Page 13 of The Widows of Champagne
Gabrielle
G abrielle deposited the last of her belongings atop the bed in her new room above the kitchen. She’d chosen this one, out of the three on this side of the chateau, specifically for its view. Ignoring the piles of clothing, shoes, toiletries and other assorted sundries, she moved to the window that overlooked the wine cellar’s entrance. Closer to the house stood the stucco-walled garden where Marta cared for her herbs with the same affection Pierre tended the grapes.
The sight made Gabrielle wistful. Within the stone barrier lay a dozen nooks and crannies where she and Benoit had played as children, innocent games that had become not-so-innocent as they grew older. She’d lost more than her husband the night of his death. She’d lost her closest confidant. Her best friend.
But most of all, she’d lost the future they’d dreamed of sharing with their children. They’d had such plans. Even as she reached for the photograph from her wedding, she knew dwelling on her grief was an indulgence she could not afford. An intruder had infested her home and had demanded the entire family join him for an elegant dinner. It was to be a formal affair, no half measures for the German, oh, no.
She dressed quickly and left the room to navigate the maze of corridors and stairwells down to the first floor. The house had all the identifiable features of a French chateau that had begun its life as a medieval castle. The exterior boasted the requisite round tower on the southwest corner. The roofline featured tall chimneys, seven in total, and multiple dormers. The arched entryway and a balustraded terrace completed the picture. With contributions from previous generations, the interior was equally grand. In some cases, the rooms were tastefully decorated, in others... non . Every inch of the walls contained paintings done by the masters. Rembrandts and other portraits shared space with Monet landscapes and Degas ballerinas. There were even a few of the American Impressionists’ works, including one of Gabrielle’s favorites by Theodore Robinson.
The Lord had blessed her family with many beautiful things. Then He’d taken away the people that mattered more than priceless trinkets and renowned artwork. The emptiness that constantly plagued her dug deeper, and not only because she’d been banished from her room by a German dog. The burdens she carried were never supposed to be hers to shoulder alone. A solitary life had never been in the plan. She didn’t even have a child to nurture.
Delightful scents drew her into the kitchen. “It smells wonderful,” she told Marta.
Focused on preparing a luscious-smelling soup, the housekeeper accepted the compliment with a nod. “And you, Gabrielle,” the housekeeper said, eyeing her from over her shoulder. “You look very lovely this evening. Très chic. ”
She accepted the compliment with her own small nod. She’d selected the austere black dress she’d worn at her father’s funeral, and again at her husband’s, to make a statement. The color of mourning fit the situation perfectly. She’d added no jewelry, no makeup, and had pulled her hair into a severe style better suited for a convent than a formal dinner.
“The others have already gathered at the table.”
“Très bon.” She was nearly out of the kitchen when the row of champagne bottles caught her eye. She counted five in total, an excessive amount. The panic was instant, crackling and hissing like static on the wireless. It took every ounce of self-control to keep her voice even. “Marta, do you know who chose the champagne for tonight?”
The housekeeper went quiet for a moment, then gave another nod. “Your mother. At the German’s insistence, she took the bottles from your family’s private stock.”
Not from the main cellar. Good. The floor steadied beneath her feet.
Aiming for an air of boredom, she stepped into the dining room. The scent of German cigarettes filled her nose. One glance told her von Schmidt had already exerted his control over her family. He sat at the head of the table, smoking casually, almost idly, already comfortable in his role as lord of the manor. Her mother sat on his right. Josephine, his left, Paulette next to her.
He did not rise upon Gabrielle’s entrance. Unsurprised at his rudeness, she chose the empty seat beside her mother. “Good evening,” she said to the room in general.
Von Schmidt leaned back in his chair and took a slow drag from his cigarette. “You’re late.”
A harsh response slid to the edge of her tongue. She swallowed the words. There was something in the German’s eyes that made her skin prickle in warning. “I apologize. The time got away from me.”
“You will want to watch the clock more closely in the future.”
