Page 5 of The Widows of Champagne

Gabrielle

T he LeBlanc women held their collective breaths in the weeks that followed. Each dreading, for her own reasons, the infestation of Nazis on French soil. Other than light skirmishes near the border town of Saarbrücken, it was as if France had never declared war on Germany. The fighting would begin eventually, no one disputed this. But as Hitler forced his will on the rest of Europe, the upcoming harvest took priority.

The rain continued pounding Champagne. Gabrielle battled the weather with the few workers she had left now that all able-bodied men had been conscripted into the French army. As she walked the vines, she thought of her husband. She tasted the grapes as Benoit had taught her—the only way to know if they were ripe—and checked for mold among the leaves. She cut away impending death with the razor-sharp clippers that had once belonged to him. She sampled, studied, snipped.

At last, on a cold day in mid-October, the wait was over. “It’s time to pick the grapes,” she declared to her vineyard manager, a grizzled veteran of the previous war whose loyalty was without question. “We’ll begin tomorrow at first light.”

To his credit, Pierre did not argue her decision. Nor did he point out that the harvest was nearly three weeks behind schedule. He did, however, say, “We’re woefully short of workers.”

“We’ll make do,” she assured him. What choice did they have?

The following morning Gabrielle awoke to the familiar peals of church bells echoing in the gray light of dawn. The tolls did nothing to ease the heaviness in her heart, or the loneliness of orchestrating another harvest without Benoit. The day, she knew, would bring more despair than joy. Still, her purpose was clear. For the next two weeks, she would lose herself in the picking of grapes, her hands working by rote, every part of her swallowed up in the process.

Dressed in clothing to combat the cooler temperatures, she exited her room. The sound of the housekeeper’s voice had her pausing on the threshold of the kitchen. Gabrielle didn’t often eavesdrop, but something warned her to stay put awhile longer. Pressed against the hallway wall, she squeezed her eyes closed.

“You will eat every bite,” Marta instructed the other occupant in the room, proving herself a prime example of French fortitude against a formidable opponent. “You will do this, or I will tell your granddaughter you are too frail to join her in the vineyard.”

Holding back a gasp, Gabrielle peeked around the corner. Grandmère glowered at the massive pile of ham, goat cheese and freshly baked croissants. “It is too much.”

Gabrielle winced at her grandmother’s fractious tone. Marta was not so impressed. The short, sturdy woman had served the LeBlanc family since Josephine was a young bride. She had her role to play. And she did so with the conviction of a seasoned mother hen.

“You listen to me, Josephine Fouché-LeBlanc.” Marta’s voice held steel, and very little else. “The day will be long. You must fortify yourself.”

Josephine subjected the housekeeper to her own brand of steel. She, too, had her role to play. She, too, did so with conviction. “This is not my first harvest. I know what is required.”

“We waste time with this arguing. Eat.” Marta nodded to the untouched food. “Or I will prevent your exit from this house.”

It was no empty threat.

The fork found its way into Josephine’s hand. And then, she took her first bite. She chewed slowly, and with very little enthusiasm. In that moment, as Gabrielle watched her grandmother struggle with this common task of feeding herself, grief exploded inside her heart, fueled by helplessness and bone-deep sorrow at the irrefutable fact that Grandmère was becoming too old to work the vines.

But she was not there yet. Her iron will was still very much alive. She would do her part this year, if slower and with difficulty. Even if Gabrielle didn’t need the extra pair of hands, she wouldn’t take that away from her grandmother.

She stepped into the kitchen. “Bonjour à tous.”

“Ah, Gabrielle, ma chère .” Grandmère smiled, her eyes tired but clear of confusion. That alone was a triumph. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” She took her place at the table.

Marta set a plate in front of her, followed by a mug of coffee. The liquid was hot and dark as petrol, exactly as Gabrielle preferred. The housekeeper moved to stand beside Josephine, a fist parked on one generous hip. “You eat like a bird.”

“I am not much bigger than one.”

The two women glared at one another. But there was softness in their manner now, a deep affection born from years of proximity and routine. Suddenly, Gabrielle felt as if she were on the outside looking in, an observer only, separate and wholly apart. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. It shouldn’t hurt. But, oh, it did.

“There was a day...” Marta let the rest trail away, perhaps deciding it best not to remark on Josephine’s recent weight loss. At an age when most women fattened up, Grandmère had grown too thin. More signs of what was to come.

The housekeeper shuffled to the sink, filled it with water, then went to work scrubbing a dirty pan. Like Josephine, age was catching up to Marta. She moved slower these days. The passing years showed in her stooped shoulders and the lines around her eyes and lips. A road map for her anguish. The previous war had taken her only son in the first wave of battles.

Too much death in this home, Gabrielle thought. Too much loss. She sipped her coffee and turned her attention to her grandmother. “Pierre and I are in agreement. We’ll start on the north end of the vineyard. And work our way south as the picking progresses.”

After a moment of strained silence, Josephine set down her fork. “Do we... Is that...” She seemed to search for the words. “Is it usual for us to begin so far away from the presses?”

The question cut deep. Gabrielle glanced away, unable to bear the light of confusion staring back at her. “The grapes suffered less rot atop the hills,” she said softly, dropping her words onto her own untouched food. “We’ll focus on the best, before we deal with the worst.”

Silence met her explanation.

She dared a glance across the table. Josephine had gone unnaturally still. Thinking, or possibly trying to grasp what Gabrielle had just explained. “I understand, yes. Yes, I see.”

But did she?

Abandoning her post at the sink, Marta went to Josephine and placed her hand on one of the bony shoulders. “Come, mon amie . Let’s get you dressed for a day with your vines.”

