Page 33 of The Widows of Champagne

Chapter Thirty-Three

Gabrielle

A fter a quick wash and change of clothing, Gabrielle went in search of her mother for the second time in a matter of hours. Apprehension had her feet moving quickly through the darkened corridors. Wind whistled through the cracks in the windowpane, an ominous sound that pushed her faster. Each high-pitched howl diminished her ability to remain calm in the face of so many setbacks, all of them out of her control. One problem at a time.

The cold was nearly unbearable in this section of the chateau. She blew into her cupped palms to warm them, her mind racing as fast as her feet. She silently reviewed the events of the last six hours, bouncing from her sister to Max, from one broken piece of her heart to the next. A forbidden romance...an arrest...a selfish act of a selfish girl...a sacrificial deed of a selfless man...the Gestapo. Guns. Torture.

One problem at a time.

She had to keep telling herself that, or she would go mad. Surely, her mother had spoken to Paulette by now. The thought of her sister engaging in an illicit love affair made Gabrielle’s stomach pitch. The glimpses of maturity she’d seen in the girl had not been strong enough to change her character.

She still put her needs ahead of others. Gabrielle should not have been surprised. People like Max risked their lives so that one day the rest of them would be free. And here was Paulette, doing as she pleased, not a single thought to the people she put at risk.

If her mother hadn’t talked to the girl, Gabrielle would. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a shadow flickering in the hallway. The form elongated then morphed into the shape of a female. Her mother. Gabrielle started toward her, one—just one—question on her lips.

“Not here.” Hélène shook her head then motioned Gabrielle to follow her. Once inside her mother’s bedroom, she imparted the distressing news in the hushed tones they always adopted when von Schmidt was still in the house. “It’s not a local boy.”

She’d expected this, and still her pulse sped up. Needing to know, even as she sensed the truth would enrage her, she asked in a low hiss, “A German soldier?”

“Worse.”

What could be worse than a German soldier? A Gestapo agent. Mueller’s image formed in her mind. No, impossible. Paulette was a child. He was a grown man. There were many such liaisons in Reims, some with even larger age gaps. Yet, strangely, Gabrielle knew the detective was not a man such as those Germans. No, he was not her sister’s beau. “Who, then?”

After a brief hesitation, Hélène responded in a voice filled with defeat. “She is meeting an SS officer, a lieutenant. You will know him. He has sat at our table.”

“Please tell me it’s not the one who demands to be served first, ahead of even von Schmidt.”

“That’s the one.”

Gabrielle couldn’t remember his name. She wasn’t sure it mattered. The lieutenant was a proud man and loved to proclaim his hatred of Jews. He was an Aryan with a heartless smile and lethal edge that seemed especially vicious because of his youth. “That foolish, thoughtless girl.”

“Don’t be too hard on your sister. She is young. And in love.”

“Love?” Gabrielle could feel her skin burning. “What does that child know of love?”

“Enough to take great risks after curfew.” Her mother’s voice went hoarse. “I fear he is an accomplished seducer. He’s overwhelmed her with pretty lies and false promises.”

“You make excuses for her, still. Paulette is equally to blame. She is spoiled and cares only for herself.” Years of frustration came pouring out. Hélène had given Paulette whatever she wanted. She’d allowed the girl too much freedom. Her mother had never taught moderation, not when the girl was a child, not when she’d entered her early teen years, not even now when she was on the verge of becoming a woman. “This is your fault. You spoil her and now look what she’s done.”

“I’m fully aware of my personal culpability.”

“You have to fix this. You must make Paulette understand the dangers of this romance.”

Face pinched, Hélène sighed. “I handled it already. Your sister knows what she must do. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do, and so do you. The champagne is waiting.”

As far as dismissals went, it wasn’t the most subtle. Just as well, Gabrielle decided as she exited the room and pulled the door shut with a furious click.

The time for subtlety was over.

An hour later, as she stood in her workroom, Gabrielle rubbed at her tired eyes and tried not to think about her sister. Or Max. The grief in her was overwhelming. She desperately wanted to journey into town, to see for herself what had happened to her father-in-law.

It wasn’t possible.

She would be required to explain her presence at the jail and, possibly, in her effort to protect Max, could end up exposing her own involvement in any number of criminal acts. No, better to wait for word of Max’s arrest to come to her. Then she would venture into Reims.

It wouldn’t be long now. News like this traveled quickly.

She put it out of her mind. Driven by a need to lose herself in the art of winemaking, she began testing her blends. She relied on her senses, drew on impressions stored in her memory, determined to create a wine as unique as the soil that produced it. She chose five of her favorite vin clairs , sniffing between each pour, letting her nose guide her through the process.

She took a sip, drew back at the taste. Foul, rancid. “Another failure,” she mumbled.

