Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I did get my diploma. But I’m not up to Olivier’s standards. Not yet. He’s one of the best oenologists around. Considered to be a great wine scientist and wine maker.”

  “He seems very dedicated from what I’ve observed,” Catherine remarked.

  “Over the years he’s been improving everything. From the vintage of our red wines to the bottling of it. He’s made immense progress in the last ten years. Because of Olivier Marchand our label, Côtes de Château d’Cose, is now considered to be a superior appellation.”

  “And he’s your partner you said the other day.”

  “Not my partner. I’ve given him a piece of the business. He deserves it. All the years he’s devoted to the winery. To the château. The running of the entire estate.”

  We began to walk down the slopes, heading toward the château.

  After a moment or two, Catherine said, “What made your father buy the estate in the first place? I’m very curious about that. Was he interested in wine?”

  “He liked it. Especially champagne. Veuve Cliquot. But he was just doing a good turn. For somebody. As usual.”

  “What kind of good turn?”

  “A good turn for a widow woman. The widow of the man who owned Château d’Cose. About thirty years ago Sebastian was in Africa. Kenya. He met a Frenchman. In Nairobi. A man called Pierre Peyfrette. Through a mutual friend. Over the years they became close. Sebastian often stayed here. About twenty-three years ago Pierre was killed. In a car crash. Driving down here. From Paris. His widow Gabriella was at a loss. Didn’t know what to do about the winery. The running of it. They had no sons to inherit. Just a young daughter. About my age. Gabriella wanted to sell the property, but there were no takers. Nobody was interested. It wasn’t making money. Not in those days, anyway. So Sebastian took it off her hands. Bought it from Gabriella. Paid her very well. Maybe even too much. But it helped her start her life over. She moved to Paris with her little girl.”

  “I see. Did he ever run it? I mean the way you’re running it now, Jack?”

  “Good God, no! Not Sebastian! He found Olivier Marchand. Put him in charge. What a wise move that was. I was seven when I first came here. And I fell in love with the château.”

  “It’s your home,” she said very simply, in a quiet voice, her expression full of understanding. “You belong here. You love the winery and the vineyards. You’re very, very lucky, you know. You’ve found your true place in the world, found the work you want to do, your vocation. Found the life you want to lead. So many people don’t. Not ever.”

  “But you have, Catherine. You know what you want,” I said. “Know where you’re going. You’re like Vivienne in certain ways. You both have tunnel vision. Immense focus. You’re a very functioning woman. And hardworking, thank God. I can’t abide idle women.”

  “Neither can I. It’s impossible for me to relate to them. I’ve nothing in common, nothing to say. I always knew I wanted to read history at Oxford, and later lecture and write about it after I earned my doctorate. I was fortunate in that I had a flair for writing as well as a studious nature.”

  “How’s the book coming along? You’ve certainly been hard at it these past few weeks. Working like a regular little eager beaver.”

  She laughed, her face lighting up. “I find this place so conducive to work. And actually, in some ways, the book’s proving easier to write than I thought.” She shook her head. “Except that I’m not sure who’s going to read it.”

  “A lot of people,” I asserted. “Take my word for it.”

  Catherine laughed again. “I can’t. I don’t believe there is anyone around who is interested in Fulk Nerra, Count of Anjou, war lord and predator, known as the Black Hawk, founder of the Angevin dynasty and the Plantagenet line. Perhaps it only matters to me that the house of Anjou continued on its unrelenting course for well over a century, culminating in 1154 when Fulk’s descendant Henry Plantagenet, Count of Anjou, was crowned King of England, married Eleanor of Aquitaine, and sired a son who became the famous Richard Coeur de Lion.

  “I’m interested,” I reassured her. I meant what I said. “You’re a good storyteller. Even though you’re dealing with facts not fiction. You’ve intrigued me when you’ve talked about the French-English connection.

