‘Ratafia,’ Jerome repeated.
‘Er, the twenty-year-old pinot,’ Charlie said, sounding as though he was fully across all their wines.
‘It’s very exciting,’ Sophie said. ‘You go in. I’m just dashing down to the cellars to see that Étienne and his team are set up to produce it just as I insist.’
Jerome grinned. ‘You never change. I’ve been gone four years and still I take second place.’ Charlie couldn’t help but note how Sophie looked down briefly at the remark. ‘It’s dangerous to fall in love with this woman, Captain Nash. She’s like her grapes – unpredictable!’
Sophie gave a chuckle for him. ‘Have a bath and a soak, my love. I shall be up in a minute to help. And I will not leave your side again.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise,’ she said before she pulled herself away. ‘Gaston, will you help Jerome upstairs, please?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Charlie, back to the cellars for us – we need to finalise what we were discussing.’ She even pulled his sleeve as though she was anxious that he might not follow.
‘Give me five minutes, Gaston,’ he promised.
‘Five minutes,’ Gaston agreed in a brisk tone, and Charlie could tell that not for a second did Gaston believe they had anything important to discuss about wine.
She led him back to the private area where Étienne had set up the tasting. In the distance they could hear voices as women resumed their work after the excitement of Jerome’s arrival. In the working part of the cellars, Étienne and his crew would be busy degorging the wine and dosing it with the ratafia. Her mind was reaching towards the labels that would need to be printed, perhaps with a new styling so the bottles could be clearly branded as something special – a limited release of champagne with a higher alcohol content to celebrate the new world peace.
She’d walked ahead of Charlie as she thought this, unable to face him, but now she had to. She turned, words failing her. He knew it too.
‘There’s nothing to say,’ he said gently. ‘There is no blame to be laid. And importantly,’ he said, giving her a half attempt at a sad smile, ‘I’m happy in my way for you both.’
‘Do you regret it?’
He looked back at her as if bruised, and shook his head. ‘No, how could I?’ He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. ‘You brought me back from the wilderness in so many ways. I am grateful even though right now I don’t think I’ve ever known such pain, and I suspect it has to get worse for a while as I learn how to miss you . . . to live without you.’
‘Oh, Charlie.’ She couldn’t help herself – she moved towards him and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I am so, so sorry.’
They leaned their foreheads together and she was grateful he didn’t press their intimacy any further, but then she shouldn’t be surprised, she reminded herself, that Charlie had never overstepped that line. His one reckless move had been to kiss her the first time up in the gods of the house, and she could never regret that.
‘I don’t know how to do this either. I am feeling sickened and frightened. I don’t want to let you go but —’
‘But you must. Neither of us could foresee this and I know you’ll bring him fully back from all those demons that have their hold on him. He needs time and your love.’ He sighed, let go of her and nodded, running a hand through his thick hair. It was not unlike Jerome’s, but she knew Charlie’s hair better than her husband’s these days – knew its texture, its smell, how it curled at his ears and liked to drop over an eye when he bent down to work.
Sophie looked at him. Charlie was right. It couldn’t go back to how it had been. She and Jerome would have to start afresh, work out a new way of living alongside each other and hope the old love was enough to build on . . . enough to push aside this new love that had bloomed through her. ‘Will I ever see you again?’ Even to her it sounded like a bleat.
‘You want to keep breaking my heart open?’ He laughed with no mirth. ‘No. I must in the next minute walk away and for good.’
‘What will you do?’ She touched his cheek, needing to kiss him one last time, but she didn’t know how to make that move without it feeling awkward or somehow desperate.
He smiled. ‘I’ll work it out, Sophie. I’ve always been alone. Caring for someone is the novelty. I’ll find Harry Blake, as I told you, and when this war is fully over I will travel to Germany to find a man in Bavaria called Willi, who was my enemy but also my friend when we saved each other’s lives in the bowels of a barge.’
She felt the emotion brim, choking at her throat. Her eyes stung as they watered. ‘I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.’
