Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Read online

  The legacy of a small piece of land in the prosperous Champagne country was just what Chantal and her brother needed to set themselves on their feet, and they were only too willing to settle there and work it. But the arrogant Marquis de la Roque, who owned most of the surrounding land, thought the worst of them and their efforts. Which was just the challenge Chantal needed to prove him wrong !

  Champagne Spring

  Margaret Rome

  CHAPTER ONE

  'ER ... Peter?' Chantal braced herself before voicing the tentative suggestion. 'Would you like to tidy up a little before Uncle James arrives?' The scowl she dreaded darkened her brother's features. 'If you'd just change your shirt and run a comb through your hair,' she continued doggedly.

  'Oh, for heaven's sake !' Irritably, he swung his legs from the arm of his chair and stood up to glare across the width of the tiny sitting-room. 'Nag, nag, nag, all you ever do is nag !'

  She drew in an exasperated breath, determined not to be cowed by her young brother's arrogance. 'Peter, must you be so childish? Such an attitude contradicts all your arguments. Your seventeenth birthday is behind you, on your own insistence you're no longer a schoolboy. In a short while,' surreptitiously she crossed her fingers for luck, 'you'll find a job, and as childish tantrums are hardly likely to find favour in a business establishment don't you think it's about time you began acting more responsibly? Office juniors are expected to be polite, helpful, and to fit unobtrusively into the pattern of their surroundings.'

  'All of which,' he retorted bitterly, 'judging from my observations during the few short interviews I've been unfortunate enough to attend, seem to consist entirely of mud-brown walls and slush-grey floor coverings. My future is a canvas,' he waxed dramatic, 'pure white and undefiled, and you, Sis, wield the artist's brush ! What right have you to decide that my canvas should be daubed grey and brown?'

  They glared at each other, the gangling schoolboy-cum-youth standing tall as his sister, with wrists protruding beneath the cuffs of a navy-blue blazer that had only just managed to see him through his final term, as had regulation grey trousers that had become so weak at the seams Chantal had to spend half an hour each evening mending slits that appeared with monotonous regularity in the threadbare material.

  She winced from the fierce blaze of animosity emanating from his direction, but determined, just this once, not to be browbeaten, she tossed her head and stepped forward into the path of sunshine piercing through windowpanes, unaware that her coil of glorious hair glowed rich dark red before she moved into shadow, when it adopted the depth and texture of chestnut-coloured velvet.

  'Necessity, together with your own pigheaded stubbornness, decreed the direction that your future is to take, my lad, not I !' She spoke tersely in order to discourage a choking sob which, had it been heard, would have shattered the aplomb that was her main ally in her fight to control her wayward brother. 'If you'd listen to me, you'd go on with your studies in the hope of getting a university place.'

  'No way!' he interrupted hotly. 'I mean to start earning.'

  'So be it,' she snapped, suffering the sinking sensation that had terminated each phase of the interminable argument. 'I can't force you against your will to go on with your schooling, but I can and do insist that you embark upon the sort of career that would have met with Father's approval.'

  'But I don't want—'

  'Just look at the time!' A quick glance at her watch confirmed that their visitor's arrival was imminent. 'Just this once will you please do as I ask—you know how untidiness offends Uncle James.'

  'Oh, very well!' he exploded. 'If it will keep you quiet. Though why I should have to dress up simply because the family solicitor is paying us a visit I simply don't know!'

  'He was Father's oldest and dearest friend,' she reminded him quietly. 'Have you forgotten how kind he was to us when we were children and how helpful he's been since Father's death? I sometimes wonder,' she paused to steady a tremble in her voice, 'how we would have fared without him.'

  Peter was young enough to suffer a shamefaced blush. 'I wonder what it is he wants to discuss with us,' he queried gruffly and for the umpteenth time since the solicitor's letter had arrived a couple of days previously.

  'I've no idea.' Patiently, Chantal returned the stock reply, gritting her teeth against an impulse to chide him for shuffling his feet. She was weary of his accusations that she was forever 'getting at him' and not a little hurt by them. Latterly, they had been living in a constant state of friction and according to Peter it was all her fault—she nagged, she pressurised, she was forever critical. Inwardly she knew that the accusation was undeserved, yet nevertheless she felt guilty. Once, not so long ago, they had laughed, joked, and exchanged fond hugs almost every day. All that had changed when seemingly overnight her cheerful, loving young brother had developed moods of deep introspection, had begun to tilt against even her mild authority by deliberately adopting opposing viewpoints, by being argumentative, and by putting off any job he was asked to do until the last possible moment—sometimes ignoring her requests completely. All in all, he had managed to make life pretty intolerable, only the occasional days of normality that seemed like flashbacks to a former existence serving to make the situation bearable.

  'Perhaps it's a windfall !' His moody features lightened with a look of optimism. 'A source of income that was overlooked when Uncle James was settling Father's affairs.'

