Page 28 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
Those two simple words reminded him of his stupidity. And yet he knew all this and he’d still managed to lose his detachment when it came to Emma Luce. Julien ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. She’d done a number on him with her voracious appetite for knowledge, her intoxicating idiosyncrasies—he didn’t think his mind would ever quite erase the pictures of her in the kitchen, rolling out dough with a smudge of flour on her cheek, or stirring a pot and bending over it with her eyes shut, sniffing it. He’d never had a woman cook for him before. Clarisse wouldn’t be caught near the kitchens.
The two women couldn’t be more different. Clarisse, blonde and diminutive, who loved to shop, who’d never worked a day in her life or known how to. How he’d loved pleasing her with a trinket or sweet. He’d lived for the sound of her laughter; the sparkle of her smile turned his direction in a crowded room. She’d been surrounded by beaux but she always found her way to his side—the young handsome heir to the Comte du Rocroi. He’d been a good dancer in those days. She’d loved that about him and his kisses, too. He’d not minded it had been hard to keep up with her tastes on his limited funds.
Emma was pleased with quieter pleasures. She’d immersed herself in the chateau, buried herself in reading, took delight in debating him where Clarisse had no interest in disagreeing with him. That would have required a discussion of things she had no knowledge of or desire to learn about. Whenever he’d talked about the grapes she’d laugh and say he sounded like a farmer. And of course, sounding like a farmer was definitely a bad thing according to Clarisse. She would teasingly remind him that a futurecomtedidn’t prune vines and walk the land in dusty boots. There would be servants to do all that for him once they married. She’d been keen to remind him of that, too. He’d have to start living like acomteafter they wed.
Their marriage would never have worked. He would have been unhappy within months. But he would have had his land. Oncle Etienne would have been happy. As soon as Julien produced a son in that marriage, the universe would be righted. The Archambeau line would inherit the chateau and all the vineyards between the chateau and hisoncle’s farmhouse, the damage of the Revolution undone, the family avenged. No sacrifice, not even Julien’s happiness or integrity, was too much to ask for when it came tofamille et terre.Only he’d not understood it that way at the time.
He was different now, too. The young man who believed in love, who was hungry for a taste of it, was gone. He was approaching middle age, jaded and used to being alone, used to disappointment. He was not used to getting what he wanted. It always slipped away in the end. He and Emma had never stood a chance. He was too ruined. Ruined by a broken heart, ruined by a family legacy that was on the brink of becoming poisonous. It had defined four generations of Archambeau males, been the sole driving purpose of their lives. Now it had cost him Emma, a woman he had...feelings...for. He didn’t dare call it falling in love. That was for fools. But he had feelings for her. Together, they might have made a passionate partnership—they might have built something remarkable if they’d had the luxury of a clean slate between them. That was gone now. Perhaps it had never existed.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, the wicked thought coming to him: At what point did a dream become a nightmare? At what point was he entitled to live his own life? To set his wants over those of his family? And if he could do those things, what would that life look like? He’d lived with the Archambeau legacy for so long he wasn’t sure if he could live outside it.
Chapter Eighteen
It was the first time she’d been outside the estate since her arrival and the day couldn’t be more different. The carriage top was down, the sun was on her face, and the countryside was in bloom, a far cry from the closed carriage she’d arrived in, the landscape as barren, as grey, as her mood. Grief had been her constant companion in those days. And yet her mood today was not as light as it might have been.
She was making the five-mile journey to Boursault by herself, without Julien beside her. The visit should have brought her great joy. What a thrill it was to meet the great champagne widow, Madame Clicquot, but that thrill was lessened by the tension between her and Julien. Last night’s revelations had clarified some tensions but instilled new ones.
As a result, she’d not slept well, dozing off only at dawn for what turned out to be a dream-plagued nap. She probably looked like a hag between her black widow’s garb, pale face, and dark circles beneath her eyes. This was not the sort of drama she was used to over a man. She and Garrett had never fought, never kept secrets, not even in the beginning when they’d been trying so hard to impress each other as new couples do. With Julien she was out of her depth. It was a new and uncomfortable experience.
She liked being in charge, liked knowing what came next. With Julien she did not know. Now, when she ought to be focused on the Widow and making a good impression, all she could think about was Julien. What was so terrible about what he’d done? He’d done nothing illegal. She’d come to the conclusion that what grieved her the most was simply that she hadn’t known, that he hadn’t felt he could tell her. He could take her to bed but he couldn’t tell her who he really was or about his family’s association with the estate.
Because it would have altered everything.
But why not after they’d begun the affair, when, surely, he was more certain of her? She had no answers for that, at least not answers she liked.
The Chateau Boursault came into view and Emma cleared her mind, focusing on the details of the building with its squared wings on either end and the rounded turrets, the steeply pitched roof, all done in the neo-renaissance style, and then there were the windows—so many windows! She began to count them to put herself at ease. She’d got to twenty when the carriage stopped in front of the steps leading up to the white six-panelled door. The place was magnificent and her first thought was that she wished Julien was here to see it with her.
She was expected and shown into the entrance, her heels tapping on polished parquet flooring. The foyer was a room unto itself and decorated accordingly with a nod to Italianate styling. Columns set into the walls framed trompe l’oeil murals. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, reminiscent of her own. This chateau was a palace, an homage to elegance. But it wasn’t as old as Julien’s. Where his had the patina of centuries, this one was new, barely lived in for two years.Julien’s. She needed to be careful with that word. Was she really thinking of the chateau as his? That boded ill if she was already mentally ceding it to him. It echoed back to her earlier fear that perhaps he saw marriage as a way forward if he could not get what he wanted through business avenues. If she’d not had that revelation, would she have fallen for his ploy? Had she been that close? A footman led her through a series of interconnecting rooms to a small sitting room that overlooked the back gardens. The glass doors were open to let in the fresh breeze and Madame Clicquot was already there.
