The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Cosette?’

  ‘Of course, everyone thought I would know all about it and wouldn’t believe it when I said I was in the dark.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more in the dark than I am. What is this all about?’

  ‘Netta, of course, you have to pretend nothing awful has happened, but you needn’t pretend with me! I’m your friend.’

  Netta, looking at the avid face and eager, rather unkind smile, doubted it. ‘What am I supposed to have done, Cosette?’

  ‘Supposed to have done? I suppose the details differ slightly in your version ‒’

  ‘Do I take it you think I eloped with some unsuitable man?’

  The coldness of her tone made Cosette blink. She hesitated. ‘There’s no need to be angry, Netta. I’m sorry you were dragged home from Venice ‒ Venice, how romantic!’

  ‘I was brought home because I fell ill. There was no “dragging”. I went to Milan, not Venice, to study music with a former star of La Scala. That’s the whole history of the thing.’

  ‘Oh, come, now, Netta! Oh, really! With a friend like me you don’t have to keep up such a tale.’

  ‘Cosette, it’s the truth. I ran away from home to take singing lessons from a great teacher in Milan.’

  Cosette shrugged her pretty shoulders and looked offended. ‘All right. I see you don’t intend to tell me who you went with. But at least tell me this ‒ is it all over? Or are you going to see him again?’

  ‘There was no man, Cosette. I assure you. I went on my own to Milan.’

  ‘A likely tale! If you think I’ll believe that!’

  ‘Cosette, if you can prove that I have been involved with any man in the way you mean, I’ll … I’ll give you that Chinese ivory fan you always admire so much.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or any other thing of mine that you like. If you can produce one single iota of evidence ‒’

  ‘Oh, goodness, I don’t go in for games of that kind! And in any case you kept it so terribly secret I daresay it would be impossible’

  ‘I didn’t keep it secret. If you like to ask my singing teacher, Monsieur Leroux, you’ll find that I went to his studio that day I left you at the dress show.’

  ‘Is that where you used to meet him? At your singing teacher’s?’

  Netta got up. ‘Cosette, I see it’s useless to talk to you. We’re having a conversation that makes no sense. It would be best if you left now.’

  ‘You’re asking me to leave?’ Cosette cried, too astonished to take it in.

  ‘Yes, please. I still don’t feel absolutely a hundred per cent, and it’s exhausting trying to talk to you if you insist on going on like this.’

  ‘But … Netta …’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong ‒ not in the way you’re suggesting. I didn’t have a lover. I wasn’t with a man. I only wanted to study with a great teacher.’

  ‘Are you really asking me to believe you went to Italy to study music?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what on earth for?’

  ‘To be an opera singer.’

  ‘An opera singer?’

  ‘Yes. I was told by someone I respected that I had the ability. I wanted to study seriously.’

  ‘To go on the stage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was so bizarre as to be utterly convincing. Cosette was silenced. After a moment she said, ‘Everyone thinks you went with a man.’

  Netta shivered. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I can see that they do.’

  ‘In fact …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When they heard you were ill, a lot of people said … But I always told them that was going too far …’

  ‘They said what, Cosette?’

  ‘Well … you know … It seemed to follow …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well … a baby …’

  ‘What?’ cried Netta, shocked to the heart. She felt herself go cold and faint at the thought.

  ‘Netta! Netta! Oh, I’m sorry! Oh, Netta dear, don’t …’ Cosette sprang to the bell and pulled it violently. By the time the maid appeared, Netta was recovering. All the same, Cosette begged that a glass of brandy should be brought, and that Madame Hopetown-Tramont should be told her daughter was unwell.

  As soon as Alys appeared, Cosette took her leave. She had a feeling she was decidedly unwelcome just then.

  When she had sipped the brandy and recovered a little, Netta confided to her mother what she’d just learned from her school-friend.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Alys said grimly. ‘What else did you expect?’

  ‘Mama, I can’t go back into society knowing people are saying things like that!’

