The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Louis, it sounded urgent. Do you have more news?’

  None that I’d like to tell you about, Sophie, he thought. ‘Not urgent so much as important. I wanted you to know that I changed my mind – I tried one last time,’ he lied, feeling almost sad at the way her eyes widened with hope. ‘Unfortunately, even at the highest level all I received was a reiteration from the Ministry that it will not change Jerome’s status as having died in Flanders,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, watching as the light in her expression was extinguished by the news. ‘They require no further proof than his bloodstained jacket and a presumption of gassing and then death, lost to no-man’s-land in Ypres. That is how it was firmly described to me two days ago. It’s proof, Sophie. It’s the best we are going to get under the circumstances, and all we can do now is move on with our lives in the most practical of ways.’

  They both knew what he meant. He enjoyed the look of despair on her face. She wanted – needed – his pity and that took the form of sugar. He was keen to provide that kindness but it had a price . . . like everything.

  ‘So, this sugar,’ he began carefully, watching her take a shallow breath. She’d known this was coming; he didn’t have to tread carefully. ‘Am I to have it sent to Épernay?’ It sounded so reasonable even he was surprised. ‘You must be very close to making a decision for this year’s champagne, surely?’ He made that second statement sound innocent enough, as though it had no agenda.

  ‘I have but days,’ she answered in a flat tone, putting down her cup carefully. ‘I need that sugar.’

  ‘I know, my dear,’ he said, draining the Byrrh and reaching into his pocket to pull out the familiar ring box. ‘Shall we?’

  Sophie was once again confronted by the powerfully loathsome sight of the ring box. Louis didn’t open it this time; he simply sat it on the table near his empty glass.

  ‘Louis, do you feel it in your heart – in your very soul – that Jerome is dead?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Because I don’t —’ She watched Louis blanch before he coughed and reached inside his jacket for a handkerchief. ‘Oh, are you all right, Louis?’ she asked as she was interrupted by his explosive cough.

  ‘Yes, yes, my dear,’ he said in a slightly croaky voice. He swallowed his cold coffee. ‘Er . . . sorry. To answer your heartfelt question, yes, I do with every ounce of my soul believe that my beloved brother has given his life for France. The proof is irrefutable; the army has a bloodstained tunic, his documents, together with witnesses who saw him fall during that awful gas attack. That’s a trio of conclusive clues to his demise and it’s enough for our ministry, my dear. The general I spoke to said that the army would move swiftly under the circumstances to hold the necessary enquiry, issue the death certificate and finally release you from your prison of not knowing.’

  He broke eye contact with her, glancing towards the thin traffic of passers-by. His gaze flicked back and there was something distracted in it.

  ‘And what if he isn’t dead?’

  ‘Turns up suddenly?’ He sounded awkward.

  ‘Let’s say he did. What then?’

  ‘You are only wearing the ring. You can give it back.’

  ‘And just like that I am free?’ she said, both appalled and intrigued at once.

  She watched Louis shrug. ‘If some miracle that you alone believe in comes to pass, and Jerome walks back into our lives, then you are still married, are you not?’

  She nodded.

  He shrugged again. ‘Wear my ring for one year after peace is formally declared. That’s more than sufficient time for my brother to rise from the dead and return. If he doesn’t, then you follow through on our agreement and we marry.’

  If she looked at this purely as a business deal, she had to privately admit that Louis was not being unreasonable; actually, it was generous. He was the one making all the adjustments while she was the one presumably getting everything she needed out of it in the short term.

  ‘Louis, can’t I just pay for the sugar?’ she tried, grinning hopefully.

  He returned the smile. ‘It does sound feasible but you see, my dear, while I have something you want so badly, you also have what I want just as badly. While I hate to reduce someone as beautiful and intelligent as you to a commodity alongside sugar, a bargain is a bargain.’

  ‘The devil’s bargain,’ she quipped, keeping the amusement in her tone even though she wanted to fling the dregs of her coffee at him. ‘One year from the date of peace being formally declared?’