‘Madame Luce, welcome. Forgive me if I don’t get up. Age and my bones don’t always agree with me.’
‘Please, I would not have you bother on my account.’ Emma crossed the room and helped herself to the chair adjacent to Madame Clicquot’s. Seventy-five was indeed an august age and in ways the woman looked it. She had the double chin of a life well-fed if not well-lived, and Emma thought there was a resoluteness in the set of her jaw that came from perhaps the accumulated fatigue of carrying on, perhaps too often carrying on alone. Especially when there were burdens to be borne. Would she look like that at seventy-five? Worn and shaped by the pressures of her world? The aloneness of it? It was a sobering thought. But everything came with a price. Just different prices.
‘Am I not what you expected?’ The woman’s eyes were shrewd. Whatever fatigue Emma might have detected was absent from her gaze. Her speech was certainly direct.
‘I did not knowwhatto expect. Thank you for receiving me. I am new to the area and I am desperate to learn everything I can.’ Emma smiled. ‘And desperate to meet you because you are a legend.’
‘Hmmph.’ Madame scoffed at that. ‘Or was it that you wanted to meet because we are alike? You see some similarity between us? Both of us widowed at twenty-seven, trying to make something out of nothing? Like you, the wine was a side business for my family when Francois and I married. It was still a side business, really, when he died.’ A maid brought in an enormous silver tea tray and set it down between them. Emma moved to do the honours.
‘How do you find the Chateau?’ she asked with a gimlet eye as Emma passed her a teacup painted with delicate sprigs of lavender. ‘It has a ridiculous name, it should be adomaine.You should think about renaming it,’ Madame hinted broadly. ‘Nothing says Englishman like a poorly named vineyard. Aside from that though, your husband was a good sort. I met him once. Iamsorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Emma sipped her own tea. ‘I wanted to ask you about yourvendangenoirand your presses.’
It was a good enough question to set Madame off on her favourite subject, champagne. One question led to another, which led to a second pot of tea and another plate of cakes. The woman was impressive. Emma could have listened to her talk all day but it was clear the older woman was tiring. Emma immediately felt some guilt over that. She’d been enjoying herself so much. ‘I must apologise for keeping you so long.’ Emma set down her teacup as a hallway clock chimed five. Dear Lord, she’d been here two hours!
‘Nonsense, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. There are not many women to talk with about the industry these days.’ She waved a plump hand. ‘In the old days, when I first began, there were several femalevignerons.’ She paused. ‘Do you know the term? Avigneronis a grape-grower, someone who grows grapes expressly for wine. There were even women who blended the wines. Many of them widows who had to see to themselves. They took over their husbands’ businesses and with success in most cases. But these days, there’s no room for a woman unless she’s already in position.’ Madame gave her a strong look. ‘I don’t envy you trying to break into the business these days. There’s machinery to think of now. Which of the new inventions can we use that will make the process efficient while still maintaining the integrity of being hand-crafted? It is a delicate balance to consider.’
And yet the House of Clicquot managed to turn out thousands of bottles a year. Emma thought industrialisation hadn’t stumped Madame at all. But perhaps it hadn’t been maximised to its fullest. Emma leaned forward. This was her moment to impress the Widow, to give back a piece of knowledge for all the woman had given her this afternoon. ‘Industrialisation is not only changing how we can produce wine but also the markets it can reach. With railroads, we can reach far more potential customers without having to contact them directly. Right now, we need agents to represent the products to a select few. But with railroads, we can connect with people faster and farther. There’s already a railroad in Epernay, more will be coming. I think the future is in labelling. The right kind of label can market a product as well as any agent. My father is in the gin business in England, and he’s already using that technique to good success.’
‘Is that so? We have labels already,’ Madame countered.
‘But are they labels as recognisable as the product? As if the label were its own product, one might say. Maybe not just a label with words on it, but a label with a picture of something people could associate with the product. A grape vine, the silhouette of a chateau, a glass, anything as long as it’s a consistent image the buyer can count on seeing.’
‘It’s a very interesting idea. What does Monsieur Archambeau think about it?’ Her eyes sharpened and she laughed. ‘You did not think you’d escape today without us talking about Julien Archambeau? I’m surprised he didn’t come with you.’ And a little disappointed, too, Emma thought.
‘He’s busy with the grapes,’ Emma improvised.
Madame lifted a brow. ‘He’s always busy. Too busy for a man his age. He needs to get out and meet people. By people, I mean he needs to meet women. A handsome man should be married. Oh, I see I’ve shocked you. Age has nothing to do with appreciating a fine figure of a man. I’ve known the Archambeaux for ages. My family knew his back before the Revolution. Of course, Julien wasn’t around then, but our families knew one another. My family wasn’t noble so the Revolution posed a lesser threat to us and my father knew how to play the right sides. But it destroyed the Archambeaux. Matthieu, that’s Julien’s grandfather, never got over it. Etienne carries the family torch now.’ She offered a stern look, ‘I’m sure you know your chateau used to be theirs. Seventy years ago, to be sure. But French memories are long and they carry a grudge.’