‘But you will bear it because you have immense strength, as you’ve demonstrated throughout the war.’ They both heard approaching footsteps in the distance. ‘But I do want to thank you for being the most extraordinary woman I’ve had the privilege to know. And when you sip the 1918, think of me. I am going to look for its arrival on British shores, and I’m going to buy as many bottles as I can afford so that I taste you in the wine.’
Her tears spilled over. ‘We’re both in there, Charlie.’
Charlie took out his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks dry. ‘Yes, dancing with the bubbles, making love in the depths of all that glorious summery juice, kissing each other as we rise to break the surface and laugh. I will taste you in all the Delancré champagne I plan to buy in coming years.’
‘And I will taste you with every bottle of ratafia I make forever.’
He grinned and she felt her smile returning. ‘Each time it touches your lips, that’s me kissing you from afar.’
She nodded. ‘And while I will love my Jerome up close, you need to know that I will love you from afar forever, Charlie.’
He stared at her and she could feel all of their shared agony linking tendrils of pain and looping them around to clutch each other close, to soften the blow of the only decision they could make, to hold each other’s torment in an invisible, unbreakable embrace.
The footsteps were close.
‘Goodbye, Sophie.’
The commandant arrived, emerging from the darkness of the tunnels.
‘Are my five minutes up?’ asked Charlie.
‘About two minutes ago.’
Sophie held Charlie’s face in both hands now, committing the feel of his jaw to her memory, filing away the tactile sense of the stubble of his unshaven face, fixing the melancholy of that look in his eyes as they regarded her for the last time. She knew she would never see this man again, so memory was everything. She leaned in to kiss both of his cheeks, letting the roughness of that stubble graze her lips. And then in a moment she would hold in her mind forever, she left a fleeting touch of her lips against his. ‘Goodbye, Captain Nash.’
And without letting either man respond, she pulled away and hurried into the cellars, deep into the womb of darkness where no tears would be seen but they would be absorbed and be held in trust by the chalk walls that had known her down the years since birth. They remembered her every tear. And they would comfort her when she returned to cry tears again as she surely would over Charlie.
But for now, it was to Jerome she fled and with whom she must rediscover her love and bring him fully back from among the dead where he had surely been living. They had time now, a long winter to rediscover one another as the three women slept in their fields and would not wake until spring to greet a peaceful France.
EPILOGUE
Jerome had planned an evening picnic in the chardonnay vineyard he had planted almost five years earlier to celebrate their union and Sophie could not imagine anything more healing than to walk the rows of the now quiet vines. It would be their last chance to enjoy such a romantic pause before it turned too cold. Sophie had considered it a wonderful idea and had prepared the food herself.
‘What have we got?’ he asked, full of anticipation, peeking into her basket being readied in the parlour.
She tapped away the hand that wanted to steal one of the plums. ‘
We have our bread,’ she said, brandishing a crusty baguette that had been baked only hours earlier. ‘We have ham, chutney, some cheese.’ He gave a happy sound. ‘Some plums, if you leave them alone . . . and I have made the very last of our peaches into a clafoutis that is still warm.’
‘Cream?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled.
‘Champagne?’
‘Ah!’ Sophie gusted surprise. ‘I’ll get glasses. How could I forget?’
He kissed her from behind, nuzzling into her neck. ‘Well, I’m ahead of you. I’ve had some chilling in the river. I shall fetch it and meet you at the bottom of the garden. Give me ten minutes.’
She noted Jerome carried two blankets under his arm.
‘One to lay on the ground,’ he’d said at her query.
‘And the other?’
‘To cover our naked bodies.’ He winked. ‘I have plans.’
To see him behaving mischievously again, no longer self-conscious of his injuries, was balm to her soul. He moved more easily, his limp improving, and he was already impressively dexterous with one arm. The eye patch gave him the appearance of a swashbuckling pirate, and every time she thought of this it gave her a small jolt of anguish because it reminded her of that painfully exquisite private moment in the attic room when Charlie Nash had brandished his pirate hook and captured her heart.
