by Susan Lewis
‘It’s all right, Freddy,’ she said, ‘I understand. I am far too old for you really, and I’m sure we would have made one another unhappy in the end. You are wise to take your girlfriend back and I hope she will have a marvellous time here with you. You must take her to the waterfall table, and bring her over to Lorvoire for tea one afternoon; you know how Maman loves to have visitors, and I should very much like to meet her myself.’ She smiled as she saw the uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, chéri,’ she said, ‘I won’t cause a scene. What we had together was very special, and for me it will always be a wonderful memory, I have no wish to spoil it. You have your whole life ahead of you and I hope that sometimes you will think of me …’
‘Oh I will!’ he cried, hugging her hands to his chest. ‘I will!’
She stood up. ‘Please don’t feel badly over this, Freddy, and please don’t think you have hurt me so much that I can’t bear it. I am sad, of course, but you must remember that I am used to these things …’ Her smile almost failed her then, but she swallowed hard, and with a little toss of her head she said, ‘She is a very lucky girl, your Teresa.’
‘Oh, Monique!’ Freddy cried, throwing his arms around her. ‘Thank you. Thank you. You are a wonderful woman.’
‘Maybe,’ she whispered, and gently removing his arms, she turned and started back across the lawn.
Freddy watched her go, dazed by how easy it had been after all, and now not at all sure that he had done the right thing. But it was too late for regrets, Teresa would be arriving in an hour or two and he was rather looking forward to seeing her. He waited for Monique to disappear around the side of the château before wandering off towards the river to pen a verse to his rediscovered love.
Claudine and Armand were standing in the circular cavern at the back of one of the wine caves where potential customers were taken to taste the Lorvoire wine. The only light came from the flickering candles at the centre of a round stone table where glasses and bottles were set out. In the arched recesses around the walls were sample vintages of every year, dating back to the end of the last century.
The air rang with the sound of their laughter as Armand told her stories of the rich and famous who had come pretending to know all there was to know about wine, only to betray themselves with just one inane question, or with obvious ignorance of the way one set about tasting. He was now in the process of showing her how it should be done. Her eyes were shining as she watched him lift the glass to his lips; and when he had finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and started to refill the glass. ‘Your turn,’ he said.
‘Oh no!’ she declared. ‘I’ll end up as one of your anecdotes.’
Laughing, he handed her the glass, which was almost half-full. ‘You will if you don’t,’ he warned her.
She took the glass and peered into it. ‘Why don’t you swallow it?’ she said, not at all taken with the idea of having to spit it out.
‘Because I wouldn’t be much use to anyone if I spent the entire day three sheets to the wind.’
‘That’s an English expression,’ she said.
‘Stop changing the subject. Now, remember, savour the aroma first.’
She lifted the glass to her nose and inhaled deeply.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘You haven’t swished it around in the glass,’ he said. ‘Remember what I told you.’
Pulling a face at him, Claudine sloshed the wine about the glass, and spilt it. ‘Before you say anything,’ she cried, ‘there was too much in there!’
‘Well, there isn’t now, is there?’ he said, handing her a towel. ‘Now, swish it gently and release the bouquet.’
This time she was a little more successful.
‘Mmm,’ she sighed. ‘Délicieux.’
‘That’s right. Remember, a large proportion of the sense of taste is in the sense of smell. Carry on.’
Looking at him over the rim of the glass, Claudine took a mouthful.
‘Roll it around your tongue. That’s it. Take in the flavour. Think about it, listen to what your senses are telling you. Now, spit it in there,’ he pointed to the bowl on the floor. ‘Pathetic!’ he cried, as she let the wine go in a dribble. ‘What we want is a nice healthy spurt. Now, again.’
She went through the performance again, and this time, at the end, the wine issued from her lips in a veritable fountain.
‘Bravo!’ he cried, and she looked so thoroughly pleased with herself that he burst out laughing.
‘Armand St Jacques, you’re trying to make a fool out of me,’ she declared.
‘Ah, but at least I’m doing it in the privacy of the wine cellar, which is more than I can say for what you have in mind for me. Singing in public! Have you managed to talk François into doing anything for this cabaret of yours?’
‘Not yet. But I will.’
‘You won’t, you know,’ he said. ‘Because he tells me he’s not going to be here. So I’m throwing you a new challenge. If I am to sing with Solange, then you are to invite all the wine-growers in the area and judge their last year’s vintage.’
‘But I can’t do that! I don’t know anything about …’
‘You know what you like the taste of, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘That’s settled, then.’
‘All right, I accept the challenge.’ Her eyes were dancing with laughter. ‘But I’ll need some more lessons.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll agree to that.’
She watched as he re-corked the bottle, trying to think of a suitable rejoinder. In the end she gave up and a few minutes later they were strolling in the semi-darkness through pyramids of wine bottles towards the distant sunlight at the mouth of the cave. The constant eleven-degree temperature needed for the wine made Claudine pull her cardigan tightly around her. She glanced absently at the measuring gauges on the huge vats, wondering if she should ask Armand whether François had said where he would be during the harvest.
