The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  She stood drinking in the scene, savouring the scent of the leaves in the wetness.

  She was Gabrielle Fournier-Tramont. There was something here for her if she cared to take it up. After all, the old lady, Nicole de Tramont, had been the maker of this house, the head of a great wine firm.

  She went to find her father in the big office behind the entrance to the cellars that ran into the hillside. He was working on invoices. He looked up in surprise when she came in unannounced, for the secretary had already gone home.

  ‘Gaby! What are you doing here, dear? And without a coat in this dampness?’

  ‘Papa, I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Really? He could tell it was important, something that couldn’t wait for the ordinary chit-chat of the family dinner table.

  ‘Can you give me work to do on the estate?’

  ‘Work? But, Gaby ‒’

  ‘Like Old Madame, Papa. She held everything in her hands, didn’t she ‒ until the day she married Gri-gri.’

  ‘Yes, of course. She was the moving spirit here. A wonderful woman.’

  ‘I know that, Papa. I wish …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Somehow I wish we were closer to her. Not just adopted into the family, you know. I wish I were like Netta ‒ a direct descendant.’

  Her father took off the spectacles that had become necessary recently. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Why do you say that, Gaby?’

  ‘I suddenly feel I really want to belong,’ she said with passion.

  ‘But you do, dear. You do.’

  ‘No, not just a member of the household. I want … Oh, I want it to be the most important thing in my life!’

  ‘But Gaby dear, you’ll get married, have children ‒’

  She was shaking her head, with such vehemence and certainty that he sat back, alarmed. ‘What is it, daughter? What’s wrong?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s love, Papa, what else? It all came to pieces. I’ve decided that I’m never going to get married. I just … seem to choose the wrong men.’

  ‘No, no ‒ you mustn’t talk like that! Good heavens, you’re still only a girl!’

  ‘Every other “girl” I know is married by now. No, Papa. I think I’m going to be a spinster.’ She summoned an uncertain smile. ‘But it doesn’t matter, because I know I can be useful here, at the House of Tramont. It’s only I don’t want to seem to push myself in where I don’t really belong.’

  He rose, limped round the desk and took her hands. ‘You do belong, Gaby. In a way that you don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, you mean I’m part of the tradition ‒’

  ‘No.’ He put her in a chair and leaned over her. ‘I’m going to tell you something. I wanted to tell you but it somehow seemed a wrong thing, to burden you with a secret you didn’t want. But now … after what you’ve said …’

  ‘What is it, Papa?’ She was looking up at him with her wide, dark eyes, so like her mother’s.

  Robert took a deep breath. ‘You are Nicole de Tramont’s granddaughter.’

  She frowned. ‘No, Papa ‒ or do you mean by adoption?’

  ‘By blood. Nicole de Tramont was my mother.’

  ‘No, no, Papa dear ‒ she was your aunt ‒’ She had thought at first that he was suffering from some delusion. But she saw his steady expression, his grave glance, and she knew all at once that it was true.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘And my father was Jean-Baptiste Labaud ‒ you remember, the Californian who died last year? It’s a long story. I only found out when I was a grown man.’ He broke off, limped away, poured two glasses of the still wine made from the champagne grapes, and brought one to her. ‘Drink, Gaby. And when you’re recovered from the first shock, I’ll explain to you why you should feel that you have the greatest right in the world to play your part in the House of Tramont.’

  Chapter 12

  Mademoiselle Fournier-Tramont gave a hearty shove at the pile of correspondence on her desk. It cascaded over it to land on the floor.

  ‘Gaby!’ cried her brother in despair, leaping to save it.

  ‘Leave it, leave it! Let it lie there until it rots. Or better still, set a light to it!’

  ‘It’s no use taking that attitude, Gaby. They’ve got to be dealt with.’

  ‘A crowd of sour, cantankerous, stubborn, narrow-minded idiots! Why should we waste our time on them?’

  ‘Because, sister dear, if we don’t take them along with us in the Syndicat General des Vignerons, we may as well not bother to keep the association going.’