  “It sounds as if Henry and Eleanor had a real soap opera going. All their lives.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Catherine replied with a loud guffaw, looking amused. “And I suppose their lives together did have sort of . . . operatic overtones, what with their competitive, quarrelsome sons, Eleanor’s scheming and meddling, Henry’s philandering, and his constant banishment of her. He was always shoving her off to one of their many castles.”

  “It would make a helluva good film,” I pointed out.

  “Somebody beat me to it. A screenwriter. James Goldman. He wrote The Lion in Winter, which was all about Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

  “Peter O’Toole and Katherine Hepburn! That’s right! I saw it. And it was a nutty family. Dysfunctional. Just like the royals today. I guess it’s all in the genes.”

  “Not in this instance. The Windsors are not descended from the Plantagenets,” Catherine replied. “They are of German descent through Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert. He was her cousin and all German. So was she, as a matter of fact. Her mother was a German princess and her father the Duke of Kent. He was descended from the Hanoverian kings who were invited to rule England because of their Stuart connection. In a way, Victoria was born because of the scramble by the brothers of George the Fourth to produce an heir. But going back to the Plantagenets, they were eventually eclipsed by the Tudors. When Elizabeth the First died, the throne of England went to her distant relative, James Stuart, King of Scotland.”

  I laughed. “Whatever you say, Catherine. But I bet a lot of people will read your book. Because you tell it all so well. Make it sound so . . . modern.”

  “I guess human nature doesn’t change much, Jack. Anyway, the Plantagenets were very colorful. But don’t forget, I’m not really writing about them, but about Fulk Nerra. Nobody’s interested in him. Except for me and my editor.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Listen, far be it from me to tell you what to write. But get more of the Plantagenets into the story. I guarantee it’ll be a best-seller.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears, darling,” she said, still laughing.

  We had reached the bottom of the slopes where the vineyards grew, all thirty-three acres. I paused, took hold of Catherine’s arm affectionately. “I’ve got to work for a few hours. With Olivier. What about you? Are you going back to do more on your book?”

  “For a while, and then I thought I would go riding. I think a good gallop across the fields will do me good. Blow a few cobwebs away. Would you mind awfully if I rode Black Jack? He’s quite easy for me to handle.”

  “I told you before, you can ride any horse in the stable. Of course you can take Black jack.”

  Leaning into me, she gave me a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. Have a good afternoon. Don’t work too hard.”

  I smiled at her. “Nor you.”

  She was walking away, walking toward the château when I called after her, “Catherine!”

  She swung around. “Yes? What is it?”

  “How about dinner in Aix tonight? We’ve been cooped up here far too long.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, darling.”

  “I’ll make a reservation at Clos de la Violette. Is that okay?”

  “Only perfect.” She waved and went on her way.

  I strolled toward the winery. As I passed the Home Farm I slowed. I almost went in to see Madame Clothilde. She ran the farm. As her mother had done before her. I had known her since I was a little boy. She had been a teenager then. Her husband Maurice was one of our vignerons, who worked in the vineyards. But he also helped out on the farm, along with their daughter, Hélène, and son, Vincent.

  She always made me very welcome
, whipped up a café au lait in an instant. Brought out a warm brioche, or a slice of tarte tatin.

  My mouth watered. But I hurried on. Olivier was waiting for me. He wanted me to take a look at some bottles of wine. Quite a lot of bottles. He thought there might be something wrong with them. I wondered if they were bottle sick. I hoped it was only that. Wine that was bottle sick usually rectified itself if left to its own devices.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “There’s a thin veil on the surface of this batch of wine,” Olivier said when I found him in the bottling plant.

  “Maladie de la fleur,” I exclaimed as I walked over to join him. I was referring to the flower disease which was the most frequent form of spoilage in wine. It was the yeasts that created the scum, or veil, on top of the wine.

  “You’re right, Jacques,” Olivier responded. “But fortunately it is only the young wine which we made last year. Not so bad after all. And not too much of it either, only a couple of casks. Hardly a great tragedy.”

