Page 25 of The Widows of Champagne

Gabrielle

H er mother had gone too far. Even knowing why Hélène tempted the enemy, Gabrielle had a moment of wretched despair. Von Schmidt was a devious man. He operated by his own set of rules. None of them really knew how deep his cruelty went.

This was not the way to find out.

She contemplated waiting until after the party to confront her mother, then remembered the words she’d overheard only moments before. You will come to my room tonight.

She’d nearly entered the library then, thinking to prevent another disaster much as she’d done with Josephine, but something had held her back. A sense that von Schmidt would question her interference.

He would assume she was spying on him.

Which, of course, she was. Though she hadn’t meant to do so tonight.

She’d been in the process of escorting Josephine into the parlor, to a chair near the blazing fire, when Gabrielle had seen her mother rush past, her head high, chin firm, looking like an aristocrat heading to the guillotine. She’d called out, but Hélène kept going. Compelled, she’d followed her to the library, and instantly regretted it. She’d heard too much.

Now, after checking on Josephine and finding her reading, Gabrielle went upstairs and entered her mother’s bedroom. She did not knock. She did not waste time with a polite greeting. “You must stop this flirtation with von Schmidt,” she blurted out. “Before it goes any further.”

Her mother turned away from the window, her makeup flawless, her eyes hollow. “You should not interfere in matters you don’t understand.”

She understood, all too well.

“I know what he demands of you.” Gabrielle wished that she didn’t. She wished she didn’t comprehend why her mother had chosen to wear a formfitting gown that hugged her curves suggestively. “You’re courting discovery.”

They never spoke about Hélène’s Jewish blood, but Gabrielle knew the need for secrecy and didn’t bring it up directly.

“A young boy’s life is at stake.”

She wanted to be proud of this reasoning. Possibly she would have been, if her mother was telling the truth. “You’ve been planning this liaison for some time. Do not try to convince me otherwise.”

“I do what I must to protect our family.”

“You will be labeled a collaborator.”

A slight, self-deprecating smile touched her mother’s lips. “I already carry that name.”

“Maman—”

“No, Gabrielle. Ma fille , you must not interfere. We each have a line we are willing to cross.” With remarkable calm, Hélène went to the mirror, pressed powder to her forehead, her cheek, her chin. “This is mine.”

“This is a line you should never cross. It’s too dangerous.”

“ You speak to me of danger?” Her mother set down the puff, her hand shaking now. “When you take your own risks while the rest of us sleep safely in our beds?”

Gabrielle felt a sudden terrible shock. “You...you know?”

“I know.” Instead of judgment, her voice held pride. Then, she did something that surprised them both. She pulled Gabrielle into her arms. “Your secret is safe with me,” she whispered. “As I know mine is with you.”

Stepping back, she regarded her mother’s shining eyes. Hélène was in agony. And now so was Gabrielle. A hole in her heart started opening, expanding. “There has to be a better way.”

“The Nazis slaughter my kind without conscience. Hate lives in their hearts. Hate for people like my father. People like me. And, with the stroke of a pen or the change of a single law, people like you and Paulette.”

It was the first time they’d spoken openly about Hélène’s Jewish heritage. And, also, the first time Gabrielle understood what motivated her mother—maternal love. She liked the situation even less with this new understanding. “You must be careful around von Schmidt. He can’t know your secret. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear you. Now you hear me. If the Nazis come for me, they could also come for you. No, don’t interrupt. Listen. I will do my part to protect our family in the only way I know how and with the skills the Lord has provided. I will do this, Gabrielle. And you will let me.”

Gabrielle felt the blood rush from her face. “Please, Maman, at least think this through.”

“I already have. I know what I am doing.”

Josephine had said the same. It was too much. Gabrielle was losing control over the people she loved, the only family she had left. First her grandmother, with her reckless snooping and dangerous journal-keeping, and now her mother, making this terrible sacrifice. Would Paulette be next?

“Make no mistake, Gabrielle. Survival in war is an ugly business.”

“ Oui , Maman, it is very ugly.”

“Shall we go down to dinner now?”

“We might as well.” They passed by Paulette’s room without stopping. The girl had not been invited to attend the party. That, at least, brought some semblance of relief.

They found Josephine where Gabrielle had left her, in the parlor, asleep now and softly snoring. Von Schmidt was in the room as well, along with three other men, none of them familiar to Gabrielle. All four were dressed in Wehrmacht uniforms, with the patches and hardware similar to von Schmidt’s.

The men spoke in German, with von Schmidt controlling the majority of the conversation. They were so caught up in whatever they were discussing they didn’t notice the women’s arrival. In silent agreement, Gabrielle and her mother separated. Hélène joined the group of men. Gabrielle went to stand by Josephine and tried not to cringe at the proprietary way von Schmidt draped his arm around her mother’s waist.

