The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

It was Ducky Jones who filled out the special form letter for him that prisoners could submit; Jerome was shaking too much, and a one-handed man with a tremble was going to take far too long, especially one who’d lost his writing hand. Clutching the envelope that sealed his fate, held his very life in its note, he sought Rolf, beckoning to him later that day and pressing two-dozen cigarettes through the fence. The officers had each donated to Jerome Méa’s cause, which had created a ripple of optimism among the men, not just one of their own escaping to Switzerland but one of their favourites breaking through the fog that had held him in its sinister clutches for years. This was something to celebrate and they were even planning a shared feast tonight, all chucking in whatever food they could gather up from biscuit tins and jars.

  He had to get this letter away before he left Germany and was taken further from his home in Épernay . . . his wife . . . oh, his beautiful, darling, suffering wife. Had she given up on him? Could he blame her? He was still shaking with excitement when Rolf ambled up.

  ‘For me?’ Rolf said, eyeing the cigarettes.

  ‘Sell them if you want. I just need you to take this letter and have it sent through the Red Cross to Paris.’

  Rolf sighed. ‘Otto said it could take an eternity, the way this war is going. Letters take many months – you know that.’

  ‘It’s already been an eternity, Rolf.’

  ‘We’re very behind in prisoner documentation. You have to understand this. I checked. It’s not just us. It’s all the prisons, I’m told. You will be gone from here before we can even get it away.’

  ‘Will you submit it for me?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re being transferred as Jacques Bouchon. It is too late to change any of the paperwork. They’ll be moving you in a few hours.’

  ‘You said tomorrow.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t make the rules, Bouchon.’

  ‘It’s Méa,’ he corrected Rolf firmly.

  ‘Well, that may be but it’s Lieutenant Jacques Bouchon who is getting on the transport to Switzerland.’

  18

  ÉPERNAY

  June 1918

  It was several days after the kiss and Charlie hadn’t seen Sophie since. He could smell her distinctive perfume drifting up from the scarf wrapped around his arm. He wished he could still feel the warmth of her skin on it, and worried that all the rigid control he’d imposed upon himself over the years was being rapidly dismantled. It had taken endless days of war to turn him into a ruthless, seemingly cold-hearted murderer who apparently couldn’t die. It had taken just one kiss from a woman he admired and desired to make him feel vulnerable and, he now realised with shock, feel a genuine fear of death because it would rob him of Sophie.

  Charlie hated to feel weak, but he would sell himself twice over if it meant he belonged to Sophie. He shook his head in private surprise that this was the same Charlie Nash from the trenches at Ypres. He should feel ashamed, perhaps. Instead, he leaned his cheek momentarily on the scarf at his shoulder and inhaled; in a blink it felt as though she were walking beside him. The fragrance had a sweet spiciness to it that spoke to him of burnt orange and sandalwood. It reminded him of how much he’d wanted to study perfume-making during his university days, but the notion had been ridiculed by his tutors and he’d conformed to the image of the man in the white coat rather than go where his heart was leading him.

  He mourned that weakness of youth. Inhaling the luscious scent, he understood that it was as much a signature for a woman as if she’d written her name in ink. She might have left a room minutes before and yet, from her distinctive perfume, could still be identified as having stepped into it. He knew he could catch a drift of this perfume anywhere and he would instantly think of Sophie Delancré, even though he didn’t know its name or what its bottle looked like. Charlie felt sure he could pick it from one hundred perfumes.

  He liked seeing the scarf’s paisley pattern tied around his arm . . . his neck. That felt romantic: from her neck to his. She had been right: his numb arm had a new weightlessness now that meant it didn’t hang as heavily from his wounded shoulder. As his shoulder healed with this support, it would be able to lift and carry his arm more easily.

