’ he said with great assurance.

  ‘She won’t? What makes you think not?’

  ‘Mamas always approve of me. I’m welcomed by every Mama in Paris.’

  You have a high opinion of yourself, thought Netta inwardly. Aloud she said, ‘All that may be true, but for my own ease of mind I should prefer to go indoors. Good evening, sir.’

  ‘No, wait!’ He caught her by the arm. ‘Wait, I want to know more about you.’

  ‘Let me go, Monsieur de la Sebiq ‒’

  ‘No, a moment longer. Let me take you so that the light shines on your face. I want to see what you look like.’

  Angrily she dragged her arm free. ‘Sir, if you want to inspect my looks, you can do it in the salon where it’s less like inspecting one of your horses. Excuse me.’

  She walked quickly back through the windows into the salon. Her mother had by now noted her absence but wasn’t perturbed, though she was surprised to see Netta marching in, not from the music room but from the terrace, with her colour considerably heightened.

  ‘There you are, my dear! Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Mama. I just stepped outside to look at the stars.’

  Alys sighed. What could you do with a nineteen-year-old daughter who went out to look at the stars alone, instead of waiting to be invited by a suitable young man?

  ‘Sit down, Netta. Compose yourself. You look a little flustered.’

  ‘No I’m not!’

  ‘Don’t contradict. Use your fan. If this young man appears, we don’t want you looking like a pink shrimp.’

  Netta quelled the annoyed repartee that rose to her lips and fanned herself with too much briskness. Really, life was insupportable! First of all she had to submit to coming to Madame de Rime’s when she would have preferred to go to Madame de Greffulhe’s music party. Then she was impertinently inspected by a young man who hadn’t even the right to speak to her since he hadn’t been introduced. And now Mama was telling her to make herself look pale but interesting for a gentleman who was so very late in appearing.

  They were holding a conversation with young Monsieur Perron and his bride when out of the corner of her eye Netta spied their hostess forging her way towards them. Her heart sank. The young man she had in tow was certainly the one who had offended her on the terrace.

  Though she hadn’t been able to see him clearly, there was no mistaking that slightly arrogant tilt of the head, and the cigar … Surely he wasn’t going to have the impertinence to be presented smoking a cigar?

  ‘My dears, I want to introduce Frederic de la Sebiq, who has expressed a sincere desire to know your family. Frederic my dear, pray make the acquaintance of Madame Hopetown-Tramont and her daughter.’

  ‘Enchanted,’ murmured Frederic de la Sebiq, bowing over Alys’s hand. Netta took good care to be busy folding her fan, and satisfied herself with a cool nod.

  ‘Dear Frederic has just come back from service in Indo-China,’ explained Madame de Rime. ‘Such heroic exploits! I’m sure if you tease him about it, he’ll tell you some details.’

  She moved off, to order a footman to bring them refreshment. Monsieur de la Sebiq looked questioningly at the empty chair beside them. Alys made a little gesture of invitation. He sat down.

  ‘So, you have been fighting in the French Union of Indo-China,’ said Alys with a smile of approval. ‘That of
course accounts for your tanned skin, m’sieu. The life must have been very exhausting, apart from the dangers of war.’

  He took up the subject she had begun, shrugging a little. ‘The dangers were not too great. A cavalry regiment had really little part to play. But the climate is certainly tiring. I am glad to be home where one can walk about without growing weary in ten steps.’

  Alys glanced at Netta. It was now her turn to take part in the conversation, to follow up the young man’s remarks. She could for instance say: ‘Which is your regiment, m’sieu?’ or ‘Did you take part in the capture of Tonkin?’ or ‒ if she preferred to get away from war, which would be very ladylike ‒ she could ask: ‘Now that you are home, what shall you do, m’sieu?’

  Netta, however, took none of these openings. She had turned her eyes towards the approaching footman, and when he offered a tray she took a glass of wine. ‘I find I’m hungry too,’ she said, to no one in particular. She got up, moved off easily and without haste towards the table with canapés and other tasty morsels.

  Behind her she could feel her mother’s angry eyes boring into her. Well, let her be angry! She had cut him dead, and it was all he deserved. ‘Some blue-stocking,’ indeed! And even if he were a war hero, that didn’t give him the right to be so patronising.

  When she had been served with a little plate of goodies, she took up a position beside the Perrons. Lucie Perron, who was recently enough married to remember her single state, whispered to her: ‘Ought you not to go back to your mama? She’s keeping Monsieur de la Sebiq with her on purpose.’

  ‘I don’t wish to know him,’ Netta said with a little huff of annoyance.

  ‘Netta, my dear! You can’t snub a man your mother has particularly sought out for you.’

  ‘Oh, can’t I! Just you wait and see.’

  She remained on the other side of the room for the next twenty minutes. Monsieur de la Sebiq, his conversational powers exhausted, bowed and moved away from Alys. Alys rose and sought out her wayward daughter. ‘Well, you’ve ruined this evening quite adequately so we’ll take our leave. Come along.’