  ‘That’s what I will agree to today if you take the ring home with you.’ He lifted a hand. ‘As soon as the sugar has been delivered, we shall host an evening in Épernay and another in Paris to declare our intentions to be betrothed.’

  ‘And what if I can get my own supplies of sugar or perhaps do not use it, between peace and the formal announcement of our engagement?’

  He laughed softly and it sounded cruel. ‘Oh, my dear, you are priceless . . . I know your wine is finishing its second fermentation and awaiting that special ingredient of the sugar after disgorgement of the lees, but if you can get sugar for dosage within that time frame, then you may return my ring – but I’m confident you will not be able to achieve such magic.’

  The word made her think of Charlie: how she’d slapped him . . . how he wanted to bring magic into her life. Sophie was truly sickened as she felt herself being cornered into taking the calculated and repulsive gamble she’d imagined she would never have to take. Yet Jerome had admired her rebellious nature, her ability to take risks.

  Sophie reached for the ring box. ‘Deliver the sugar,’ she said and watched the smile of satisfaction curl slowly into the curve of a well-baked croissant.

  26

  ÉPERNAY

  August 1918

  He had riddled more bottles than he could count and the smell of yeast in the air from the fermentation now struck him as being a permanent companion.

  The sting of Sophie’s slap had disappeared quickly but the memory of it hadn’t. He was still angry but was wise enough to realise that he wasn’t sure why. Was he angry at himself for stepping into another man’s shoes, at Sophie for rejecting him . . . or at Louis for taking advantage of a vulnerable woman in the worst possible way? The cowardice of the blackmail seemed to trump all other grievances and he’d spent days in the dark of the cellar pondering this as he riddled, avoiding any contact with Sophie, not that she hunted for him. Charlie decided she was probably wise enough, or perhaps embarrassed enough by her emotional outburst, not to seek him out until he wanted to be found.

  He had decided on just a few more days and then he would go: out of her life forever. Even so, Charlie knew that at any moment the liquor in the bottles would complete its second fermentation and Sophie would need to disgorge the lees that the riddling had brought into the necks of those bottles. But her team could not disgorge without the liqueur d’expédition to replace what was lost and that special dosage needed sugar so that all of her fruit’s personality would be shown at its finest.

  Setting their quarrel aside – if he could term it that way – Charlie fully appreciated how vital this vintage, above all others, was to her. Her first from the wedding vineyard and perhaps, more importantly, her first all-chardonnay vintage. Even Charlie wanted this to work for Sophie because it spoke of who she was: a rebellious female champagne maker, wanting to follow in the footsteps of those other proud women at the helm of their champagne houses who had innovated and taken the beverage to new heights. She needed sugar to achieve her aim. It felt important to him to help her make this happen. Maybe that would be his private legacy that spoke of his love for her, something to leave behind that couldn’t be obliterated by others because it was cerebral . . . a notion. Could his novel idea work? His chemist’s intellect told him it was not only plausible but that nature’s chemistry would embrace it. Would Sophie permit it, though? He would argue it was a solution: one that was expedient, an answer to her problem, which meant she would not have
to deliver herself to Louis in some sort of dark exchange.

  Charlie had been staring at the bottles that contained the juice, where the yeast had been busy consuming the sugars, and thinking long and hard about the idea he’d had that could mark the finish of hell’s reign on earth with a bright new champagne vintage.

  It was only now that he looked up to see Sophie had arrived; he had no idea how long she might have been in the cellar. He noticed she was deep in conversation, consulting Étienne over something; their heads were bent close. She looked thinner since he’d seen her and still she managed to make her dark, slimly crafted, fuss-free work clothes look like they were being modelled at an atelier. She’d resisted the urge to don trousers as he knew so many women had during the war, simply because it was easier, given the men’s work they were tackling.