  ‘You can and you will! If you once begin to cower away, the story will gain credence. You’ll go to Helene de Rime’s At Home tomorrow evening, and everyone will see that the stories are untrue.’

  ‘They won’t! They’ll titter and gossip.’

  ‘Only those who prefer lies to truth. You look like someone who’s had malaria, Netta ‒ you still have that faint yellowish tinge to your skin. And as for the supposed lover when they find they just can’t put a name to him, they’ll get tired.’

  ‘Mama, please don’t make me go through all that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my precious,’ Alys said with complete sincerity, ‘but if you’re to retrieve your reputation, it must be so.’

  Netta bathed and dressed the following evening with great reluctance. Her mother sent her maid to apply a tiny scrap of rouge and powder to counteract the skin tints left by the malaria. She had lost a little weight, which didn’t help matters where fashion was concerned but which would bear evidence to the matrons in the evening that she certainly hadn’t had a baby.

  The rich pink silk rustled as she made her way in the wake of her mother into the salon of Madame de Rime. They were rather late: Alys had planned it thus, so that as many people as possible would see for themselves that all the gossip was untrue.

  So it was a grand entrance. Helene de Rime hurried over to greet them, flustered and somewhat put out that her old friend should make her stage this scene for her. She prattled a welcome, looked about hopefully for someone who would join them and ease the situation.

  But most of those present were staying where they were, eyeing Netta with interest masked by cool politeness. One or two of the young ladies were visibly giggling behind their fans.

  Netta wished she could sink through the floor. If her colour had needed rouge before she set out, it was too high now. She stood with her chin up, resolutely staring at a corner of the ceiling. Soon she must move to join one of those unfriendly groups ‒ or be trapped forever in this moment, like a fly in amber.

  ‘Good evening,’ said a voice from behind them. ‘How pleasant it is to meet you again after all this time. Mademoiselle Tramont.’

  It was Frederic de la Sebiq.

  Chapter 5

  Where one leads, others will follow. After Frederic’s intervention, Netta’s first evening engagement went better than she’d feared.

  It was decided by the arbiters of society to accept the story that her month’s absence had been due to a severe bout of malaria, though how she’d come to contract that ailment was never fully explained.

  One of the tales that was told concerned Mademoiselle Hopetown-Tramont’s wish to study music. This came from Cosette Brissiac, who wasn’t fully believed because she was known to prattle. But it was as good an explanation as any. Besides, one couldn’t really ‘cut’ the Hopetown-Tramonts. They had so much money, and their family went back on one side to a good monarchical supporter so that one might antagonise, for instance, the Comte de Paris ‒ who of course stuck to his own little coterie of the Faubourg St Germain, but all the same, it was better not to annoy the possible future King of France.

  Beside, Mademoiselle Hopetown-Tramont was this year’s Lady-President of the Charity of the Little White Flowers, and if one offended her she might very well cut o
ne off the list of subscribers ‒ and then how would one get tickets for the Grand Charity Ball in June?

  Soon the gossip columnists, instead of speculating over Netta’s whereabouts, were cooing again about her good looks and her exquisite taste. ‘We note,’ they remarked, ‘that yet another heart has been added to the sleeve of that delightful young lady. Monsieur Frederic de la Sebiq is now seen in her company as well as Monsieur Parlau and Monsieur André de Harlangier. The haut monde waits with bated breath to see if she will choose from among these devoted admirers.’

  Netta still wasn’t ready to ‘choose’. Her experiences had shaken her so that she was now very unsure of herself. She had never been ill before, except for the usual childish ailments. The feeling of not being in control of her own body, of losing touch with reality, was frightening. She still had nightmares that grew out of the illness, and were fed by the bewilderment of her first days in Milan and the brief encounter with the man at the boarding-house.

  A certain languidness possessed her. She didn’t even feel like arguing that she should take up her music lessons again with Monsieur Leroux. She was content for the moment to drift.