Von Schmidt continued to rant, there was no other word for it, and let go of Hélène so he could pace. The more involved he became, the faster his steps were. Gabrielle had never seen him this agitated. He seemed barely able to contain the explosion of nervous energy that kept him moving through the room. Something had put him on edge.

“He is late.” Von Schmidt muttered this in both German and French. He did not elucidate who was late in either language. Clearly, it was someone important, someone with considerable power and probably higher up in the political hierarchy.

The doorbell brought von Schmidt to an abrupt halt and Josephine startled awake. “Oh!”

He gave the older woman a single, dismissive glare, then turned to face the entryway. It took a moment before someone answered the door, probably Marta. Then, footsteps approached the parlor. Clipped, purposeful, with the kind of innate confidence that belonged to a man who knew his own worth.

Hand on Josephine’s shoulder, Gabrielle had a terrible premonition. The footsteps grew louder, closer, Nazi entitlement reverberating in each strike of heel to marble. Nerves tried to rise, to blunt her edge, to make her panic. No. She would not panic. Panic was her enemy. A hush fell over their small crowd. And then...

He walked into the room.

Gabrielle’s chest rose and fell in a sudden spasm. Of course, she knew him at once. The black uniform was the same one he’d worn earlier that afternoon. Hovering in the doorway, his face unreadable, he took a slow, careful sweep of the room. His gaze landed on Gabrielle. There was something in the way he looked at her that brought matters to a very basic level.

She was not the only one uneasy. Tension vibrated in the air, thick enough to cut with a blade. She wanted to run, this very minute. You’re panicking , she thought, and lifted her chin to a haughty angle. This was her home. She belonged here. He did not. He looked about to say something, but von Schmidt was on the move, speaking in rapid German.

“Welcome to my home, Kriminalkommissar Mueller.” Von Schmidt rapped his heels smartly together and extended his right arm, held out straight, palm facing the Gestapo agent. “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler,” Mueller answered, shooting his own arm out in response. The rest of the men joined in the anthem to their leader.

“Herr Detective—”

“You will refer to me as Detective Commissioner, or Detective Mueller.”

Von Schmidt stiffened, then nodded and made the introductions. The men, then the women, almost as an afterthought. In contrast, Mueller went to Gabrielle first. She couldn’t speak, but she managed to make her hand do what it needed to do when he reached out to her. He went through the process with Josephine, Hélène, then the rest of the occupants in the room.

Gabrielle watched, revolted, as each of the German soldiers groveled before him. Mueller seemed thoroughly unimpressed with their adulation and subsequent flattery. His disdain was not hard to read. Nor did it come as a surprise. The Gestapo trusted no one outside their elite ranks, not even their fellow Germans.

There was a combined sigh of relief when Marta announced dinner.

As was his custom, von Schmidt took his place at the head of the table, resplendent in his self-appointed position as lord of the manor. He placed Mueller at his immediate right, Hélène on his left, Gabrielle next to her mother. Josephine sat at the other end of the table. The first course was served, along with an exquisite rosé her mother had chosen.

What Gabrielle noticed almost immediately was the strange dynamics between von Schmidt and Detective Mueller. While von Schmidt did most of the talking, Mueller was the one actually directing the conversation. He seemed to be laying some sort of trap for the other man, perhaps testing von Schmidt’s loyalty.

How did the sycophant not see this? Perhaps he was too much in awe of the Detective Commissioner to notice the other man’s dislike.

Trying not to show her reaction, Gabrielle lowered her head and let the music of cutlery fill her ears. Then, suddenly, shrilly, the telephone rang. Two jarring rings. Then nothing. No , she thought. Not now, Max. Please, not now. The telephone rang again. Only once this time. Max wanted to meet at midnight. The code had seemed so simple that they’d decided not to change it.

Had that been a mistake? Did anyone suspect? Did Mueller? She risked a glance from beneath the fringes of her eyelashes. To her relief, the detective’s gaze was still riveted on von Schmidt. Neither man mentioned the telephone.

Von Schmidt ordered Hélène to pour the next champagne. “You are in for a treat,” he informed Mueller, waiting for all glasses to be filled before lifting his own. “A toast. To the Third Reich.”

“The Third Reich,” came a chorus of voices.

The room went momentarily silent as everyone took a sip of the champagne. Mueller’s compliment was the first of several. “Excellent.”

As if he’d had a personal hand in making the wine himself, von Schmidt took credit for the selection.

Mueller smiled. It was a smile that sent chills down Gabrielle’s spine. He took another sip, then pulled the glass down and studied the bubbling liquid. “I have tasted this before.”

