Page 25 of Under the Champagne Moon
“Who believes she’s my grandmother.” It certainly couldn’t be true. “She’s mistaken, I’m sure.”
“The Veuve is one of the most famous winemakers in France. Inventor of remuage—er, riddling we call it in English. Ridding the wine of sediment. It’s fascinating, and it was her idea. The bottles, you see, are stored at an angle and then turned a fraction every day. Simple, but effective. Did your father or mother never speak of her?”
She shook off his hand and tugged her shawl closer, wishing she could throw it over her head and disappear. It was cold in this dressing room, and dark in the dim candlelight. No wonder he stored his precious wine here—it was almost as cold and dark as the cellars.
A flash of memory left her breathless. The scents of jasmine and grapes, a woman’s soft shoulder, cold darkness. She slowed her breathing and straightened her back.
“No,” she said. She knew almost nothing of her father. Angered that he’d dumped them in Bern, her mother had never spoken of him. Bicton-Morledge’s report said he’d died at Lyon under the guillotine.
“Fleur, there was a man with the Veuve when she rescued me, Etienne Marceau, her great nephew. Though the business still carries his family name as well, the Marceaus have only a small stake left.”
Who cared about this Etienne Marceau? He’d be only a distant relation, if he were any relation at all. The Veuve Hardouin would be her father’s mother. Ifshewere any relation at all.
She wants to meet you.
Her insides were trembling. She shook her head. “I’m not traveling to France.”
“Fleur.” He pressed a finger to her chin and lifted it, a determined look in his eye. He’d put the precious bottle aside and was preparing to turn the full force of his charm upon her.
Moisture pooled in her eyes, unbidden and unwelcome.
“You don’t have to, at least, not right away. Your cousin, Etienne Marceau, is in England. He brought cargo and has been in London dealing with wine merchants and auctions. He’s coming to Reabridge for the harvest festival. And most especially, to meet you.”
At those last words, Gareth had winced.
And then she knew. Gareth hadn’t been interfering with her marriage plans because he wanted her for himself. He was attempting to match her with this Frenchman.
Rage pounded through her. She drew herself up, hands clenched against more trembling, jaw aching. “I shall meet him,” she said, “to settle this madness. Does he speak English?”
“Some.”
“Dulcinea shall translate for me. And I shall write a letter for him to carry to this widow and ask her…” she took in a breath.
Why didn’t you come for me?
She shook off the self-pity. Would this Veuve share with her the bounties of war? If the house was famous enough, there must be those.
Imagine—she and Dulcinea, English women supported by the profits of Napoleon’s wine-swilling?
“I’d much rather grovel to a stuffy English husband than to an old Frenchwoman.”
She turned and fled the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
* * *
The next day,and the days following, Fleur had no choice but to keep herself busy. While Dulcinea sat with Helena, all able hands were needed in the kitchen, still room, and herb garden, even those of the little Bicton-Morledge girls. Haskell stopped in more than once, passing through the kitchen on his way to the steward’s office, making a point to exchange pleasantries with Cora. Cora’s blushes told Fleur his interest was welcomed.
She still wasn’t sure she approved. The Bicton-Morledges were solidly of the gentry class, and the Haskells were laborers. So far, though, Haskell had not set a wrong foot forward, and he’d earned the respect of local landholders and the men he managed.
She put that worry and her own husband-hunting aside though. Helena’s time was drawing near. The work needed to be done, and if they had to leave, they’d take the preserved fruits of the kitchen garden and orchard with them.
On the Thursday before the harvest festival, a hired chaise disgorged Mr. Jedidiah Morledge, the presumptive heir to Bicton Grange, on the doorstep. He’d come, he said, to attend the harvest festival and stay on through his dear cousin’s confinement. An unpleasant man of middling years, Fleur took an instant dislike of him, and the sentiment was returned. She was all for sending him off to the Book and Bell, but Helena, perhaps wisely looking to her own future, gave him Cora’s bedchamber and had Cora move in with Fleur.
Gareth had called only once while she’d been off running errands. Thereafter, she hadn’t heard from him. Perhaps he was busy helping with the harvest at Sherington Manor.
On the Fridaybefore the festival, Mrs. Knollwood waylaid Fleur in the still room, begging her to visit Mr. Clark’s Mercantile for lemons they’d need for the new mother’s caudle.
She was approaching the turnoff to Sherington Manor when she saw a man running toward her.