  I nodded and said, “On my way over here I wondered if the wine might just be bottle sick.”

  “No, more than that. And this spoilage is only minor.”

  “We’ll have to ditch the wine,” I asserted.

  “Probably. However, let us not dwell on it, since we rarely have any spoilage. There’s another reason I wanted to see you, Jacques, about something much more important. I want you to come with me to the cave.”

  “Okay let’s go.” Turning on my heels I led the way. I knew he had a pleasant surprise for me. I could tell from his face.

  Together we went down into the cellars.

  These covered an immense area underground. It was here that the wine was brought to maturation and also sorted in casks, vats, and bottles.

  There was a small wine-tasting area at one end of the red wine maturation cellar, and this was where Olivier was heading. Racks of wine had been arranged to create a two-sided corner. There were several chairs grouped around a small table. On this stood the mandatory white candle in its holder, a box of matches, various implements, and a fresh white linen napkin neatly folded.

  Olivier had already placed a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. The first thing he did was light the candle.

  I stood watching him. He was tall, and he stooped over the table slightly as he began to open the wine. Olivier was my mentor, teacher, and friend. He was a good-looking man in a quiet, understated way. At sixty he was twice my age. But he looked much younger than his years. Maybe because he was a happy man. He loved his wife, his children, his work, and the bastide where he lived with his family. This charming old country house, part of my property, was situated across the fields near the orchards. He and his wife, Claudette, had made it a warm, welcoming home.

  I watched Olivier opening the bottle. As usual I was struck by the way he worked on it. Delicately. Carefully. Like a surgeon. After cutting the red metal capsule around the neck of the bottle he removed it. This was so that he could see the wine in the bottle neck later. He then removed the cork, his movements smooth, gentle. I knew he did not want to disturb the sediment. Once the cork was out, he smelled both ends. Next he wiped the neck of the bottle inside and out with the white napkin. Finally, holding the bottle above the candle’s flame, he peered at the color of the wine in the neck and nodded to himself.

  A smile of pleasure came to his face. “Ah, Jacques, you are going to be pleased with this. I know you are.”

  After pouring two glasses, he handed one to me.

  We raised our glasses to each other.

  “Santé, Jacques,” he said.

  “Santé, Olivier.”

  We both sipped.

  I rolled the wine around in my mouth, savoring it. How delicious it was. Soft, velvety, yet full-bodied. I held the glass up to the light. The wine was a deep red color. A beautiful red. Bringing the glass to my nose, I sniffed. Immediately I detected the perfume of violets. And something else, something not quite discernable.

  “It’s the red you put down in 1986,” I said, grinning at him. “You used three grapes to make it. The Mourvèdre, the Syrah, and the Cinsaut. The first two for their deep red color and hint of violets in the taste. The Cinsaut also for its depth of color as well as the softness it brings to the other two.”

  Olivier beamed at me. “Correct. Well done, Jacques. It has aged well, don’t you think?”

  “You bet. You’ve created a wonderful wine. A great wine. Looking back, I remember how good the weather was that year. You said the wine would have a wonderful life span because of that.”

  “Thankfully, I was right. I think, though, that we must start shipping,” he said. “The wine is ready. It must go out.”

  “I’m in favor. So let’s do that. And let’s have another glass of it. I’m sorry I didn’t bring Catherine with me. She’d have enjoyed tasting this.”

  Olivier filled my glass.

  I raised it to him. “Here’s to you, Olivier. Congratulations.”

  “Ah, Jacques, do not congratulate me in this manner. We both worked on the wine.”

  I laughed, shook my head. “Oh no, we didn’t. I was all of twenty-one. Knew nothing. Green behind the ears. I was still at Yale nine years ago. This is your wine. You created it, made it. You deserve all the credit for it, Olivier.”

  “Merci, Jacques. You are very generous, as usual.”

  For the next couple of hours I worked at my desk in my office in the winery.