  He wished he could see her in a gown and finery, off to the opera . . . or perhaps in a négligé with her hair unravelling from a loose, low-rolled chignon at her nape. He dismissed the daydream, remembering their heated words and how those had ended. She seemed to sense he was watching and looked over and trapped his gaze. He had been caught staring when he most wanted to appear unaffected by her presence. Who was he trying to hoodwink? She nodded and lifted a hand in a gentle wave but he didn’t return it; it was his last moment of churlish resilience. She bent her head to the old man, who grinned as she kissed the top of his head, before she moved around her cellar giving a word of encouragement here and there to each. Charlie admired the gentle way in which she managed her team; she trusted them and they loved her.

  And then she was moving towards him in that way of hers that made it look like as though she was gliding beneath her long skirt.

  ‘Charlie,’ she murmured. ‘May we talk?’

  ‘Is there anything more to say?’ How petulant he sounded.

  She gave him a look that a mother might give a peevish child. ‘Please, Charlie. I must apologise. I haven’t been able to sleep for how badly I behaved.’

  ‘Forget it.’ He sounded just plain crabby now.

  ‘I can’t forget what occurred. I won’t. You must let me make amends.’

  He tried to sound exasperated, as though it mattered little. And yet it was so obvious in his tight body language that he felt the opposite. ‘Let’s agree we brought that, um, episode, shall we say, upon each other. Besides, I will be on my way next week: various trains to Calais and then onto the ship to England.’

  She looked shocked by his plans but pressed on. ‘I was not brought up to raise my hand to anyone.’

  ‘Then why me, Sophie?’

  She blinked, willing but perhaps not ready at this moment to answer. ‘There is a saying, isn’t there, that you always hurt those you most love?’

  ‘It’s a convenient one.’ He smiled with no joy in it, hating himself for making her squirm.

  ‘But true, no?’ Eyes that shifted between the colour of forest and that of the open meadow fixed him where he stood. ‘And I do love you, Charlie. I’m just not permitting myself to explore that feeling.’

  He held her gaze defiantly and nodded slowly. ‘I accept your apology.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, sounding earnest. ‘Tell me, when you reach England, then what?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m unsure myself. I have to go through the repatriation process but there may be an opportunity for me not to leave France immediately.’ She cut him a sharp glance. Charlie explained. ‘They’ve set up clearing parties – units of Allied soldiers who are making sure France is clear of the retreating German soldiers. There is also a role for reclaiming our dead.’ She winced at this. He shook his head sadly. ‘There are so many families waiting for news of their loved and lost.’

  ‘Like me?’

  ‘Exactly. In fact, it’s because of your situation that I’d like to offer my services. There’s nothing for me to hurry home to, and I could do some good for the fallen soldiers. Find them, make sure we contact their wives, mothers, all who wait on news.’

  ‘That sounds as though it could suit you.’

  He nodded, glad she saw it that way. ‘Anyway, before I go, I do have an idea I’d like to share with you,’ he said, keeping it casual.

  ‘I hope it is the magic I yearn for?’

  ‘It might be,’ he answered cryptically.

  She regarded him and he saw a flicker of amusement . . . only just there, but a spark nonetheless. There was hope they would part as friends. ‘Do you wish to tell me now?’

  He nodded. ‘Actually, will you accompany me to my accommodation in the sheds?’

  ‘Now there’s an invitation,’ she quipped.

  He gusted a laugh, long overdue. He had seriously wondered if he could again. ‘I dare you to accept,’ he risked.

  Her smoky chuckle made his spirits lift and his heart felt as though it were inflating from its warmth.

  ‘No one has ever called me a coward,’ she said, one eyebrow lifting in challenge.

  The dormitory was deserted when they arrived.

  ‘It’s so neat,’ she remarked, looking around the room.

  Dust motes flipped around her like tiny gnats drawn to the light. Her hair shone in a shaft of light arcing through one of the small windows of the shed he had called home recently. He had to look away as the desire to reach for her threatened to tear open what felt like a freshly scabbed wound.

  He turned away and bent down, deliberately busying himself by rummaging in a cupboard. ‘Soldiers live here,’ he replied, as if that explained everything.

  ‘I shall miss you.’ She sounded wistful.