  As he’d been urged, he walked around the property, wearing a woman’s scarf and feeling only vaguely ridiculous. The truth was he had never felt happier, unless he considered glimpsing paradise in Sophie’s arms. He’d been with enough women to know that she was someone to fall for. When he considered all the lovely women in whose company he’d enjoyed affection, he couldn’t compare a single one to Sophie. What was it about her? There had been other, more traditionally beautiful girls with straighter, more elegant noses, perfectly arched eyebrows, creamier complexions. The small scar on Sophie’s brow gave her a permanent look of gentle amusement; he must learn what had caused that injury. One of her eyes was ever so slightly darker than the other but that could only be noticed if one was as close to her as he had been as they kissed. How many have got that close? he wondered in a flash of jealousy.

  He flicked the thought away and let his mind shift to her hands; most women took pride in theirs. Hers were long-fingered, made strong from years of hard work; the skin of her hands was distressed with tiny wounds and the odd bruise, which she wore without embarrassment, perhaps even with a sense of pride. And while most of the people she worked with in Reims were milky from their subterranean lives, Sophie’s skin was slightly burnished and she didn’t seem to care. And that’s where Sophie’s magic lay, he realised: she did not possess the vanity that might make her arrogant or precious. Here was a woman wealthy in her own right, and although she carried herself confidently, it was not with superiority but with a sense of belief in herself. There had been other confident women in his life but again he couldn’t raise one to mind who came close to Sophie in terms of her commanding presence; gazes, including his, followed her, and fortitude did not compromise her femininity. If anything, that quiet strength enhanced her, shone through that woody-green gaze. Her beauty lived within her smile – when she had turned it on him, he experienced for the first time the sensation of his heart skipping a beat. He’d always sneered at such sentiment but no, his whole body had felt itself pause when she greeted him with a smile that seemed to warm all of her features . . . but just for him. He knew he was being mawkish, but this was a new emotion for him, and it felt enlivening.

  Her husband’s presence threatened to invade his thoughts, but Charlie pushed him away. Not yet. He would confront that issue soon but not now. He did wonder how she might be rationalising the same question. But she had kissed him willingly. She’d stepped over that line of her own desire.

  Charlie passed sheds like insect hives, full of industry. Women in one shed were cleaning barrels; the smell of damp oak was prevalent. He strolled in to watch and saw them sluicing water around the big barrels that would soon hold the liquor from this year’s harvest. In another they were washing bottles, elbow-deep in thin suds, chatting above the clank of heavy glass. There was an eager atmosphere around the property; the women believed that the end of this torturous war was nearing. He watched a cartload of sacks being delivered and his acute sense of smell told him this was yeast, while another shed held what he realised was cane sugar – there didn’t seem to be much left, but what would he know?

  Two little girls skipped towards him. They were of similar age; one was without front teeth, giving her a delightful lisp.

  ‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked.

  ‘I am. I’m not French, though.’

  ‘But I understand you,’ she said in a singsong voice. Her friend, or perhaps it was her sister, giggled.

  ‘Because French is such a beautiful language to speak,’ he replied. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am Clemence,’ answered the lisper.

  He looked to her friend with enquiry.

  She pointed to herself. ‘My name is Marcelle.’

  ‘Would you like to see all the bottles?’ Clemence offered.

/>   ‘I would,’ he said, unsure of what they meant.

  Without hesitation, Clemence took his hand, Marcelle linked arms with her and they led him down some stone steps.

  ‘Mummy works here,’ Marcelle said, ‘but I don’t like it.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, enchanted by the youngsters.

  ‘Oh, that’s because she’s scared of the dark. I’m not,’ Clemence informed him. ‘I’m like Madame Delancré.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she assured him. ‘She’s not scared of anything.’ Her lisp made her brave words sound all the more courageous.

  A musty smell, not dissimilar to mushrooms, captured him. He felt the warmth of the day disappear as he arrived at the bottom of the steps and stood, mouth slightly open with awe. Women, like worker ants, stood behind tall timber shelves that held seemingly endless rows of bottles at an angle. The women were twisting the bottles and he could tell it was with precision but they were fast and focused.

  ‘Maman!’ Clemence yelped and both girls ran to her mother, disturbing her at her work.

