Page 29 of The Widows of Champagne
Gabrielle
G abrielle stood on the edge of the party, calculating when she could make her exit. She had work to do for her father-in-law, for France, for the man who’d been shot out of the sky. Max had been hiding the airman for months and the strain was getting to him. That had been the reason for their meeting three nights ago, to discuss the airman’s rescue.
Another hour, she decided. Then she would slip away and help Max transport the young pilot to the railyard where a resistance worker would take him across the border. They’d agreed the party would be the perfect cover to break curfew, especially with so many of the newly stationed SS in attendance. They may never get another opportunity like this.
That meant enduring the chorus of Heil Hitlers awhile longer, something that required a spine of steel and a frigid heart. She’d acquired both since France declared war on Germany.
Josephine had already gone up to her bedroom, and that was a relief to Gabrielle. Nazi occupation was wearing on her grandmother. It was wearing on them all, especially Hélène, who had the most to lose and yet took the greatest personal risks. Gabrielle might disagree with her mother’s route, but she understood her reasons. And respected her courage.
The three LeBlanc widows waged their own wars against their captors. Gabrielle, Josephine, Hélène, all of them fought without breaking, without getting caught, and without pulling Paulette into their acts of treason. Gabrielle sighed softly. No one watching her sister now would ever think the world was at war.
How much had changed in so little time, and yet her sister had not changed enough. She was no longer a girl. She was an eighteen-year-old woman and should not be so ignorant of the realities of war. Gabrielle expected more from Paulette. It was time her sister understood parties such as these were not to be enjoyed, but rather endured.
Champagne glasses clinked, while oysters sat in nests of ice, and all manner of gourmet delicacies made the rounds on silver trays. Where had so much plenty come from?
Gabrielle didn’t want to know.
The air was rank with cigarette smoke and loud with the sound of laughter. Her mother stood beside von Schmidt, looking serene and perfectly comfortable. It was a lie. Earlier tonight, Gabrielle had seen the despair on her mother’s face, and the underlying shame. In that moment, she’d been overwhelmed with love for the woman who had given her life, and had feared if she left the words unsaid she may never find another chance to say them.
Her mother took too many risks. She was at her most charming tonight, bestowing smiles and exchanging witticisms with men in SS uniforms. Men who, if they knew her lineage, would send her to her death without hesitation.
Gabrielle suddenly felt eyes on her. The sensation left her chilled to the marrow. She looked for the source. With a jolt, she realized Detective Mueller had arrived and was now watching her. His face showed no expression. Like her, he stood on the outside of the festivities. A man not happy to be here.
Their eyes met and she wasn’t quite sure what she saw there. Suspicion, doubts. Her stomach rolled. Did he suspect what she did for the good of France? Did he know she planned an act of treason this very night?
In that moment, she hated him, and every other Nazi in her home, in her country. Evil men. Murderers.
Could Mueller read her hatred? Her fear?
She lowered her gaze. Then thought, no. She would not cower under his stare. She lifted her head. He was still studying her with that utter lack of expression.
Someone said his name, another man in uniform. Mueller’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then, slowly, he turned his head and their strange bond was broken.
Breathing hard, feeling as if she’d crossed an invisible line, though not sure when or how, she quickly escaped the house. She needed to be in the cold, raw air. She walked for a time. The night was clear, the stars a million sparkling diamonds against the black fabric of the sky.
Headlights approached from the heart of Reims. More Germans arriving to drink LeBlanc champagne. Despite the chill in the air, the big, black, ugly Mercedes bounced down the drive with their tops down to show off their bejeweled passengers, coming to a halt outside the chateau to deposit their insufferable cargo.
Gabrielle should get back to the party, before she was missed. She retraced her steps along the balustrade. Needing to remember where she came from, what she fought for, she paused and looked out over the vineyard. Several guests milled about her. Most were smiling, laughing, and Gabrielle was struck by how many local Frenchwomen were on the arms of German soldiers.
Selfish, foolish creatures. Their fierce resolve to remain untouched by the war would be their undoing. Or perhaps, she was being uncharitable. Perhaps their reasons were more like her mother’s. Gabrielle would never know the truth. It was impossible to see inside another’s heart.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, alerting her that she was being watched again. A movement in the dark captured her attention, the smudge of a shadow in the form of a man. Detective Mueller had come looking for her.
She’d known he’d follow her, had felt it in her gut, in the kick of antagonism that hit her square in the heart when their eyes met. He peered at her without attempting to come any closer. One shoulder propped against the wall, he just stood there, cloaked in shadow, watching her. A sense of déjà vu rocked her to the core. He’d stared at her like this once before, only a few days ago in the wine cellar. She found the experience just as unnerving now as she had then.
He pushed away from the wall and took a step toward her. Another step. Another. She tried not to shrink away from his slow, determined approach. “Madame Dupree.”
The way he uttered her name, in that heavy German accent, with such purpose, without inflection, as he would use to relate the current weather, it made her hands tremble. “I sent the champagne to Berlin, as you requested .”