Someone entered the room, shut the door. She felt the dark presence before her eyes latched on to the shadow moving over her. “I’m sure you exaggerate, Madame Dupree.”

Gabrielle flinched as the deep, rough voice rubbed over her skin, as slick and unwelcome as the scales of a snake. Shock would be the expected response at this intrusion. She gladly gave in to the emotion as she quickly spun around, the beaker firmly clutched in her fist.

First, she gave him surprise. Then, she let him see her irritation. “Detective Mueller.” She placed all the ice she could summon into her voice. “I wasn’t aware we had a meeting.”

“This is not an official visit.”

His Gestapo uniform made every visit official.

Had Max given her up? Was that the reason the detective studied her face so closely? Gabrielle wouldn’t blame her father-in-law if he’d confessed. It was said everyone broke under torture, eventually, with the right incentive. Imagining Max beaten until he confessed his crimes brought a level of fury she’d never known she could feel.

It would be worse for her. She was a woman. And feared Mueller had been preparing for her arrest since their first encounter on the streets of Reims.

There were moments when a character was tested. Was this her moment? Would she break, or find the strength to stand? Gabrielle watched him watching her and suddenly the air felt different. It smelled different. Nothing felt right.

And Mueller had yet to state his business. She held steady under his silent inspection. A gentleman would stay an appropriate distance from her. The detective proved to be no gentleman. He stood barely two feet away from her. So close she could smell his scent, a mix of bergamot, sandalwood and lime. A Nazi should not smell like a normal man.

He should not look so immaculately dressed in the black uniform of the Gestapo. A perfect fit, and yet, today, she noticed that his shoulders tested the seams of the jacket and the hat he removed from his head was a half-size too small.

She was losing her mind. What did the fit of his uniform matter? Or the size of his hat? She drew in a sudden breath, reaching for a calm she didn’t feel. No matter what Mueller did next, she would not break. She would not show weakness. She would accept her fate with the dignity she’d witnessed in Max last night.

“This is where you blend your vin clairs ?” He reached around her to the table at her back and ran a fingertip along the edge. “I had not thought making champagne required this amount of organization. You seem to have a system to your art.”

He wanted to talk about the finer points of champagne making? An ache took up residence behind her eyes. “I prefer order.”

“May I?” The wine was wrested from her fingers before she could protest.

No , her mind screamed. Gabrielle never allowed anyone to taste her failures. “Please. Don’t. It’s not right.”

Her plea came too late. He was already lifting the beaker to his lips and taking a long, slow sip of the golden liquid. “You are correct.” He frowned into the glass. “This is a very poor attempt.”

The ache behind her eyes became a relentless pounding. Something inside Gabrielle went cold at the way he set the wine on the table beside her, as if it were an offense to his superior palate. That she’d had the same reaction didn’t soften the blow of his cold displeasure. With an impatient swat of her hand, she pushed a stubborn strand of hair off her face. “Why are you here, Detective Mueller?”

“I arrested your father-in-law this morning. I thought you should know. Although...” He trailed off, angled his head. “I think this is not news to you.”

Her pulse tripped over itself and she was breathing too hard, trying to keep herself under control. “Why would you arrest Max? He’s a harmless old man.”

“Not so harmless, or so old,” Mueller countered. “Maximillian Dupree is an active member of a large network of resistance workers. I am in the process of sorting out the names of his compatriots, male and...female.”

She bit her lip hard. “Max is innocent of whatever it is you think he did.”

A hint of something came and went in Mueller’s eyes, something she couldn’t quite define but knew she didn’t like. “And yet, he has supplied me with information to make several more arrests.”

Gabrielle’s skin iced over. Max would not have broken easily, or quickly. There must have been enormous pain involved in his interrogation. She hadn’t thought she could feel so helpless. She sought refuge behind her crossed arms. “May I see him? Is that possible?”

Mueller did not answer the question. “How much, I wonder, do you know about your father-in-law’s criminal activities?”

Afraid to show her guilt, afraid to accept what she sensed was coming, Gabrielle busied herself straightening the beakers of the vin clairs into perfectly precise, ruthlessly neat rows. “I know he is innocent.”

“Madame Dupree.” Mueller came up behind her. Too close. She had to fight the instinct not to shrivel away from his distinctive scent. Mouth flat, she jerked around to face him and nearly lost her balance. She reached for the table at her back for support.

“I am told...” His gaze found the ribbon of hair that always fell loose by her ear. Slowly, he looked back into her eyes. “...that you visit your father-in-law’s home often, sometimes at night after curfew. This is disturbing news.”

“He is my family, of course I visit him. We discuss my husband, his son. Sometimes our conversations go long.”

“That is your defense?”