  Charlie noticed she was softly vexed but found a smile and smoothed their cheeks, whispering a gentle admonishment. They pointed to him and she turned. He quickly strode up to her.

  ‘Forgive me. Madame Delancré suggested I explore the property – I am one of her wounded,’ he said, lifting his damaged arm to demonstrate.

  ‘I can see.’ She smiled. ‘I recognise Madame’s scarf too.’

  ‘We needed an urgent sling,’ he admitted and grinned. ‘Are these your daughters?’

  ‘Clemence is and Marcelle might as well be. They are inseparable.’ The girls skipped away, their attention caught by something else. ‘Her mother died recently, her father killed in 1915, so she’s part of our family now.’ She shrugged. He didn’t pursue it. Everyone helped everyone around here.

  ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. What is the name of this procedure of you turning the bottles, changing their angle? It is marvellous to watch.’

  ‘We have many words for it. Boring is one.’ She laughed, and he smiled.

  ‘We call this remuage,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Hello, Adeline.’

  ‘Madame.’ The woman half curtsied.

  He turned to see Sophie arriving. ‘Remuage,’ he repeated.

  ‘In English they call this riddling. Someone as skilled as Adeline here can turn many thousands of bottles each day. Her husband held the record of twenty thousand in one day.’

  He stared at Sophie and back at Adeline. ‘That’s extraordinary.’

  ‘It is. We’ll leave you to your work, Adeline. Would you care for a tour?’ she asked Charlie.

  ‘If you have time.’

  ‘I do.’

  After their intimacy he loathed their aching politeness but with others around he had no intention of compromising Sophie’s standing.

  ‘Do you understand the making of champagne, Charlie?’

  He wanted to ask her about the kiss. Had he imagined it? He could be forgiven for thinking he had. Charlie cleared his throat, allowing Sophie to decide when to raise what had occurred in the attic room. ‘Treat me as a beginner,’ he said.

  ‘Well, the riddling process is designed to move the sediment in the bottles, left behind from the fermentation process, down to the neck so we can rid the wine of what is essentially waste matter. Remember, this wine has been maturing first in barrels, then in bottles.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, encouraging her to go on, loving the passion in her voice.

  ‘Now, riddling looks easy enough, doesn’t it, that even a one-handed man could perform this?’

  He grinned, liking her gentle barb. ‘It does.’

  ‘Aha,’ she said, eyes sparkling with amusement, ‘but the riddler has secrets, knowing just how far to turn each bottle – today left, tomorrow it might be turned right – all the time adjusting the angle so minutely that a novice can’t spot that change. And while this action happens, what we call the must is eased towards the bottles’ necks until we can be rid of it.’

  ‘How many turns per bottle?’

  ‘Thirty, perhaps.’

  He whistled at how impressive that was.

  ‘I learned this at my grandfather’s knee. I used to turn the lower bottles until I grew tall enough to turn an entire pupitre.’ She cut him a glance. ‘Adeline was teasing, by the way. She has worked for Delancré since before the war. And she’s even better than her husband was. She has more empathy for the young wine and its needs.’

  ‘That sounds maternal,’ he remarked as she led him deeper into the tunnels, past more workers, some of them children, which made him smile.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ she replied. ‘I care for my wine as lovingly as a mother would her child. I have to. Look at all these people it must support.’

  ‘How far do these cellars go?’

  ‘They twist and turn for a while yet – not as extensive as Reims, of course, but they run the length and breadth of the property. Don’t worry, Charlie, I have run around these caves since I was old enough to stand up. I could navigate them without a lantern and blindfolded. Come, I want to show you something.’

  She led him into a very quiet part of the cellar network where horizontal bottles now sat at peace. It was silent, the only light coming from a lantern she picked up on their way.

  ‘It feels monastic here,’ he said.

  Again she smiled. ‘We are certainly all praying for a good year. Yes, these bottles are now resting. I have high hopes for this vintage.’ She glanced his way and put the lantern down. ‘Vintage is made only from the three important grapes that make up champagne. These are pinot noir, chardonnay and meunier.’ She counted them off, lifting a finger for each as she did so; he understood she was impressing upon him the importance of those grapes. ‘And all from the same year.’