  Gaby took hold of a little lock of hair either side of her head and gave them a tug. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that the Almighty has a spite against wine-growers.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘We find a way to counteract the phylloxera. We finance the raising of grafts. We even arrange loans so the small growers can buy the grafts. We manage to make some decent champagne when the grapes are good. We economise when times are bad, and help the little vineyardists stay in business. And what happens? A bunch of fools plant vines all along the edge of the province and produce inferior wines, ship it off abroad where it disgusts our regular clients, the price of champagne takes a blow, and the small growers blame us. It seems we can’t win their confidence no matter how hard we try.’

  David Fournier-Tramont hunched his chin into his stiff high collar. ‘If they weren’t stubborn and cantankerous they’d never survive in a region like Champagne. It’s a hard world there, Gaby ‒ you know it from your own experience at Calmady.’

  ‘Oh, you’re too kind-hearted to them! I tell you, they’re an impossible bunch. They keep turning and biting the hand that’s trying to feed them.’

  ‘It’s because they don’t trust us. You know yourself, my dear ‒ the figures prove that twelve million more bottles of “champagne” are being sold every year than the Champagne vines can possibly provide.’

  ‘But why must they be so certain that it’s the big firms like Tramont and Moet and Pommery who are the guilty parties? You saw that shipment I sent back from Amsterdam ‒ those labels referred to a totally non-existent firm in Épernay.’

  Her brother inelegantly held his nose. ‘That stuff really tasted vile, Gaby.’

  ‘I know it did. I tried it myself. I hope to God no one in the household of King Edward of England is mad enough to buy it ‒ the roar from His Majesty would be heard across the Channel.’

  ‘Well,’ said David, getting down on his knees and beginning to gather up scattered letters, ‘what are we going to reply to these objectors?’

  ‘We don’t have to decide now.’ Gaby stretched and yawned. ‘We can talk to Papa about it at the weekend ‒ you are going down to Calmady for Pierre’s First Communion, I take it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’m dying to see him in his new suit and holding a prayer book, trying to look saintly for the Bishop.’

  He set the pile of disordered correspondence on the desk. They were in the offices of the Paris house of the wine firm. Here Gaby worked when she wasn’t travelling on behalf of Champagne Tramont.

  At twenty-six she had been accepted by her family and friends as ‘odd’. She was clearly never going to get married. Some said it was a strange way for the Tramonts to treat their beautiful daughter, but that was the people who didn’t know them very well. Those who were closer sensed that Robert Fournier-Tramont saw in Gaby a sort of reincarnation of the founder of the firm. La Veuve Tramont herself.

  There was a difference, however. Nicole de Tramont had been an innovator, a power source. Gaby was content merely to help defend what her grandmother had built up. Times were so bad in the wine trade that it was all the winemakers could do to keep going.

  Another different between Gaby and the great Madame Tramont, less well-known, was that Gaby lived outside the conventions when she was in Paris. She had friends her grandmother would have raised her eyebrows at ‒ writers such as Colette, clothes designers such as Poiret. Pa
ul Poiret actually had the shocking idea of raising skirt hems so that they showed the ankles ‒ disgraceful!

  Her family were vaguely aware that her life-style was unusual. But with the exception of her cousin Netta, they preferred not to inquire too deeply. Netta, on the other hand, was always avid for news of Gaby’s activities.

  ‘Well, who’s the man of the moment?’ she asked when she came into Gaby’s room at the manor house to help her unpack.

  ‘There’s no one special at present, Netta.’

  ‘Good gracious, what’s the matter? Are the Parisians losing their attraction for you?’

  Gaby gave a laughing glance. ‘Contrary to what you seem to think, my dear cousin, I don’t take lovers and discard them like Cleopatra.’

  Netta was lifting a slender gown from the valise. ‘My word!’ She held it up. ‘What do you wear under this? It’s so flimsy your corset laces would show through!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to appear in church like that. It’s for a party in Épernay ‒ the Rollins have invited me.’

  ‘Oh, Gaby! I hoped you were going to give us all your time over this weekend!’

