Page 4 of Liaison with the Champagne Count
On a morning like this, there was no better place to be but in the vineyards. He squatted between the rows of grape vines and pulled off his thick workman’s gloves. He scooped the soil into the palm of his hand, weighing it, then sifting the silt through his fingers, his fingertips recognising the feel of Cumières earth, the sand, the marl, the clay and lignite, the undertones of chalk and limestone, all of it combining to create a soil, Julien was convinced, which existed in only one place on earth, a soil he’d been raised on. Julien didn’t think he’d ever had much choice about it. Theterroireof Cumières, of the Vallee de Marne, of the Montagne de Reims ran through his blood, the product and practice of generations that went back to the days of the Sun King. He stood up and brushed his hands against his work trousers.
Seven generations of Archambeaux had cared for the land, nurtured its crops, loved for it, lived for it, and died for it. When revolution had come, his great-grandpèrehad declared he’d rather lose his head than his land. In the end, he’d lost both, leaving Julien’s grandfather and father the task of retrieving the family lands, a task that had only been partially successful. The remainder of that task had fallen to Julien and his Oncle Etienne.
Julien ran a bare hand over the vines bound horizontally across the trellises, looking for signs of ‘bleeding’—the leakage of sap that signalled the vines waking up and that budbreak was imminent, that spring was officially here, and the growing season was under way.
There was nothing yet but March had only begun. It was too soon. The grape, like a woman, had its own mysterious time. Grapes and women could be wooed but not rushed. An indefinable instinct told him it would take a few more weeks of sun to see it done. He’d walk the rows again in the early evening before supper, after the vines had spent an afternoon beneath the sun and see if that was still the case.Thatwas another Archambeau family ritual. A man must walk his land to know it; every lush curve and plain, every idiosyncrasy—where did water pool? Where was there excessive shade or sun? Any variation would affect the grapes.
He’d been walking the land since he was a boy and the family had been allowed to return to France. At first, he’d walked with Grandpère and Papa, then with just Papa, and now he walked alone. Oncle Etienne seldom walked the land. Grandpère would not approve of Oncle Etienne forsaking the old ways, nor would he approve of Julien’s aloneness. Grandpère would say a man his age should have a son to walk the land with him and a wife to walk with him through life. It wasn’t that Julien hadn’t tried. Clarisse had been all a young man dreamed of and for a brief time the dream had been his. But dreams didn’t last.
Julien reached the end of the final row and looked back over the field.Famille et terre. Family and land were the only things that mattered if one was an Archambeau. Grandpère would be disappointed to see how little of either the Archambeaux possessed at present. From a great house that had lasted centuries, there were only he and Oncle Etienne now and since Julien’s father’s death, they’d not won back any more of the old Archambeau lands. Grandpère would turn in his grave to know his grandson was walking another man’s land, worrying over another man’s grapes when the land had once been Archambeau land. It was not enough for Grandpère to have reclaimed half of what had been lost to the Revolution.
Hisgrandpèrewas not a man for half-measures. Grandpère had counted on Julien’s marriage to Clarisse Anouilh, the daughter of the owner, to gain the remainder of the lands, the Archambeau vineyards complete once more. When the betrothal had failed, Grandpère had tried to buy the lands outright but there’d not been enough money. Clarisse’s father had sold to an Englishman who fancied the place for his young wife and was prepared to pay any price, besotted fool that he was. The Archambeaux could not compete with a man who had unlimited funds. A reminder, Monsieur Anouilh said, that while the Archambeau name was old, their aristocratic fortune was gone, their funds coming from the trades of shipping and wine these days and their once-esteemed title precarious. The Archambeaux were not what they once were. It had been an absolute snub. Grandpère had been furious.
Julien began the long trek up to the chateau where he’d spend the day checking the cellars and looking over ledgers. By rights and out of loyalty to hisgrandpère, he ought to dislike Sir Garrett Luce, the besotted English baronet. But Sir Garrett Luce had proved astute, interesting, and likeable. Sir Garrett Luce’s only flaw was in being an absentee landlord. To hisgrandpère, such a flaw was tantamount to being the eighth deadly sin. A vineyard could not thrive without daily attention.
Grapes didn’t grow on their own. Well, they did, but wild grapes did not make for consistent or even good vintages. Grapes had to be tamed and trained for that, curated like fine art, carefully coaxed like a woman to reveal themselves in all their glory. A grape might take three years to come to fruition well enough to harvest it. Grapes took and tried a man’s patience. In this case, the patience was his, not Sir Garrett Luce’s. Luce’s business empire kept him in England most of the year.