  Her parents didn’t urge anything upon her. They were in the first place only too thankful to have her back safely within the fold. And in the second place, they had more important matters to think about.

  An event had occurred which they’d been dreading for years. Phylloxera had reached the Champagne region.

  This deadly disease of the vines, brought over to the continent of Europe from America, had slowly been making headway through the vineyards from the south. It had first appeared in Provence in 1863, but little anxiety had been felt then ‒ it was a new disease, it would be counteracted by some new spray or powder.

  Not so. In the next quarter of a century it had erratically made its way through the vine-rows. In 1869 it had been at work in Bordeaux but also in Portugal. The Rhône valley felt its power in the year of the Franco-Prussian War. Then unexpectedly it appeared in strength in the New World and in Australia where a beginning had been made on producing wine.

  By 1887 it was in Africa, both Algeria where the French were promoting the wine industry, and in South Africa where the European vines had been healthy and strong for twenty years. The following year the Italian vineyards were decimated.

  Almost the only winefields that had not been touched were those of Champagne. ‘Ah,’ said some of the wiseacres, ‘it’s because our climate’s too cold for the insect that carries the disease.’

  Once again, not so. Phylloxera had been seen this year near the River Marne, on a small stretch of vines owned by a small grower.

  Netta’s father and her Uncle Robert were too concerned about the outbreak to care whether or not she was having a successful season. And even her mother and Aunt Laura took part in the anxiety.

  The onward march of the insect seemed inevitable. Nothing seemed to stop it or cure the disease it inflicted. The vines yellowed and died, no grapes were produced.

  And if no grapes were produced, no wine could be made. The fortunes of the Champagne Girls would disappear in the useless fight to save the industry.

  The family went as usual to Calmady in September. The grape harvest was in full swing. All was well ‒ a good pressing, rich and well-flavoured. The relief was almost palpable.

  Grandmama had come with Grandpapa Gri-gri as she’d promised. They stayed on for the shooting, to which guests came from time to time throughout October and November.

  ‘Which of these young men are you considering, dear?’ Grandmama asked Netta, pointing at the group at the edge of the wood.

  ‘None of them, Grandmama.’

  ‘Indeed? Isn’t it time you made your mind up, Netta? You can hardly appear unmarried for a fourth season.’

  There was asperity in the tone. Netta was surprised. She glanced about with some anxiety, not wishing to have anyone hear the implied reproof, but they were standing far back from the battues, with the servants waiting to serve the luncheon.

  ‘Grandmama, you know Andre de Harlangier as well as I do. Would you like to be married to a man who brays like a donkey when he laughs?’

  She saw her grandmother hitch up her thick coat collar to hide a smile. ‘Well, aside from the noise he makes, he’s a very worthy young man.’

  ‘Is he? Perhaps he is.’

  ‘Are you looking more favourably on … who is that one in the brown knickerbockers?’

  ‘That’s Louis Nanillet. He’s already proposed and been refused.’

  ‘What was wrong with him? Did he smile too widely?’

  ‘Oh, Grandmama! He hasn’t got two wits to rub together.’

  ‘He’s quite good-looking …’

  ‘So is a poodle dog. But one wouldn’t want to marry it.’

  ‘Netta, you must really be more reasonable. Your parents are quite worried, and I begin to sympathise with them. You must make a choice soon.’

  ‘I don’t see why!’ Netta burst out, swinging away from her grandmother to swish impatiently at an inoffensive clump of bracken. ‘It’s only convention that insists a girl has to marry in her first two or three seasons.’

  ‘It’s quite a good convention, my dear, because it means, quite frankly, that she doesn’t get too long in the tooth.’

  ‘Grandmama!’

  ‘Oh hoity-toity! You’re still a very pretty girl ‒ but watch out, my love. There are younger, prettier girls coming along all the time. One day you’ll find the men aren’t flocking to your door any more. And then it’ll be an arranged match, with perhaps even the awful Andre de Harlangier ‒ and how shall you like that?’