She breathed in. Breathed out. The churning in her stomach would explode into panic if she didn’t keep it in check. “It’s the truth. Will you tell me why you arrested Max?”

“A parachute was found in his wine cellar, hidden inside an abandoned barrel. There were also weapons and ammunition.” He said this all so casually. “I must now send my soldiers to search every cellar in the region. Yours will be today. You will want to prepare.”

What sort of twisted game was he playing now? “Why...why are you telling me this?”

For a split second, Gabrielle thought she saw a hint of something not altogether dark in his eyes. She wanted to appeal to that sliver of humanity. But, no. That look, it was a trap. A mistake of the light. His way of lulling her into a false sense of security. “How long do I have?”

“Two hours.”

He was warning her. But why? The answer came to her in a flash. He wanted to catch her in the act of hiding incriminating evidence.

She didn’t know what to think. What to feel. Something strange was creeping into their conversation, something ugly. She tightened her arms around her waist and fumed. This man. This Nazi brute with his games. His terrible tricks. His confusing warnings and hidden threats.

She thought she might cry. She didn’t dare.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” He moved with lightning speed, so fast she hadn’t seen him coming. He managed to penetrate the knot of her arms and grip her wrist, his hold firm but not painful. He always moved so quickly, she realized, and liked to grab her wrist to make his point. Yet, he never hurt her. He never crossed that line. His touch, why did she not recoil? Why was she not repulsed? Another of his tricks.

Games within games. Lies inside lies. She had never felt more alone.

“Listen to me, Madame. And listen good. In just two hours,” he said, “your wine cellar will be overrun with SS soldiers.”

A sob rose in her throat. This was some sort of bad dream. Mueller was... He seemed...

What did he want from her? Oh, but she knew. She knew .

Shame had her staring at her feet.

“Don’t look down. Look at me. Straight at me.” He coaxed her to do his will in that low, awful, reptilian baritone that made her skin crawl. At last, she found the revulsion missing from her earlier reaction. “You will prepare for my impending search of your wine cellar. Do I make myself clear?”

She met his gaze with an unwavering stare of her own. Chills crept across her skin and her eyes filled. No, she would not cry for him. Dry eyes were her only defense. “Perfectly.”

“ Gut. Good.” He let her go.

She stumbled away from him, moving toward the door, stopping only once her spine ran up against the thick barrier that kept her one step away to freedom. Escape was just on the other side of the slab of wood. She was suddenly hot, so hot she thought she would faint if not for the support at her back. She dropped her gaze. A beam of light shone like a beacon at her feet. She wanted to fall into that light. Max deserved better from her. “Tell me what will happen to my father-in-law.”

Mueller looked at her steadily. In that moment he was very German, very ruthless, every bit a high-ranking official in the Nazi secret police. “Tell me what you know of his activities.”

“I know he is innocent of any crime.” Against France.

“You are a loyal daughter-in-law.”

The admiration she heard in the words—it was more than she could take. More than she could stomach. Her husband was dead. Her grandmother was feeble of mind and body. Paulette was cavorting with the enemy. Their mother was a collaborator. And now, now , Gabrielle had lost Max, too. “Please, I beg you, don’t hurt him. He is—”

“It’s time for you to stop talking.”

She clamped her lips tightly shut.

He nodded his approval. “You may begin preparing for my return.”

“ Oui. Bien. I will go now.” Groping behind her, she grasped the doorknob. A hard twist and she was free. Or nearly so. She took a step backward, and then another. The third carried her out into the hallway. From there, it was a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, each faster than the last. And then, she was running. Not to the wine cellar. To God.

For the first time since France declared war on Germany, Gabrielle sought refuge in the Lord. Up ahead, she saw the tiny chapel that had stood on LeBlanc land for two centuries. Every member of her family had been baptized inside those stone walls. Gabrielle included. She ran faster. It wasn’t until she was inside the building, down on her knees atop the hard stones, hands clasped together beneath her chin, that she allowed herself to lift her eyes to the Cross.

She felt God’s presence immediately. She wanted to rest in the sensation.

There wasn’t time.

She shut her eyes and prayed for her father-in-law. She prayed for herself, for her family. For an end to this hideous war. And then, circled to the beginning and prayed again for Max.

He’d been so proud of his resistance work. Gabrielle had shared in that pride, thinking the righteousness of their cause protected them from capture. Her conviction had been as pure as the taste of a perfectly blended champagne. Now, she was confused and lost and in need of guidance. She could not do this on her own.

Protect him, Lord. Protect Max.

Protect us all.

The tears came then, rivers of them. One day, Gabrielle vowed, she would find absolution for failing to save her father-in-law. One day.

She allowed herself another five minutes with her God, then she rose and went to prepare for the infestation of SS soldiers on hallowed LeBlanc ground.