That heart still hurt from being torn, from having to choose; she’d not questioned her decision but it didn’t make the loss any easier. As Jerome left with a grin, she moved through to her favourite room, which contained her parents’ dining table and china. She retrieved from her pocket the letter that had arrived for her a few days ago. She’d already read it repeatedly and she swore this would be the final time before she put it away for good.
The single page unfolded easily from its creases.
Darling Sophie,
Destroy this if you must but I had to write after my hasty departure with little more than my uniform and your silken scarf that I treasure. Your perfume is still with me and I’ll keep feeling you close as long as that scent lasts.
Sophie had to swallow again.
You may remember me mentioning Captain Harry Blake of the 20th London? Anyway, in case you don’t, we met by chance at a basilica when we were both stationed close to Albert. We were admiring a statue of the Virgin Mary and Child. A legend had grown up around the golden Madonna that when it fell, the war would end. We all wished it would. Allies and enemy tried to knock it over with their artillery, and when that didn’t work, a superstition erupted that whichever army knocked it down would lose the war. I think we were both intrigued to see it on a rare day off from our respective units. We got friendly over a couple of beers and he wrote to me while I was still at Épernay to tell me of his plans – like me, he was in no hurry to return to England. He’d accepted a role to lead clearing parties and suggested I do the same as they needed more men on the ground. So here I am, writing to you from Fromelles.
When she’d first read that, she sucked back a gulping breath. Charlie was just hours away from Épernay, but he might as well be on the other side of the world because they could never see each other again.
She continued reading the familiar words.
I’m leading one of the groups that is moving through eastern France, facing minor resistance from the retreating enemy now scattered, undisciplined and frankly desperate to get back to Germany. We are marking any fallen we find, recording details, making sure we gather up their belongings to return to families. Harry found a British soldier the other day and there was something particularly sad about the fact that he hadn’t opened his tin of chocolate sent by our Majesties and Rowntree’s back in 1915. I think I ate mine the first day – I now use the tin to keep some wildflowers I pressed in Épernay and one of the Delancré foils from the special ratafia champagne we were bottling before I left. They give me happy memories when I look upon them.
Sophie covered her mouth to stop the sob escaping. She checked her watch . . . just a few minutes and then she must go. Through tear-filled eyes she read the rest.
So I’m helping families, hoping to bring them some peace regarding their loved ones. It feels good to be doing this, especially after knowing what you went through. I keep wondering how I survived . . . and why? But that’s a question no one can answer so rather than wrestle with it, my darling Sophie, I want you to know that I am trying to make plans for a future. I don’t wish to return to industrial chemistry, and inspired by you I think I shall likely head north into Scotland – somewhere windswept and lonely where the water runs pure and the barley grows strong – and learn how to make whisky . . . perhaps open my own distillery.
Sophie turned the page, knowing what was coming, but needing to hear it again quickly in her mind.
I listened to Harry talking to the fellow with the untouched chocolate tin, which contained a note from his sweetheart called Kitty. It was as though he was having a conversation with this soldier and I felt moved. This is where I’ve gone wrong over the course of my life in keeping my emotions tightly held down, and it’s why I felt reborn around you, Sophie. I thank my lucky stars for knowing you, for having a short time to know what loving someone – and being loved – feels like.
I’ll miss you every day of my life but I know I must now try to build a new life that doesn’t include you. I have a high hope one day to find a German soldier called Willi Becker. I hope he survived too. I think we both saved each other’s life on that terrible morning of battle in May, and I want him to know I took his advice, opened up my heart, and despite the pain I’m feeling I cannot regret falling in love.
So here’s to you, Sophie, and here’s to love . . . to being with the one that you have always loved and always will. Be happy, think of me now and then and know that you’ve brought laughter into my life, and hope. Both gifts. I am wishing you and the goddess a long and fruitful time together too – I can’t wait to see the 1918 vintage on shelves in England. I will buy some and drink to your health, tasting you in that effervescence and in that sweetness we found together.