  ‘Oh, Mama and Papa would never make me marry someone I really disliked.’

  ‘Don’t play fast and loose with their good nature, then, my lass! Come now, Netta, you’re a sensible girl. You must see you can’t go on for ever without taking your proper place in the family. By now you should be married and expecting your first baby.’

  Netta blushed. ‘Need you put it in such bald terms?’

  ‘Why do you close your eyes to it? Your parents want you settled and with children of your own ‒ it’s part of the scheme of things. There must be someone you’d be happy with. How about this young captain of cavalry ‒ the one who rallied round so handsomely after your foolish little jaunt to Italy?’

  ‘You mean Frederic … I must admit, I think better of him than I did when we met at the outset.’ She thought with gratitude of Frederic’s support on that first occasion after her illness, and his amused acceptance of a platonic friendship ever since. ‘The only trouble is, Grandmama ‒ we really have absolutely nothing in common.’

  ‘That can’t be true. You meet at various events in Paris ‒ he escorted you to at least one ball …’

  ‘All he seems to know anything about is backing horses and playing cards. He wouldn’t ever have bothered to make my acquaintance if his father hadn’t forced him to. And from what I can gather elsewhere, I was selected by old Monsieur de la Sebiq because I looked a good healthy specimen. Cosette says the de la Sebiq blood has got so thin you can’t distinguish it from water except in a good light.’

  ‘I hope you don’t pay attention to anything Cosette says,’ reproved her grandmother. ‘The de la Sebiq family goes back to the Knights Templar ‒’

  ‘And their house in Provence is about the same age. I hear it’s a crumbling ruin.’

  ‘Well, good gracious, no one is asking you to go and live there! I’m sure your papa would make a useful settlement on the marriage, and I hear that the boy could be found a place in the business.’

  ‘You’ve obviously had a long talk with Papa about this!’

  ‘Little minx! You’re pleased at the thought of having us all on tenterhooks about you!’

  ‘No, truly, Grandmama, I’m not. I … I really wish I could be the kind of daughter Mama seems to want. I even wish I could fall in love with Frederic. But somehow I … I just don’t. And he isn’t in love with me, and d
on’t pretend that he is. He doesn’t want to be a married man. He told me so himself.’

  Grandmama made a sound of vexation. Really, how were they to get anything settled if the young people talked themselves out of marriage so easily?

  ‘I’ll be entirely honest with you, Netta. Pierre de la Sebiq is quite in earnest about having his son marry into the Tramont family. He wants to see the family carried on ‒ they’ll die out if Frederic doesn’t marry and have children. He’s even quite resigned to the idea that his son will become part of the House of Tramont and take part in the wine industry.’

  ‘Frederic doesn’t know anything about the wine industry!’

  ‘He drinks wine, doesn’t he? He knows good wine from bad? Besides, nobody would expect him to assume responsibility for anything important, like the blending. All we want in your husband is that he helps to keep the House of Tramont going.’

  ‘It sounds so … so cold, Grandmama. Too much like a business transaction.’

  Lady Grassington threw out her hands. ‘Then fall in love, Netta! Lose your heart to someone! We’re at the stage now where we almost don’t mind who it is, so long as he’s respectable and a bachelor! Find yourself a handsome, decent young man and we’ll all give our blessing ‒ but don’t wait too much longer because we’re all getting anxious …’

  Thinking over the conversation afterwards, Netta had to admit that her grandmother had stated the case accurately. It was she herself who was to blame. She was beginning to believe she was incapable of falling in love. And now that her health was fully restored, she found herself yearning again to go back to her music. That seemed to be the really important thing in her life. Which must mean she was a very odd character indeed.

  Spring approached, and with it the awful thought of yet another season in Paris, with everyone staring at her and making calculations about her age. She was saved from it by the kindness of Lord Grassington, who proposed she should come with him and Grandmama on a trip, half-business and half-pleasure, to Austria and Hungary.