As a result, Luce had entrusted the vineyard and the daily oversight of the business to him, his friend and neighbour, unaware of the history that lay between Julien and the land. Luce knew only that Julien and his Oncle Etienne held the property that abutted his. Etienne had felt it was unnecessary to disabuse Luce of the notion, citing the old adage that one could never have too many friends. This friendship might be the way back to possessing the land.
Oncle Etienne believed that Luce would soon tire of the vineyard, especially if it didn’t produce a profit, and would want to sell. Who better to take the vineyard off his hands than his neighbour and friend? Until then, they had time to acquire the money needed to purchase the place. It was a delicate dance, hisonclesaid, of keeping Luce interested in the property long enough for them to raise the funds. They didn’t want Luce tiring of it too soon before they could purchase it. The land had already slipped away from them once. This time, hisonclecounselled, they just needed to play a long game. There would be no woman to mess the arrangement up. It would be a straight business transaction between men. And because his heart had been bleeding, and his soul battered over Clarisse, Julien had allowed hisoncleto have his way.
That had been seven years ago. In the interim, Garrett Luce had named him as proxy, enabling him to live in the chateau in order to be on hand to oversee daily operations and conduct business in his name without much oversight. Oncle Etienne had crowed over the achievement. What an enormous step forward to regaining the land this could be, he’d said. Luce was all but in their pockets, as long as Luce didn’t sell until they were financially ready to meet his price. Even then, if they had a good relationship with Luce, his price might be more forgiving. Meanwhile Julien appeased his conscience over the subterfuge with the fact that he genuinely liked Sir Garrett Luce. Luce was not the sort of man who was easily coerced. The odds were shifting in their favour but nothing was guaranteed. All they could do now was wait for him to tire of an overseas property, hope the timing was right and the price was affordable. Grapes took time. Reacquiring the Archambeau lands took time. Meanwhile, at least he got to keep vigil and walk the land.Le tout en temps utile. All things in good time.
She’d made good time from Paris. The roads had been dry, a great surprise given the time of year. The north-eastern landscape of France with its rivers and valleys had sped by outside the window of the rented post-chaise. Speed could be bought and she’d happily bought it. Emma wanted nothing more than to be at the chateau, to breathe the fresh country air, and to immerse herself in this new life. Maybe then, the ache within her would subside. That ache had been her constant companion in her month of loss. Who ever thought February could be so long? A month with only twenty-eight days? Usually, it was January that dragged and February flew. But this had been the longest February of her life. Now it was over. As of this morning, it was officially March. Time to begin again.
Yet as much as she wanted the ache to subside, she didn’t want it to leave her entirely. To not feel that ache was somehow akin to forgetting Garrett. Mourning was remembering. Hurting was remembering. If she didn’t do those things, how would she keep him close? And yet, she had to be stronger than her grief; she could not let that grief weigh her down, make her intransigent. She was not made for inertia.‘Une mille, madame,’the coachman called down. She looked out the window. One mile until she was...home. Such as it was.
She’d not sent a letter of warning ahead to alert the various stewards Garrett kept on the property to see to its upkeep. There’d been no point. She’d travel as fast as the letter. But she was not expected. There’d be some upheaval upon her arrival and she was sorry for it. She didn’t want to make extra work for anyone. Perhaps in this case, she could be excused for her abrupt appearance.
The post-chaise turned a final corner and the groomed parklands of Les Deux Coeurs came into view with their perfectly squared box hedges and the tall oaks that covered the drive to the house. She released a breath she’d been unaware she was holding, relief flooding her. The place looked very much as it had seven years ago when she’d come here as a new bride. Since then, the place had existed for her only on paper in the form of the quarterly reports, and in her mind in the form of memory. Garrett made occasional visits but she’d not returned, staying behind in England to oversee his other interests in his absence. They’d planned to come together this summer, though, to celebrate their seven-year anniversary. There was a vintage he’d put down that would be ready for the occasion. ‘I’ll celebrate for us, my love,’she whispered.
The chaise halted in the circle before the front door and the coachman helped her down. Emma lifted her veil and tipped her face to the house, to the fading blue sky above it. It had been sunny today. Now blue was bleeding to purple, day and night mixing their colours to produce a gentle violet sky. The dusky light bathed the limestone walls and the green-shuttered windows of the chateau in soft mauve. Lights filtered through the windows from the inside, giving the impression that someone was at home. The scene filled her with a sense of peace. She was glad of the haste if it meant arriving at this magical hour.
The butler, or rather themaître d’hôtel...she was in France now...came to the top of the front steps, not quite able to hide the surprise and consternation on his face. Richet was his name. ‘Madame Luce.’ It was part greeting, part question as he struggled to recognise a woman he hadn’t seen in years. His gaze swept past her to the post-chaise, his eyes waiting for Garrett to emerge. Then came the registering of her blacks and veil.