Josephine put her hand on the table and, with Marta’s help, hoisted herself to her feet. “I will need my boots, I think.”

“ Oui. And your coat. The air is cold this morning.” Marta shared a troubled glance with Gabrielle, then guided Josephine out of the kitchen.

We won’t have many more harvests together. Despite its futility, she prayed for five more seasons with her grandmother. No, ten. And still, it wouldn’t be enough.

Before her grief could spiral into something darker, the sound of her mother’s heels clicking on the stone floor heralded her arrival. Hélène’s perfume entered the kitchen first, the woman two beats later. Dressed smartly in a belted, two-piece suit with a tightly fitted jacket and slim-cut skirt, she looked fashionably chic. She carried white gloves in her hand, as if she planned to take tea with her friends at the Ritz.

“Maman, you cannot think to travel to Paris this morning.”

“It is Wednesday.” She spoke as if that explained all. And perhaps, in her mind, it did.

Gabrielle’s heart twisted in her chest, this time with frustration. How she wished for her mother to be, somehow, a different woman. Any other woman but this perfectly groomed creature with such a careless attitude toward recent events. The thought was a betrayal of the worst kind, Gabrielle knew this, hated herself for thinking it. Hélène was her mother. There’d been a time when that meant soft hugs and comforting words. Now, she didn’t know what to think of the woman who had given her birth. “You do recall we’re at war?”

Her words came out harsher than she’d planned.

Hélène didn’t seem to notice. “It’s been six weeks and the Germans have left us alone. Today will be no different.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” Gabrielle tried to keep the judgment from her voice, the fear. She failed at both. “It’s safer to stay in Reims.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. During the previous war the trenches of the Western Front had cut through the heart of Champagne. Constant, heavy shelling had uprooted countless rows of chardonnay and pinot noir vines. Gabrielle still remembered being herded into the wine cellars with the others, unsure what they would find when they returned above ground. She’d clutched her mother’s hand and had found comfort from the assurances whispered in her ear.

As if she could read her daughter’s mind, for a moment, Hélène seemed to visibly soften. She touched Gabrielle’s hair, kissed her cheek, leaving behind a trail of perfume as she stepped away. “Do not trouble yourself, ma chère . The Maginot Line will hold the Nazis to the other side of the border. That’s what it is there for.”

“Concrete and barbed wire will not stop a German panzer.”

“Then the French army will.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument. Same song, new verse. “We shouldn’t be so complacent as to—”

“The Maginot Line will hold.” Her mother’s tone held no room for further discussion.

Gabrielle attempted a different approach. “The harvest begins today.”

She could use an extra pair of hands in the vineyard, though perhaps not her mother’s. Hélène was not one to dig around in the dirt.

“Then it is better I make myself scarce.” With the elegance of a born Parisian, Hélène straightened her suit jacket with quiet precision. “I will take Paulette with me.”

Of course her sister would accompany their mother to Paris. Gabrielle had expected nothing else. Hélène was teaching her youngest daughter to move through the world as she did herself. Paulette had no interest in the vineyard, or the champagne house, and their mother seemed to encourage the girl’s indifference.

Gabrielle despaired of ever changing her sister’s mind. Who, then, would take over when she followed in Josephine’s footsteps? When it was Gabrielle’s turn to succumb to old age, who would carry on the LeBlanc legacy?

“I’m not late, Maman,” came a voice from the doorway. “I’m merely running a few minutes behind schedule.”

Paulette wandered into the kitchen at an unhurried pace, one shoe on her foot, the other dangling from her fingertips. She wore a fashionable blue day dress that accentuated her slender frame, small waist and narrow hips. Even her manner was reminiscent of Hélène’s confident air.

“Do not trouble yourself, ma chère .” The same words Hélène had said to Gabrielle, although spoken with far more affection. “We’re in no hurry this morning.”

Paulette returned her mother’s serene smile, then turned a bland stare in Gabrielle’s direction. “ Bonjour , sister.”

“Bonjour.”

And that was the end of their conversation, no different from most days. How could they share the same mother and father and yet be so different? Gabrielle had no interest in art or fashion. Paulette thought of little else, except maybe flirtations with local boys. She also showed an artistic talent that went beyond the ordinary, as evidenced in the countless drawings she created in her mother’s studio while Hélène painted her landscapes.

“I’m nearly ready to leave, Maman. As soon as I put on my—Oh, are those fresh croissants?” Without waiting for an answer, Paulette plucked a pastry from Gabrielle’s plate with her free hand, the shoe still dangling from the other. The move, seemingly small and insignificant, revealed the young woman’s ever-increasing thoughtlessness. If a croissant lay in front of her, it was hers for the taking. No matter that it was meant for another.

“By all means, Paulette, help yourself.”

Not a student of subtlety, the young woman nibbled the croissant without acknowledging Gabrielle’s remark. She took another dainty bite and turned to her mother expectantly. “Where shall we shop first?”

“I think Mademoiselle Ballard’s atelier.” The shop was a favorite of both women, and the designer, unlike Coco Chanel, had continued selling her clothes despite the declaration of war.

Hélène sat beside her youngest daughter. The two leaned in close, their heads nearly touching as they set their plans for the day. A wave of longing crashed over Gabrielle. What would it be like to have her mother as a confidante? Josephine had once filled that role in her life. And some days—most days—she still did. But not as often as before.

Gabrielle would be alone soon, more even than when Benoit had died. She already mourned the loss of her grandmother. But now. This moment. The vineyard called to her. There was only one thing to do.

Answer.