I love you, Sophie. I always will. C x
She had to wipe away the stream of tears, dabbing at her cheeks. Sophie hid Charlie’s letter in one of the Limoges tureens in the dining room, with the intention of giving it a proper hiding place later. Standing in the middle of the room where she’d had her confrontation with Louis, she looked past the love seat, out of the window towards the vineyards. The sun had swooped low to lick a golden tongue across the vines and autumn was heralding herself. Summer had ended – life as she’d known it was going to sleep and it felt right that when the vines woke to a new spring Charlie would be gone from France, fully gone from her life. It was in this moment that Sophie accepted she must let him go entirely . . . now. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she retrieved the letter, grabbed a matchbox and threw it into the picnic basket.
She marched out of the house and into the garden, where she paused in the private space away from the stables and the entrance to the cellars. Striking a match, she touched the flame to the corner of Charlie’s letter and watched with a feeling of half despair, half relief as the letter singed and then caught aflame. It occurred to her that these were the flames of passion that had burned brightly in the short time they’d had the freedom to love each other.
The flame, well-lit now, curled the page and burned through his heartfelt words. Sophie held the paper until she risked scorching herself and then she dropped it to watch it burn out among the fallen leaves, not yet dry enough to burn with it. She bent and dug a small hole with one of the spoons from the basket, before pushing in the ashes of Charlie’s letter and covering them with the earth and rusted leaves of Épernay.
Sophie stood and sighed. She wouldn’t forget him, but she did feel a sense of release.
‘Sophie?’ She looked up and Jerome waved.
‘Sorry, I got caught up.’
He grinned, not offended, and held up a bottle triumphantly
; in that moment of happiness, she saw all the promise of their future. There he stood, tall and ridiculously handsome despite his missing limb and eye; the grin was as carefree and crooked as the one she remembered falling in love with. His clothes were shabby favourites that she’d not had the courage to part with and now felt only glad for that selfishness.
Perhaps her soul had known what her heart couldn’t?
Looking at him now she could see a bright future. She could almost hear the voices of the babbling brood of little Méa-Delancrés he planned to have with her. Her world was idyllic in comparison to so many others and it was important she return to that world now with all of her heart. Jerome decided to sing his pleasure loudly as she walked towards him; she began to laugh knowing she could let Charlie go at this moment and she would embrace all that Jerome promised for her.
The sun was slipping below the horizon, leaving a sky that looked like someone had splashed coloured ink across it. Blues bled into lilacs that gave way to pinks, which in turn bowed to the brilliance of cerise and orange that curtsied to amber and a final brilliant last gasp of shimmering gold as the day bid her farewell.
And as they walked the rows of the vineyard Sophie felt the goddess beginning to settle into her slumber with a contented smile that Sophie realised she wore too. They were as one . . . at peace . . . and they were happy.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story has many people’s fingerprints on it and it couldn’t have been written without their generous involvement.
All but bumping into Sophie Signolle on the avenue de Champagne, while admiring her beautiful French mansion and home to House Gonet, was beyond serendipitous. I was walking the avenue, waiting for inspiration to find me . . . and I found Sophie, who invited us in and poured us a flute of her finest, and we began talking. Within that hour we had made a promise to return and she had made a promise to help me with my story, especially as her life matched my fictional heroine’s so closely. ‘Make sure I have a wonderful affair,’ she quipped as we hugged farewell. I met Sophie in Épernay on three more occasions and on the final visit we stayed as guests in her beautiful home, so I feel I know the house in this story. We have used a photo of House Gonet in the inside cover to show you from where I drew my inspiration, and in the story this is Charlie’s first glimpse of the house as the character Sophie accompanies him into Épernay. As I finished my research, House Gonet was throwing open its doors to take overnight guests for the first time, so do visit if you have the chance to travel to the Champagne region. Sophie Signolle lost her father not long after I lost mine, so we were both grieving through the crafting of this novel, which lent an additional emotional thread to tie us together.
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