Emma swept up the steps, feeling enormous empathy for the man. He was about to be dealt the double blow of an unexpected guest and the loss of the master of the house. She’d rehearsed the conversation in her head in the hopes that practice would help her get through the announcement without tears. But she wasn’t sure she could. It still hurt to say the words out loud. Best to keep it abrupt and direct. ‘Richet, Monsieur Luce has died.’ She felt her throat tighten. ‘I’ve come to stay. If you could send a few footmen to bring up my trunks.’ She managed a smile that was both commiserative and authoritative. She’d learned that it was easier to cope with the loss if she stayed busy. Others felt that way, too. When faced with loss, people wanted to do something, as if that task could ease the pain. She could see the relief in Richet’s eyes at the instruction.
‘I will have them brought up right away. Mrs Dormand will have your room readied. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the drawing room while all is prepared.’ He was already leading the way, already remembering her French was passable at best. He’d switched into English that was far better than her French. It had been one of the reasons Garrett had hired him when he’d bought the chateau. Garrett had not wanted his bride to feel the outsider because of a language barrier.
‘Thank you, Richet,’ Emma said softly. ‘I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news and to descend on you with no notice. I had little choice in the matter.’
‘Bien sur, madame. Ce n’est pas une probleme.’He fell into his French, flustered for a moment by her kindness and explanation. She’d not meant to discompose him. She never had got the knack of treating servants with distance and disdain. She’d grown up with servants, but as a daughter of a businessman the distance between servants and master was far smaller than in a noble house.
In the drawing room, she took a seat on a daffodil-yellow upholstered settee and let her gaze reacquaint itself with the room. Richet cleared his throat. ‘I will send for tea for you,madame, and I will tell Monsieur Archambeau that you’re here. He’s just come in from his evening tour of the vineyards.’
Monsieur Archambeau. They would meet at last and she could put a face to the name. Garrett’s steward was the only one of the staff she hadn’t met in person, although in some ways she’d felt she’d met him on paper over the years in the correspondence he exchanged with Garrett. She had formed an image of him in her head from the thorough reports and meticulously neat, crisp handwriting. In her mind, Monsieur Archambeau was a slender, elegant intellectual, as neatly kept in appearance as his handwriting was on paper; a rational, reliable fellow who perhaps tended towards more reserved behaviours; a man who was respectable and respectful. With luck, they’d have an amicable working relationship.
Richet bowed himself out. A footman came to stir up the fire and Emma made a slow tour of the room, taking in the artwork on the walls, the figurines on tabletops, and the tall empty vases flanking the mantel. All of this was hers. She was safe in a way she’d not been in England. There was comfort in knowing that no one, not Robert or Steven, could takethishome from her.
She ran a hand over the smooth wood-carved figurine of a dog posed in full trot. This had been one of Garrett’s favourite pieces. He’d kept hounds at Oakwood and had loved visiting the kennels. In a world that had been nothing but change in the past weeks, it was a relief to see that this place hadn’t changed in seven years. Garrett had bought the place lock, stock, and barrel from a Monsieur Anouilh. The rooms would likely need refreshing to make the place truly hers. But all in good time. For now, there was comfort in the constant and the familiar. She rested her hand on the carving and closed her eyes. For the first time since the flood, she felt as if everything would be all right. At last, she could breathe.
‘Madame Luce?’ the low tones of a cultured, accented male voice intruded. Somehow, she knew Monsieur Archambeau would sound like that—calm, in control, like his reports. She turned and opened her eyes, prepared to greet the intellectual steward of Les Deux Coeurs, prepared to take the next step into her new life, but that metaphoric next step halted in mid-stride at the sight of the man who stood before her: tall, broad-shouldered, with a labourer’s muscled build, and dressed to match in a homespun shirt open at the neck to reveal an indecent expanse of chest, heavy work breeches tucked into dusty boots and dark hair tousled from the elements. Monsieur Archambeau looked as if heworkedthe land he wrote to her husband about.
‘Monsieur Archambeau?’ She fumbled for words, the mental image in her mind and the reality standing before her scrambling to align themselves in a rare miscue for her. This could not be him and yet who else could it be? She was seldom wrong about people but she was wrong now. There was nothing of the slender intellectual in the rustic farmer who stood before her.
Chapter Three
No. Not even that assessment was right. She knew she was wrong even as she thought it. His eyes ruined it. A rustic farmer would have a humble gaze. There was nothing humble about the slate-blue stare fixed on her at present. This gaze was instead strong and assessing, making no secret that he was taking her measure, making her feel as if she was an intruder. Emma met his gaze with a strong stare of her own, one she hoped hid her own sudden turmoil as she struggled to realign her thoughts.