Gabrielle’s blood turned cold.

“You are drinking one of Chateau Fouché-LeBlanc’s finest cuvées ,” von Schmidt explained with no small amount of pride. “A single vintage from the 1928 harvest.”

Eyes flat, Mueller set down his glass with noticeable care. “All bottles of the 1928 were supposed to be shipped to Berlin immediately following the signing of the armistice.”

The room went dead silent.

Von Schmidt actually squirmed under Mueller’s glare, his own brow creasing into a vertical line. He looked worried. He should be worried. He had been caught saving the best champagne for himself.

Unfortunately, Mueller’s wrath was not for him alone. He smiled again, smaller this time, and turned to Gabrielle. “What do you have to say about this, Madame Dupree?”

It was as if the light had been sucked from the room. All she could see was black. Somehow the detective knew she had hidden hundreds of bottles of the 1928 behind her fake wall. But that couldn’t be. He was only testing her. That glint in his eyes, the one she couldn’t quite define, it was goading her to lie. Daring her to play this dreadful game with him.

“There is an easy explanation,” she began, doing her best to look at the man without actually looking at him. “We served several single vintages at the party we held to celebrate our two hundred years of champagne making. This, of course, depleted much of our reserves.” It was an evasion, if not a complete lie.

“When was this party?”

Gabrielle breathed in, breathed out. “In 1939. On the final night of the grape harvest.”

He said nothing. She said nothing.

Josephine stepped into the silence and launched into her favorite story behind her rosé blend that had become an international sensation. “It was almost a lark,” she added, laughing fondly over the memory. “I decided to blend a chardonnay with the juice from the pinot grape instead of elderberries. The result was nothing short of—”

“Magical,” Mueller finished for her, his eyes still on Gabrielle, his voice heavy with ice. “So you have said, Madame. Twice in the past half hour.”

“I... Did I already tell you this?”

He looked at her. His mouth moved as if to smile but it was more of a twitch, almost a frown. “You did.”

Visibly shrinking, Josephine hunched her shoulders and added in a tone barely above a whisper, “Forgive me for repeating myself.”

“I apologize, Detective Mueller.” This, from von Schmidt. “Madame Fouché-LeBlanc is senile. She tends to retell the same stories.”

“And yet—” derision dripped from Mueller’s voice “—you allow her at the table, knowing this is her way?”

Von Schmidt visibly winced. “She is not always confused.”

As if to contradict this, Josephine lifted her head, glanced around with a wild look in her eyes. Then, catching Mueller’s attention, she gave him an unfocused, faintly wobbly frown, as if she were trying to place him but wasn’t quite able to make the connection.

Gabrielle’s heart leaped to her throat. There was genuine confusion in her grandmother’s expression. “I, for one, never tire of hearing your stories, Grandmère. I find them inspiring.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw von Schmidt’s lip curl. “No one asked for your opinion, Madame Dupree.”

“I believe,” Mueller began, looking at Gabrielle with those eyes of his that could melt icebergs, “we have lost the point of this conversation. Madame Dupree, you say you served most of the 1928 at your anniversary party, yet here we are drinking it now. Explain this to me.”

Gabrielle clutched her hands together in her lap, her fingernails digging into her palms. She could point the finger at von Schmidt. He had, after all, “saved” the 1928 from confiscation. No, too risky. He would only find a way to place the blame back on her. Better to continue the lie she’d concocted for his benefit. “The champagne is from my family’s private stock.”

“Ah.” This seemed to satisfy the detective’s curiosity. He said nothing more.

Discussion turned to the likelihood of the Americans joining the war and what that would mean for the Third Reich. The meal went on for another hour, and then several minutes past that. At last, von Schmidt released the women from the table. Hélène took the lead. Gabrielle was only too happy to help her grandmother to her feet and follow behind her mother.

Mueller’s voice stopped her at the doorway. “Madame Dupree, I have a strong desire to see your wine cellar.” He set down his napkin and stood. “You will take me there now.”

He knew. Somehow he knew she was lying about the champagne. Or maybe it was von Schmidt he didn’t trust. Either way, she had to think of a way to keep him out of her caves. His eyes saw too much, and his mind drew too many accurate conclusions. “It’s late, Detective Mueller. My grandmother is tired. I need to escort her to her room and see her settled.”

“By all means, tend to her needs.”

Gabrielle nearly slumped in relief. He was going to let her go. She was actually feeling pleased she’d maneuvered around his request, perhaps even a little thrilled. But he spoke again. And she knew her troubles were only just beginning.

“You have fifteen minutes to care for your grandmother. Then you will show me where you keep the champagne that should have been sent to Berlin months ago.”