‘I hear you went to see Gertrude Reinberg this morning,’ Armand said, interrupting her thoughts.
‘News does travel fast.’
‘Henri Jallais told me. His wife was watching you from her window.’
He grimaced as he remembered how he had been compelled to reprimand Jallais for repeating what his wife had said about Claudine. It was bad enough that Jallais had repeated it at all, but to do so in front of other estate workers was inexcusable, and made him no better than the acid-tongued harridan he called a wife. Still, being called an interfering, Jew-loving, stuck-up foreigner by Florence Jallais was probably the least of Claudine’s problems; he hadn’t missed the fleeting look that had crossed her face when he mentioned that François wasn’t going to be at the harvest celebration. He wasn’t sure whether it had been disappointment or anger, but whatever it was it was only one of several indications that Claudine was having a hard time trying to make sense of her marriage. Well, there was little he could do to help her there – but he would do his utmost to make the harvest celebration a success for her.
Claudine had stopped beside the sixteenth-century wine press. Grinning at him, she started to recite all he had told her earlier about sugar and acidity levels.
‘A formidable pupil,’ he said when she had finished. ‘Now, talk me through the wine year, starting with January.’
She narrowed her eyes in concentration. ‘January is the month of pruning and blending. Also there is the sampling of the full-bodied wine, when you invite friends and colleagues to assess the young wines as they develop in the vat. Wines from the previous year are ready for bottling …’ Her frown deepened as she tried to remember what else he had told her.
He waited, seeing how the beams of sunlight filtering in from the mouth of the cave turned her wild hair to a furnace of blue and gold. He’d thought she looked a little pale earlier, when she drove past him on the way to the village, but now her generous lips were moist and red, and her honey cheeks were flushed with colour. Her eyes were lowered, and h
e could see the gently curving line of her lashes, thick and glossy and black. She was so beautiful that when he thought of how behind that vibrant, intoxicating energy, she was trying so hard to hide her pain it was only with a tremendous effort that he was able to stop himself from reaching out to comfort her.
‘… and April,’ she was saying, ‘is a very tricky time because of lingering frosts as the sap starts to rise in the vine. This is the month when you might sleep out with the vines to keep a check on them.’ She turned to look at him, and even before she spoke he was grinning at the mischief in her eyes. ‘Do you hug them to keep them warm,’ she said, ‘or just blow on them?’
Laughing, he moved away from the wine press and started to walk on. ‘Remember the smudge pots?’ he said. ‘At the back of the other cave?’
‘The things that look like chestnut braziers?’
He nodded. ‘We light them and take them out on frosty nights, to heat up the air around the vines.’
‘Amazing. Shall I go on?’
‘No, that’s enough for today. Some of us have work to do!’
They strolled on towards the front of the cave. ‘I was talking to Father Pointeau early this morning,’ he said, ‘and he suggested we hold the celebration on the Sunday following the harvest – after the thanksgiving service.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ Claudine replied. ‘Do you know yet which Sunday that will be?’
Armand shrugged. ‘François and I took a walk round the vineyards earlier, and we agreed that, providing the weather keeps up, the harvest will take place roughly four weeks from now. So it looks as though we’re aiming for the last Sunday in October.’
‘Oh, I can hardly wait,’ she sighed, hugging herself. ‘We’re going to have so much fun, I know we are.’
He was about to respond when a sudden, piercing scream resounded through the cave. ‘Chienne!’
Startled, they both looked up to see a silhouetted figure standing at the mouth of the cave.
‘Monique,’ Claudine breathed.
‘I want to talk to you, you bitch!’ Monique shrieked, and before either of them could reply she turned on her heel and stormed off towards the house.
Armand saw that the colour had vanished from Claudine’s face. ‘What on earth was that about?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered softly, ‘but I think I can guess.’ And hastily thanking him for his time, she started off after Monique.
‘Mademoiselle is upstairs in your apartment, madame,’ Jean-Paul informed her as she ran through the front door. Claudine took the stairs two at a time, and found Monique pacing the sitting-room, her delicate face ravaged with fury.
‘Why?’ she screamed as soon as she saw Claudine, ‘Just tell me why!’
‘You’ve been to Montvisse?’ Claudine said, closing the door behind her and keeping her back against it.
‘It was your idea wasn’t it?’ Monique seethed. ‘It was you who put Freddy up to this. But it wasn’t enough that he should jilt me, was it? You had to tell him to invite the silly little whore to Montvisse!’
‘That’s not true. Monique, please listen …’
‘You’re a liar! Everything was perfect between us before you went to see him …’
‘I was going to try …’
‘… Before you persuaded me to postpone the announcement. I trusted you! I confided in you, and this is the way you repay me. You’re a snake, an evil little snake. Just because your own marriage is a farce you can’t stand seeing anyone else happy. Well, I’ll pay you back for this, Claudine Rafferty, you see if I …’
‘Her name is Claudine de Lorvoire.’