  ‘Yes, yes ‒ I’m dropping in on the Rollins en route back to Paris. Netta, what does Frederic say about this trouble with the Vignerons?’

  ‘He’s not playing too much part in that,’ Netta replied, holding the silk gown against her body and examining herself in the cheval glass. ‘He’s concentrating more on this diversification that’s become so important. Really, Gaby ‒ what do you wear under this?’

  ‘As little as possible. The whole point is that it isn’t accentuating the waist so much ‒ all the shaping is done by darts and tucks, not boning.’ Gaby studied her cousin’s appearance. ‘I don’t know whether it’ll catch on. The “fine figure” outlook is still too strong. I told Paul I’d try it out for him ‒ he calls it his “fish” silhouette but I think he’s ten years too early with it. So what’s Frederic suggesting we should diversify into?’

  ‘Oh … railways … canal transport … minerals … He and Papa and your father spend hours in the office poring over sheets of figures.’

  Frederic wasn’t really a big-businessman. He had been a shrewd gambler on the Bourse thanks to tips from well-placed friends, and now those same friends, and their friends, were part of an advisory service helping Champagne Tramont to survive.

  The trouble was, some of the most earnest advice was to get out of the wine trade. ‘There’s far too much wine slopping around Europe,’ they were told. ‘Algeria produces a lot these days, and Spain’s output is rising all the time now that the Bordeaux winegrowers have got the hang of the soil.’

  ‘But it’s not good wine!’

  ‘People seem to like it. And it’s a lot cheaper than vintage champagne, my friend.’

  The Tramonts shook their heads. They couldn’t give up the wine lands. Their lives were too intimately bound up with the grape.

  Nevertheless they took some of the advice. They weren’t likely to go bankrupt even if the bottom dropped out of the falling wine market. But in their view, the only reason to diversify was to survive until the wine market improved again.

  ‘If it ever does,’ said the bankers. ‘And if it does, what about the phylloxera? There are still a lot of winefields where they aren’t putting in American grafts ‒ you’re fighting a losing battle if you think you’ll ever get back to growing Pinot grapes on Pinot stock.’

  Yes, yes. They knew all that. It made no difference. Champagne had been made for generations along the River Marne and always would be, come hell or high water.

  Pierre’s First Communion was celebrated in the cathedral in Rheims, along with other children of the local families. Afterwards there was chat and congratulations before getting into the carriages and a few newfangled automobiles to go back to a luncheon party at the manor. Since the weather was fine and mild for this Easter season, the meal was held out of doors on the terrace. There were many guests from the neighbourhood.

  The talk, of course, was all about the wine.

  ‘What d’you think the outcome will be of this demarcation?’ asked Marc Auduron, the family solicitor.

  ‘One thing’s for sure! Nobody’ll be satisfied.’

  ‘I hear the officials are insisting that the valley of the Cubry must be left out.’

  ‘What?’ It was a cry of indignation from a wine-grower from the Cubry.

  Gaby sat under the shade of a garden umbrella, a glass of wine in her hand, listening to the argument. She’d heard it all before, not once but many times, in the course of the last year. The government of France was at last moving to delineate what regions could legally claim to make its most famous wine, champagne. Once the line was drawn, no one outside that area could claim to be making champagne. Sparkling wine, yes. Frothing wine, yes. They could choose any adjective they liked, but only the wines from inside the treasured area would legally be champagne made by the authentic method from the authentic grapes.

  Naturally nerves were at full stretch all over the region. There were many growers who were going to be left out in the cold. Some, who had turned away from the Pinot grape to other, more juice-bearing varieties, would find themselves excluded even though their land lay within the boundary. Unless they returned to the select strains of the Pinot ‒ the Pinot noir, the Pinot meunier, for instance ‒ they wouldn’t be able to call their wine champagne.

  Some were saying they should never have edged the government into starting on the legislation. At the beginning, in the face of frauds carried out by other regions and even other countries, it seemed right to protect the precious champagne heritage. The trouble was, everyone who supported the idea at the outset couldn’t possibly be included in the strict laws needed to protect the integrity of the wine.