  An awkward silence wrapped around them.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ he began, but she accidentally spoke over him.

  ‘So, what’s this burning information, Charlie?’ She sounded overly bright. ‘Sorry, I . . . you go ahead.’

  ‘All right.’ He straightened, an unlabelled bottle of champagne in his hand. ‘About your vintage for this year.’

  She frowned. ‘Not this year. As I told you, not without sugar . . . or Louis, and I haven’t made up my mind about that yet.’ She looked momentarily concerned even to mention it.

  Charlie lifted a hand to stop her. ‘Well, don’t confirm any arrangement. I think you can still go ahead and make this year’s champagne, if you’re prepared to be flexible . . . daring, even.’ He imagined his eyes glittering with excitement. ‘Sophie, I think I may have solved your sugar crisis.’

  He enjoyed seeing the shock moving across her expression.

  ‘That’s the 1917,’ she noted, nodding towards the bottle he held. ‘The first juice from the wedding vines.’

  ‘It is. Awaiting disgorgement and then dosage of the final sugar liquor, if I’m not mistaken?’ He paused and she shifted her weight to one hip as though he’d intrigued her.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve had this chilling in the stream behind here all night. Now, Sophie, it’s pretty rough, all right?’

  ‘My champagne is not rough,’ she assured him in an amused tone, sounding genuinely fascinated.

  ‘No, I mean what I’ve done to it is a bit rough —’ he shook his head as if helpless — ‘with none of your skills. It needs time to settle, for the flavours to blend properly. So for now it’s just a gauge of what might be achieved with your wisdom and experience. Étienne helped.’ He struggled to uncork it with only one working hand but was glad she didn’t offer to do it, which would have made him feel inadequate. ‘Ah, there,’ he said when the cork released with a satisfying popping sound. He reached for two small glasses readied in the cupboard for this moment and poured out two fizzing bowls of her unfinished champagne.

  ‘Charlie, what have you added to my champagne?’

  He grinned. ‘Something extremely close to your heart. I’ve added Delancré ratafia.’

  She opened her mouth to speak but her surprise seemed to take over and no words came.

  ‘It could work, couldn’t it? Your sugar-laden ratafia, a byproduct of your very grapes, has to
be the solution. You’re not adding anything that shouldn’t be there anyway, or at least couldn’t tiptoe into your champagne and not flatten those chiselled bubbles or do damage to the flavours. The chemist in me assures me this can work.’ He handed her a glass and was heartened to see her expression was still one of stunned surprise.

  ‘Quelle folie!’ she began in a shocked whisper and there was a slightly breathless quality to her voice as she tested the theory.

  ‘It is daring,’ he said over her thoughts, ‘but I promise you it is not crazy, do you agree?’

  ‘No, not crazy.’ She shook her head. ‘It is creative and inspired.’

  ‘You know it can work, Sophie. And using ratafia keeps it pure, keeps it all about Épernay, keeps you true to your champagne because this is from the grapes of that same vineyard, that same harvest. I’m not suggesting you do this every year but don’t miss out on your supply for 1918 . . . I think if anything, this is an absolute triumph for Reims, for House Delancré, for the champagne makers of the region, and above all, for the women of Épernay – who stayed strong, who kept the grapes growing and the champagne flowing.’ He warmed to his excitement, all crabbiness forgotten. ‘That’s how you can be remembered through this period. You didn’t capitulate to the enemy’s oppression – and I personally include your loathsome brother-in-law in that.’

  She smiled ruefully at his words.

  ‘You made champagne in 1918 despite broken people, battered vineyards, no sugar. As France triumphed and banished her enemy, House Delancré will triumph alongside her. You’ll have the bottles to prove your courage, and sales to capitalise on that bravery.’

  His eyes were sparkling with the power of the notion, and he suspected her spirits were as elated by his rousing words.

  ‘I will drink to that, Charlie. Santé.’ She clinked his glass.

  ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ he said in English.

  ‘Whatever that means.’ She laughed.