“It was not a request.” The firm set of his jaw assured her he was not in the mood to pick his way through niceties. This was a party, in his honor. And yet, he was out here baiting her with his considerable height and menacing presence.
“Nevertheless, I followed your orders, as you knew I would.” It was not what she’d meant to say. She knew better than to engage his wrath. Her nerves were showing.
“I tasted your grandmother’s rosé just now.” He imparted the news as if it were an item he needed to tick off some internal list.
“How did you find it?”
“It was—” a single eyebrow lifted “—magical.”
She could hear it then, the pounding of her heart. The fear rushing through her veins. And yet, confronted with the sarcastic reminder of her grandmother’s enthusiasm over the blending process, spoken with the finality of a judge rendering a verdict, her defiance wanted to rear. She shoved it behind a bland smile. She’d hoped not to see him tonight. She needed to keep her wits about her for the sake of the stranded British airman. She should not have come outside and drawn Mueller’s notice.
He took another step, coming closer, as if he meant to impart a secret. Her skin suddenly recoiled at his nearness. His words, when they came, brought only confusion. “Your grandmother is right to feel pride in her accomplishment.”
He spoke of wine while she was planning a daring rescue. Throat thick, she held steady, unmoving, anxious to see how long he would hover over her, how long she could stand his nearness. He kept at a respectable distance.
For the span of three, rib-cracking heartbeats they stared into each other’s eyes. Then, he spoke again. “The women in your family have much to be thankful for. You are three generations of widows, alone in this world, and yet have found a way to run a successful champagne empire without the help of your men.”
There were threats in that carefully modulated speech, and yet she couldn’t isolate a single one. Gabrielle felt her confusion morph into something darker, her desire to escape more powerful, more insistent. Her primitive need to run was almost too much to contain. “We do what we must to survive.”
She knew her mistake at once. Mueller’s face changed before she finished speaking. Ambivalence drained out and suspicion flooded in. “How far, I wonder, are the women in your family willing to go? What compromises do you make?” He flicked a glance in the general direction of her mother and von Schmidt. “What risks do you take?”
Accusation and distrust filled his smile. No, not a smile. A sinister twist of lips that showed enough teeth to make his point.
“I only meant,” she began, letting him see her fear, letting the emotion bleed into each faltering word, “that we are no strangers to hard work.”
He didn’t respond right away. As the tension stretched between them, solitary church bells marred the night air, the strikes melding with the beat of her heart. He casually looked her over, running his gaze from the top of her head to the tip of her ridiculously female shoes.
Without warning, he seized her wrist and brought her hand within inches of his face. He took his time inspecting her palm, her cracked nails, the various scars. She held perfectly still under his appraisal. He would find no secrets here. The callouses were real. The scars her badges of honor.
He shot a look her way, quick and dazzling, just a flash of approval. And then, his expression was wiped clean and her hand was falling back to her side. “You have the hand of a farmer.”
“I am a farmer.”
His gaze fell on the vineyard. “I suppose you are.”
Gabrielle hugged herself and rubbed her arms for warmth. She wanted to escape inside and stand before the fire. But she would not. Nor would she let this man see the inner workings of her mind. Yet every time their eyes connected that was exactly the impression he gave. That he could read her thoughts.
She searched for some semblance of control, a speck, that was all she needed. She nearly had it in her grasp when a high-pitched female giggle jolted her attention to the interior of the chateau. She didn’t need to search long to discover that Paulette was being Paulette. The eighteen-year-old was becoming a terrible flirt. Boys flocked to her, like bees to honey. Lemmings to the cliff. All desperate to win her favor. Something she bestowed a bit too freely. Yet, somehow, she always managed to stay just on the right side of propriety.
For how long?
Gabrielle saw her sister’s hand reach out, then rest on the arm of a local boy hired to work the party. Paulette appeared fond of him, but not as much as he was of her. It seemed the only quality the young woman looked for in a suitor was his admiration of her.
Not a very high bar.
“Your sister is in high spirits this evening.”
“She enjoys parties.”
“I think—” he divided his gaze between Paulette and the local boy, then considered the group of Waffen-SS soldiers that had previously surrounded her “—she is very free with her affections.”
A cold, deadening sensation filled Gabrielle’s lungs. How did she respond? With the truth. “Paulette is a happy, popular, well-liked young woman.”
“Evidently.” The absence of any emotion in that single word hit like a punch, the pain was that sharp and unexpected. “You will want to speak with your sister before she brings unnecessary attention to herself. And, by association, the rest of your family.”
Gabrielle didn’t appreciate the warning, spoken in that calm, cool tone. It felt like a trap, a way to lure her into believing he was doing her a favor. She didn’t think any further than that. She simply began to step away from him, desperate to distance herself from what she heard in his voice. Not a warning, after all. A threat.
“I will speak with my sister right away.” Her voice came at her as if from a great distance, sounding tinny in her own ears. “If you will excuse me, Detective.”
“By all means.” He stepped aside and let her go without another word.
Gabrielle entered the chateau just as her mother approached Paulette. Good, she thought. This was good. They would join forces.
Together, surely, they would speak sense into the girl.