  'All that Father possessed was the few hundred pounds he'd saved and the pension that terminated at his death,' Chantal reminded him gently, saddened by the memory of their recent loss yet finding comfort in the fact that Peter had at last found it possible to speak of the father whose sudden death two months earlier had left him distraught, bewildered and completely lacking in motivation.

  He had put forward very negative views: he would not finish his schooling, he would not try for a place at university, he would not be a burden upon his sister, but whenever the subject of a career had been broached his replies had always been vague, evasive.

  'I could ask Uncle James if there's likely to be an opening in his firm,' she continued her train of thought aloud. 'He keeps insisting that if ever we're in need of help we're to get in touch with him immediately.'

  'Mud and slush!' Peter vented his resentment upon the lino surrounding the carpet, scoring so deeply with a rubber heel it squealed a piercing protest.

  Resisting an impulse to scream, Chantal schooled her voice to calmness. 'Jobs are not easy to come by, especially when you have no qualifications. I think you ought to be grateful for any chance—'

  'To be pushed around?' he objected rudely. 'To be forced to work in an office when it's the very last place I'd choose? Unlike you, Sis, I do not rush around thanking everyone for nothing or apologising when I've done nothing wrong. You're always at it, showing gratitude for the very air you breathe, saying you're sorry when someone steps on your toes. Why don't you cultivate more self-assurance? If you insist upon acting like a doormat you'll surely be stood upon !'

  When he rushed out of the room she sank into a chair feeling she had battled her way through a storm. Wearily, she considered his accusation and was bound to admit that perhaps he had a point; she was too meek, too eager to comply with the wishes of others. In common with her late father, all she asked of life was peace and happiness, yet it was becoming obvious that if she were to survive her brother's angry adolescence her outlook would have to change. He had scoffed at her for being a doormat, conveniently overlooking the fact that he was the one who made the most use of her services. A gentle wiping of feet she did not mind—unfortunately, the faster Peter grew the more she seemed in danger of being trampled !
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br />   When, a quarter of an hour later, she answered the doorbell her expression was composed, showing no hint of strain to the man whom she greeted with a fond kiss.

  'How nice of you to visit us, Uncle James.'

  The elderly solicitor returned her kiss. 'A combined duty and business visit, I'm ashamed to say, my dear. I had imagined that semi-retirement would allow me more time to spend with you and Peter but, alas, the opposite is the case. I worry about you both,' he frowned, handing over his hat and coat.

  'There's no need, Uncle,' she reprimanded, preceding him along the narrow hallway, 'we're perfectly capable of looking after our own affairs, you must concentrate all your attention upon your invalid wife.'

  'Considerate as ever, my dear,' he approved, accepting her invitation to sit in one of the shabby old armchairs positioned either side of the fireplace. Sinking down, he seemed to luxuriate in long-forgotten comfort. 'How I abominate those new-fangled armchairs that are all buttons, leather, and hard upholstery ! As I often used to remark to your father—' He paused his eyes falling upon the chair opposite, its emptiness underlining their loss.

  Swallowing a lump in her throat, Chantal offered, 'You'll take a cup of tea? Everything is ready, just the kettle to boil. I'll go and see to it.'

  When she returned with a loaded tea-tray Peter, with slicked-back hair, wearing a clean shirt and—wonder of wonders—a tie, was dutifully exchanging small talk with their guest.

  Beaming at her across the tea-tray, her uncle asked a trifle apologetically, 'I hope you found no difficulty in getting time off for this meeting? Unfortunately, my time is so committed I could not manage any other day. One of my partners could have attended to the business in hand, of course, but as I've always had a special interest in you both I preferred to see to it myself.'

  Aching with curiosity, but aware that he would not be rushed into an explanation until he was ready, Chantal shrugged. 'No problem. It's half-term, the school is closed until Tuesday.'

  He continued observing the pleasantries, enquiring after their health and future plans but in a manner so abstracted it was easy to guess that a subject of greater importance was uppermost in his mind. The tea-cups had been filled and emptied several times when eventually he surprised them with the question :

  'How much do you know about your late mother's family?'

  'Very little.' Chantal's eyes reflected puzzlement.

  'Nothing whatsoever!' Peter added simultaneously.

  'Father seemed to find it difficult to talk to us about Mother,' Chantal continued slowly, dredging her mind in an effort to recall the very few facts she had gleaned about the mother who had died giving birth to Peter. 'I vaguely recollect his mentioning that she was of French origin, but as no letters or visits were ever exchanged I assumed that she had no living relatives.'

  'And as Father had none either, we've become pretty well accustomed to regarding ourselves as penniless orphans,' Peter offered, his cheerful grin robbing his words of the least hint of self-pity.

  'Strange ...' Uncle James looked taken aback, then with a sigh of resignation conceded, 'But there again, it's perhaps a mistake to prolong family connections unduly, to insist that people, however much antipathy they feel towards one another, should pretend affection when no affection exists.'

