Page 8 of The Widows of Champagne

Hélène

H élène had made a very large mistake. She’d allowed Gabrielle to see past her mask of restraint and self-possession. She would not let it happen again. She could not let it happen again. There were reasons, of course. Reasons she would take to her grave.

At least the party was a success. Hélène’s personal touches were everywhere. In the hothouse flowers she’d ordered and then placed strategically throughout the chateau. In the delicate crystal glasses filled with their finest champagnes. She’d even handpicked the local boys serving as waiters now weaving through the crowd with their trays of Monsieur Chardon’s delicacies. The evening was progressing exactly as planned. And yet, Hélène fought to keep the smile on her face.

It was the party itself. The gaiety made her nostalgic. It had been a long time since they’d invited so many people into this home. She remembered étienne’s words from the early days of their marriage. “The Champenois like to celebrate,” he’d said, laughing a little as he added, “Especially with Fouché-LeBlanc champagne in their glasses. Each sip is a small taste of eternity, or so my mother says to anyone who will listen.”

étienne’s passion for his family’s business had been contagious. Hélène had been half in love with him long before she’d discovered he was no common vintner, but one of the grand French champagne masters of his day. He’d been marked for greatness. Then the war had come and stolen everything.

“You’re frowning, Maman.”

Hélène sighed. Now both of her daughters had witnessed an unforgivable slip in her composure. Rearranging her features, Hélène lifted a jeweled hand to smooth across her daughter’s shiny dark hair. “I was thinking of your father. He would have enjoyed this party.”

Not a complete lie. The man étienne had been before the war would have lifted his glass in a sentimental toast to his beloved mother. His words would have been heartfelt and inspiring. He would have toasted his deceased father next, and all the family members that had come before them. His daughters would be next. Then, he would have said something kind, and most assuredly loving, about his wife.

Hélène breathed past her sorrow and forced herself to speak evenly. “You are enjoying yourself, Paulette, are you not?”

“I’m having a lovely time. This is one of the best nights of my life.”

Her daughter’s enthusiasm brought a genuine smile to Hélène’s lips, no need to pretend.

“I’m glad.” Her words came out strained, which had not been her intent. This party was supposed to be her shining moment. There would be no more after tonight, not until the war was over. The war, she thought bitterly, that had yet to begin. But would destroy many.

Seemingly unaware of her mother’s mood, Paulette continued chattering about the party and how admired she was among her friends. “Jean-Claude and Lucien are fighting over me.”

As Paulette continued happily discussing all the ways each boy worked to gain her favor, Hélène thought, to be sixteen again . Or perhaps, not. She hadn’t been as lighthearted as her daughter, or as beloved by her friends. The girls at school had whispered behind her back about her own mother’s poor choice of husbands. A common banker, they called him. Never mind that her father’s financial advice and support had kept their families afloat during hard times.

Abraham Hirsch-Jobert, son of Isaac Hirsch-Jobert, would never be worthy of them. He did not belong to the old French nobility. He attended the local synagogue and sometimes brought his daughter with him. He was an outsider, a usurer...a Jew.

As if to make up for the subtle cruelty of her peers, her father had encouraged his wife to raise Hélène in her church. Beyond that, he’d denied his daughter nothing. What she wished for, she received. There’d been no criticism, no reining her in when she went too far. Even at nineteen, when she’d begun frequenting the salons of notorious artists, poets, philosophers and American ex-patriots, her father had given her no warnings, no insistence for moderation.

The first inkling that he may have disapproved of her lifestyle came when she’d met étienne and brought him home for dinner with her parents, something that had surprised all of them. étienne was not her usual fare. After he’d left, her father had taken her hand and, with pride shining in his eyes, had asked, “You like this man, this maker of fine champagne?”

“I like him very much.”

Her father had nodded. “I like him as well. A superb choice, indeed.”

From that night forward, Hélène had begun to see herself and her sparkling, sophisticated crowd through a different lens. She grew to recognize the cynicism in their manner, and hers. The way they accepted all, and yet cared for none.

Even as she’d come to see the callousness, the blatant self-interest, she’d also come to understand why she’d gravitated to them in the first place. It was more than like recognizing like, though that had been part of the fascination. They’d never asked about the origin of her father’s last name, or where his people came from. She had simply been witty, beautiful Hélène Hirsch-Jobert with an unrivaled talent for watercolors.

But then Hélène Hirsch-Jobert had become Hélène Jobert-LeBlanc. With a name change, and the love of a good man, came the rest of her transformation. The clothes she wore, the books she read, even the church she attended, all had become part of the complicated, layered lie and—

“Maman, did you not hear me?”

Hélène flinched at her daughter’s voice. Paulette had asked her a question. She had to think a minute to bring the words back into her mind. One of her daughter’s friends had been to the Ritz for lunch, and now Paulette wanted to go. Hélène rarely said no to the girl. This time, she would. She must. The hotel restaurant, even in the afternoon, was no place for a sixteen-year-old girl with nothing but fashion, parties and boys on her mind. Too many temptations. “We will discuss it tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

Hélène sighed, unwilling to explain herself. The words would not be right. Her own bitter disillusionment over past mistakes was too strong tonight, too close to the surface. “Because the party requires my attention, and your admirers require yours.”

“They do, don’t they?” The prospect of winning two hearts at once catapulted Paulette across the room.

With a sense of foreboding, Hélène watched her daughter rejoin her friends, then concentrate solely on the two young men battling for her affection. Paulette would toy with them, Hélène knew. The girl would charm and captivate and make each boy think he was her favorite. Until she lost interest in them both and moved on to another.

That was how Paulette maneuvered through life. She was careless with people, her admirers especially, never fully satisfied with a conquest, always looking for the next triumph.

Hélène had a moment of suffocating insight into her greatest mistake as a mother. By requiring so little of her daughter, she’d created a replica of her former self. She’d raised Paulette to accept all, and care for none.

Mon Dieu, what have I done?