  There were accounts to study, figures to go over. I had been putting the job off for days. But I knew I had to get the paperwork out of the way. Today was as good a time as any Gritting my teeth, I buckled down to it.

  I worked until four o’clock. Finally it was all done. After putting the account books away, I picked up the phone, dialed the restaurant in Aix. I made a reservation for dinner.

  When I left the office a few minutes later I took with me the half-finished bottle of wine Olivier had given me. I wanted Catherine to taste it. I was proud of this wine. Proud of Olivier for having created it.

  I walked out of the front door and into the sunshine, into the most glorious afternoon. I strolled along slowly, glancing about as I did. Everything looked so well kept. This pleased me. I wanted the estate to be in good order.

  The château ahead of me stood on flat ground. It was surrounded on three sides by gently sloping hillsides clad in vineyards. They rose up behind the vineyards like a giant flaring collar. Or, as Catherine said the other day, a huge Elizabethan ruff. The gardens and the fields were spread out in front of the château, splendid now in the golden light of the fading day.

  To me this was the most idyllic spot in the world. I had always been happy here. Even when I was married, my difficult wives had not been able to ruin it for me. I had simply tuned them out. Tuned into the land and the vineyards. Gone my own way. And I never wanted to be any place but here.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a sudden flash of color. I veered to my left, made for the wooden fence at the side of the narrow road where I was standing.

  Leaning against the fence, I scanned the horizon. Then I saw it again. That flash of bright blue. Suddenly I could see Catherine in the distance, saw the flowing red hair, vivid against the blue sweater she was wearing.

  Catherine was galloping across one of the fields, her hair streaming out behind her. She was a good horsewoman. I knew that. But for a reason I didn’t immediately understand I held my breath. When she took the first hedge I cringed. I was worried she was going to be thrown. Just as Antoinette had been thrown that day at Laurel Creek Farm.

  I gripped the edge of the fence tightly losing my grip on the bottle as I did. It fell on the grass. I left it there. I simply stood numbly staring at the figure in the distance. Waiting for her to fall off her horse . . .

  The clock stopped. Its hands rolled back. I was pulled into my childhood.

  A terrible memory I had kept locked inside me for twenty-two years broke free. It rose at last to the surface of my min
d.

  I was eight years old again. I was back at Laurel Creek Farm.

  I was playing in the field with my red ball and bat when it happened. Antoinette was riding toward me, taking the hedge. And then she was off the horse, sailing through the air, falling, falling.

  I dropped my bat and ball and ran as fast as I could. “Antoinette! Antoinette!” I cried. I was afraid. Afraid she was dead. Or badly hurt.

  She had been thrown by Tyger Bright just as she jumped the hedge. Now she lay there in a crumpled heap. Her face was the color of chalk. Her hair, spread out around her face, looked more firey than ever against those pale cheeks.

  Her eyes were closed. My fear spiraled. My teeth began to chatter. I thought she really was dead. I knelt down next to her. Touched her face with my hand. She didn’t stir. Yes, she was dead. Tears came into my eyes.

  “Antoinette. Oh Antoinette. Speak to me,” I whispered, bringing my face close to hers. But I knew she wouldn’t speak again.

  “Get out of the way, Jack!” Sebastian shouted, bringing his horse to a shuddering standstill, jumping down onto the grass. “You can’t do anything. You’re just a little boy.” Pushing me to one side, he knelt next to her, touched her face, as I had done.

  “Run, Jack,” he said urgently, looking up at me. “Run to the kitchen. Ask Bridget to bring a damp facecloth. And find Aldred. Tell him to come here.”

  I was immobilized. I stood there staring at Antoinette.

  “What’s wrong with you? Do as I say!” my father screamed. “Are you an imbecile? Go to the house, boy. Get Aldred. I need a man here to help me, not a child.”

  I ran. All the way back to the farm. I was panting when I found Bridget in the kitchen. “Antoinette fell. Off her horse. Wet cloth. My father wants a wet facecloth. Take it to him please, Bridget.”