He looked about to say more, but Hélène drew his attention. Gabrielle could not decipher what her mother said, but it put a wry smile on the German’s face. He took another pull on the cigarette before stubbing it in the ashtray next to his hand. “Now that we are all in attendance—” he gave Gabrielle a look as a silent reprimand for her tardiness “—let us toast to new friends and a happy living situation for us all.”
The series of choked gasps were immediate. The women’s collective response seemed not to bother the man. He simply lifted his glass and waited for them to do the same.
Gabrielle could not do it. Her mother must have sensed her mood, because she leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “This is not the time for petty rebellions.” She straightened, lifted her glass and parroted von Schmidt’s toast. “To new friends.”
They drank in silence. Hélène first. Paulette next. Then Josephine. And finally, Gabrielle. The champagne turned bitter on her tongue. Another loss among so many. There were few champagnes in a woman’s lifetime that surpassed mere excellence and struck the sublime. The 1928 was one of those wines and Gabrielle could not enjoy even a small taste.
Pressing his advantage, von Schmidt made a second toast. “To Germany’s rapid victory.”
This time, only Hélène drank. He watched her mother closely, too closely, and Gabrielle wondered what he was plotting. He reminded her of a cobra hypnotizing a small woodland creature into submission. The man had nerve.
As if sensing her furious gaze on him, he gave Gabrielle an arch look. She felt the heat drain from her cheeks. This man would sleep in her bed. He would eat her family’s food and drink the best of their champagne. And he would do it all as though it was his right.
“I have always believed,” he said, twirling the crystal stem between his thumb and forefinger, “no one makes wine like the French.”
And no one cheapens champagne like a beer-swilling German. Again, Hélène leaned in to whisper in Gabrielle’s ear. “Whatever it is you are thinking...don’t.”
She gave her mother a long, measuring look, skimmed a glance over von Schmidt, then whispered back. “I will give you the same warning, Maman. Don’t.”
Marta served the first course. A beautiful onion soup as only a Frenchwoman could make. Von Schmidt controlled the conversation for the entirety of the meal. Tall and self-important in his dress uniform, he required only the faintest of responses, all given by Hélène.
Even Paulette grew subdued as the night wore on. Gabrielle gained her sister’s attention with a soft smile. She tried to communicate what was in her thoughts. He is only a man, a bully that will be gone soon enough.
It was a lie, of course. There was no telling how long he would be living in their home. Von Schmidt was like the snake she’d compared him to earlier in her mind. An opportunistic hunter, slithering through their house until he was ready to strike. Gabrielle would be wise to keep a close eye on him.
Marta served the next course, an airy spinach soufflé and her signature coq au vin. Von Schmidt refilled his glass with the 1928. He seemed to have an endless desire for the vintage. Hélène continued to entertain him with her customary wit and charm. He appeared riveted, and perhaps that was her mother’s intent. To keep his notice away from the other women in the house. It was a risky approach, all the more dangerous for the way he ran his gaze over her face with a proprietary air that made Gabrielle sick to her stomach.
Over dessert—a rich chocolate mousse—von Schmidt switched his focus to Josephine. “Tomorrow you will show me around the rest of the property. We will start in the champagne house then move on to the vineyard and wine cellar from there.”
How harmless the request sounded, how ordinary, if one didn’t notice the sly look in his eyes. Gabrielle’s own eyes blazed, she knew, and she attempted to smooth out her expression. She could not allow this man—or her grandmother—in the wine cellar without her.
As she’d done earlier in the day, Gabrielle offered up herself in service. “I will be happy to give you the tour, Herr Hauptmann. We can begin at eight o’clock in the morning, if that suits.”
He turned his sharp gaze onto her. They stared at one another for a long, long time. Then he glanced at her grandmother, lifted a brow. Josephine lowered her gaze. He pondered her bent head a moment, then turned back to Gabrielle. She expected him to dismiss her suggestion. He surprised her by giving a nod of approval. “Eight o’clock. We will meet in the foyer.”