  Gaby did a lot of travelling on behalf of Champagne Tramont. She had found she had a natural talent for smoothing over difficulties that arose over faulty shipment and irate shippers. She had seen some very strange labels circulating in the capitals of Europe, and tasted some very weird ‘champagne’. Some, it was said, was even made from rhubarb juice.

  She supported the proposed legislation. So did the other members of the board of Champagne Tramont. But then, as others would say with a sneer, they could afford to. Their land lay easily within the demarcation zone, their grapes were expensively grafted Pinots, their cellar routines were a model of accuracy and purity, their name was unassailable. It was just like the Tramonts, implied the lesser growers, to act holier-than-thou about the wine. But what about the hundreds of little vineyards that were going to go to the wall?

  She heard the exchanges becoming more heated around the long table under the young leaves of the vine arbour. She glanced about for a method to quieten them down before the effects of too much wine and too much enthusiasm caused the party to disintegrate. Even young Pierre, who always liked the grown-ups to get involved in conversation so he could get more than his share of the goodies, was looking apprehensive.

  One of the villagers had brought his accordion. She drifted over to him. ‘Play for us, Alain. Let’s have some dancing.’

  ‘Before we have some fighting, eh, mademoiselle?’ He winked, unfastened the strap, and ran his fingers over the buttons. In a moment a bal-musette tune was fluttering among the vine tendrils.

  ‘Louder, Alain.’

  She turned, looking for a partner with whom to lead the way. A young man lounging with a group from Luzadon caught her eye. He sprang up as she tilted her head. ‘May I, mademoiselle?’

  ‘A pleasure, monsieur.’ They put hands on each other’s shoulders and danced off along the terrace.

  The younger members of the party, bored by the arguments of their elders, followed suit. Pierre found himself a pretty little communicant in a dress of white lace. The grown-ups paused to watch them. The tension eased, the party spirit returned.

  ‘I’m very flattered you chose me to help in your rescue operation, Mademoiselle Tramont.’

&
nbsp; She didn’t say, You were the first man my eye lighted upon. ‘You’re a stranger here, monsieur?’

  ‘Oh yes, just passing through. I’m staying with the Jussarts in Épernay.’

  ‘Oh, indeed?’ That was impressive. The Jussarts were important people. ‘You’re in the wine business?’

  ‘Not at all, mademoiselle. I’m an aviator.’

  ‘A what?’

  She stopped dancing, stood back, stared at him. ‘Aeroplanes?’

  ‘You’ve heard of them, surely? Lighter-than-air machines.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them ‒ I’ve even seen cinematographic film of them ‒ but I never quite believe in them. You make a career of flying aeroplanes?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It’s my business. I’m trying to interest people in using aeroplanes as a means of transport.’

  ‘Of transporting what?’

  ‘We-ell … People. Goods.’

  ‘Goods?’ Gaby laughed. It was all a nonsense. She swung into step with the music again. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Charles Emeigart. You, of course, are Mademoiselle Gabrielle Tramont. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘None of it good, I dare say.’

  ‘That depends on what you mean by good. I’ve heard that you’re beautiful, which I find to be true. I’ve heard that you’re clever, which I well believe. And I’ve also heard …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you like to live your own life.’

  ‘Ah.’ They polka’d to a halt as the music ended. Alain struck up a country tune. People gathered together to dance the ronde, a circular dance in which partners met and changed. She lost Charles Emeigart in the turns of the movements. Soon after she was called by her father to chat with old friends. When she thought of Monsieur Emeigart again, the Jussarts had taken their leave and carried their guest off with them.

  To her surprise, she met him at the Rollins that evening. She was wearing the sensational dress by Poiret, which caused many indrawn breaths and surprised glances. ‘Well, so this is why you thought I’d hear no good of you, mademoiselle,’ he said teasingly when he came to speak to her. ‘All my wicked men friends are saying your gown is a sheer enticement.’