  ‘So, this is your best stuff?’

  She frowned and he watched her run her fingertips over the seals in a gesture of affection. ‘That could be a misconception. Younger champagne is full of its effervescence and fruit. It is delicious when made with care and the blend achieved with precision. Vintage is enjoyed less for its spritz than for its complexity. The flavours exert themselves over time and if you can get it right, it can make exceptional drinking. But it takes a lot of time, a lot of storage, with potential problems —’

  ‘War, for example.’ He smiled sadly.

  Sophie nodded. ‘Yes, war and —’

  She was not permitted to finish her thought. Charlie had pulled her towards him and swallowed her words with a kiss, but not one that lingered.

  ‘I couldn’t resist that,’ he finally said, touching his forehead against hers. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Charlie . . .’ she began.

  He heard her hesitancy and felt instantly dismayed that he’d read her wrong or taken advantage of her kindness. ‘Were you just being kind before?’

  ‘I’m really not that kind. I don’t make a habit of kissing every wounded soldier who crosses my path.’

  ‘Have I overstepped?’

  ‘Your face would be stinging if you had,’ she replied with a soft smile he couldn’t read. ‘I think I’m the one who should be apologising.’ He frowned, unsure – he didn’t want to let go of her, but it no longer felt right to hold on to her in such a proprietorial manner. ‘I took advantage of you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘I think I’m feeling . . .’ He watched her choose the right word carefully, her features falling into soft resignation as she found it. ‘Vulnerable.’ She touched his cheek. ‘And you’re the first man in a long time who has caught my attention in a way to make me forget myself. I never thought it possible . . . I mean, the thought of being with anyone but Jerome is . . .’ She smiled. ‘You’re easy to fall for, Charlie.’

  ‘But your defences are up now?’

  She nodded with an even warmer smile. ‘I have regained my wits,’ she admitted. ‘Reminded myse
lf that my husband is missing, and only presumed dead. I am the one to blame. I should not have allowed my feelings to spill as they did.’

  He fixed her with a harder gaze than he intended. ‘So you admit to feeling something for me?’

  She nodded, looking ashamed. ‘And I feel guilty for it. I’ve suffered for days berating myself over being weak.’

  ‘Or simply attracted as well as lonely, looking for affection?’

  ‘All of those.’ She sighed.

  ‘Nice to know,’ he said, hating how flippant he sounded.

  ‘Charlie. Please understand that I can’t,’ she said, firm but with an appeal in her voice. ‘Until I can be sure about Jerome’s fate. I must remain faithful to the man I love, the man I married. It was a moment of madness and selfish desire.’

  He lowered his head. ‘Do you believe in your heart he’s alive?’

  ‘I’m frightened if he’s not.’

  ‘Frightened how? You’ve been years without him already, I —’

  ‘It’s his brother,’ she blurted.

  He narrowed his eyes. What an odd admission. ‘What about his brother?’

  She let out a low sigh, looked away and finally eased out of his encircling hands. ‘Louis seems to believe he has a claim on me.’

  ‘Pardon?’ He was astonished by her remark. ‘Why?’

  She shrugged her slim shoulders, looking distressed. ‘Louis feels a right because he saw me first.’ She told him the story of that first meeting. ‘But it was Jerome I fell in love with . . . almost the instant that he walked into the room. Cliché, no?’

  He gave a sad shrug. ‘Oh, I don’t know, I think I felt the same about you, chattering away about opera and stroking my skin as you washed it.’ He watched her blush and found her all the more desirable for it. ‘And you mean this Louis hasn’t forgiven you for falling for his brother?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, actually. I think if that were the case, I could almost feel a sympathy for him. Unrequited love is the worst sort of love, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Charlie . . .’ she said, fixing him with a stare. ‘It doesn’t take much imagination to think on the women whose hearts you have broken, simply by your elusive manner.’ She smiled. ‘It’s part of your charm but it would frustrate any woman in your life.’