They both spun round to see François standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
‘I don’t care what her damned name is,’ Monique screamed, ‘she’s going to pay for what she’s done.’ She turned back to Claudine, her eyes blazing with hatred. ‘You’re going to know what it’s like to be humiliated, you bitch! You’re going to find out just what it is to suffer the way you’ve made me suffer. I despise you, we all despise you. Even François …’
‘That’s enough!’ François’ voice cut through the tirade and he turned to Claudine. ‘Go downstairs,’ he barked.
‘But …’
‘I said, go downstairs. I want to talk to my sister.’
‘No!’ Monique stalked across the room. When she reached Claudine, she pushed her face towards her and spat, ‘Let her tell you, François! Let her tell you what she’s done to me. But I’ll tell you this, even if the bitch comes crawling to me on bended knee I’ll never forgive her. Never!’
She pushed Claudine out of the way, then wrenched open the door and slammed out of the room.
The silence that followed was oppressive. Claudine stared down at her hand, still grasping the edge of the mahogany sideboard, where she had tried to save herself from falling when Monique pushed her. Her mind was in turmoil, and she felt faintly sick. At last she looked up – only to see that François was scowling at her. The day had started out so well, but now a sense of defeat was threatening to overwhelm her.
‘Sit down,’ François said.
She shook her head.
He took her by the arm, led her to a chair and pushed her into it. Then he turned away towards the window. ‘I take it all that was about young Prendergast,’ he said, keeping his back turned.
Claudine didn’t answer. She felt too miserable even to show any surprise that he knew about Monique and Freddy; she had always abhorred self-pity, but she knew she was coming dangerously close to it at that moment. But Monique’s accusations were unjust. She hadn’t put Freddy up to inviting Teresa, that had been his own idea. But she could have stopped him, and she would have done if she hadn’t been so caught up in her own life.
François turned to look at her. ‘Would you like to explain why my sister is so upset?’ he said coldly.
‘I thought you’d heard all she had to say.’
‘I did. Why didn’t you defend yourself?’
‘I didn’t get the chance.’
‘I am giving it to you now.’
Claudine looked away.
‘Am I to understand from your silence that there is some truth in Monique’s accusations?’
She sighed. ‘Does it matter? Monique obviously wants to believe I talked Freddy out of marrying her …’ She shrugged.
‘Did you?’
‘Why are you asking me these questions?’ she suddenly shouted. ‘The point is that neither I nor anyone else could have talked him out of it if he’d wanted to marry her, and I resent being treated like an adolescent when none of this is any of your damned business.’
‘Claudine,’ he said with deliberation, ‘if Monique is threatening you, then it is my business.’
‘Why? Because, doting husband that you are, you care?’
‘I told you last night that I want you to be happy here.’
‘Then why the hell don’t you do something about it!’
‘That is precisely what I am trying to do. If there’s a rift between you and Monique I want it healed.’
‘And what about the rift between you and me? Or doesn’t that count? Oh, don’t speak to my any more. I’ve had enough of arguing … I’ll sort things out with Monique and I don’t need any help from you.’
‘As you wish.’
He started to walk across the room and she expected him to leave, but he stopped at the sofa and sat down. ‘How are your plans for the wine feast progressing?’ he asked, after a moment or two.
She eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he was now going to tell her that it couldn’t happen. ‘Satisfactorily,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Armand told me about Father Pointeau’s suggestion. There’ll be a hunt in the Chinon forest before the service of thanksgiving, and I’m sure Georges de Rivet would be willing to donate the catch to the feast if I ask him.’
Barely able to disguise her surprise, Claudine said, ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘The
least I can do, since I won’t be here myself.’
‘Where will you be?’ The question was out before she could stop it.
‘Berlin. If you have any letters for your father, than I shall be happy to deliver them.’
‘Thank you.’ There was a long, uncomfortable pause while she struggled to fight back the loathsome, self-pitying tears that had overcome her at the mention of her father. Then again she had spoken before giving herself time to think: ‘Would it be possible for me to come to Berlin with you?’
Sighing, he pulled himself to his feet. ‘You have duties here at Lorvoire that preclude that possibility, so I’m afraid the answer is no.’ When she continued to stare up at him, he said, ‘You can’t tell everyone you are going to organize a feast and then disappear on a whim to see your father.’
She knew he was right, but it didn’t stop her throwing her resentment at him. ‘Of course, it wouldn’t have anything to do with you not wanting me in Berlin, would it?’ she said nastily.
‘As a matter of fact, it would. I don’t want you with me. I want you here, where you belong. Now, see that you make amends to Monique before things get out of hand. If I were you, I’d start by getting that young puppy on the next train to England.’
‘He’s Céline’s guest, not mine.’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Claudine. You have offended my sister deeply; at least have the decency to get young Prendergast as far away from her as you can.’
When the door closed behind him, Claudine sat for some time staring into space and doing her best to stave off the swelling tide of unhappiness. In the end, knowing that she was losing the battle, she jerked herself out of the chair, ran down the stairs and got into the car. She might hate François for the way he had spoken to her, but he was right; having Freddy and his girlfriend at Montvisse would only exacerbate the pain for Monique, and angry as she was with Monique, she had no wish to see her suffer.