  'Who are you talking about, Uncle James?' Chantal was perplexed, unable to follow his train of thought.

  'Your relatives, my dear,' he explained dryly, 'and your grandmother in particular—Hélène, Comtesse d'Estrées—a wonderful old matriarch who insisted upon remaining head of the Etablissement La Roque à Remi in spite of her very advanced years.'

  'Our grandmother? You mean we have a grandmother? I had no idea!'

  'Had...' he corrected, sadly shaking his head. 'She died a month ago. Which is why I'm here today, to discuss the contents of her will.'

  Chantal and Peter exchanged incredulous stares. For years they had existed as a tight-knit trio, father, daughter and son, with Chantal playing the role of little mother, subconsciously striving to supply the feminine influence she had always sensed was lacking. Yet throughout those years a grandmother had been lurking in the background, a mature woman of wisdom who could have advised, cosseted, loved—and been loved in return.

  'Why ... ?' Chantal breathed aching regret.

  With a grumpy cough their solicitor cleared his throat and groped for a handkerchief to wipe over misted spectacles. 'It's a very long story, my dear. I found it impossible not to admire your grandmother, she possessed a business acumen that was the envy of many men. Even if she had not belonged to one of the great champagne families whose daughters, known as the 'Champagne Girls', were the great catches of their time, her personality would have guaranteed her a place in Champenois history. I was privileged to meet her many years ago—it saddens me greatly to learn that you two, her own flesh and blood, were denied that right.'

  Peter leant forward, his youthful jawline tense. 'Why did we never meet her, do you know?'

  'Your father was always reticent on the subject of his in-laws, but chancing an educated guess, I'd blame family strife—the most bitter strife of all. Outsiders should never attempt to apportion blame, but I must admit that my sympathies have always lain with your father. To help you understand his difficulties,' Uncle James went on, 'I must explain the character of your mother's people, the Champenois—true sons and daughters of the French province, Champagne. Theirs is a paradoxical nature that makes it impossible, unless they themselves should allow it, for an alien to get to know them well. They can don at will an expressionless mask that shows no glimpse of their feelings. They use reserve as a deterrent, a warning not to encroach too far upon friendship. And yet at the flicker of an eyelash they can erupt into laughter, finding humour in situations that would arouse only compassion or pity in others.'

  Chantal gave a small start, reminded of a trait in Peter that she had often found worrying, a lack of sensitivity that enabled him to find malicious amusement in the misfortunes of others. Often he made physical disability the butt of his biting wit, yet conversely, he possessed a charm so devastating he managed always to claim the forgiveness of his victims.

  Their solicitor's voice again claimed her attention.

  'There was little evidence of this reserve when your father and I first entered the province of Champagne as members of the British Army of Liberation. We were greeted with ecstatic delight, and as our transport rolled through the countryside everyone seemed determined to shake the hands of the soldiers who had freed them from German occupation. Not the least determined was the woman who was later to become your grandmother —the Comtesse d'Estrées, who all during the war had managed to retain control of the great champagne house, La Roque à Remi, and to run it almost single-handed during her husband's absence.

  'Even I, a senior army officer, found the adulation heady, so you can imagine the effect it had upon your father, who was at that time an extremely young, raw lieutenant, awkward in the role of conquering hero.'

  Glancing at Chantal, he smiled wryly, correctly interpreting her puzzled frown. 'You're finding it difficult to picture either myself or your father as a conquering warrior?'

  She blushed, wishing her expression would not so clearly mirror her thoughts. 'I'm sorry, the war took place such a long time ago,' she stumbled in her embarrassment, 'you must excuse me if I can't quite imagine my father taking part in what's now classed as history.'

  'Your family history,' he reminded, pained by the realisation that to her he must appear a subject of antiquity.

  'Do go on!' Peter urged, impatient of the interruption.

  Willingly their solicitor obliged. 'Personally, I was not the least bit surprised when the Comtesse's attitude hardened immediately she became aware of the attraction that had sprung up between a penniless young lieutenant and her only daughter. I hesitate to use a cliché, but love at first sight is the only way to describe the impact your parents had upon each other. When their devotion became too obviou
s to be ignored I tried, as his senior officer, to prepare your father for the opposition I felt certain would come, but he refused to listen, refused to accept that any mortal would be cruel enough to try to separate two people who were so deeply and emotionally committed.'

  When he paused for a moment, Chantal admitted, 'I have no memory of my mother, but Father kept a photograph of her in one of his drawers and I often used to steal a peep.'

  'I'd love to see it.' The solicitor's head jerked up.

  Wishing she had kept her thoughts to herself, she glanced quickly at Peter, then choked the reply. 'I'm sorry, it isn't possible. Father was clutching the photograph when we found him, so ... I asked that it should not be removed.'

  Peter jumped up and stalked across to the window. She knew he was fighting back tears when his voice bit harshly across his shoulder. 'If dead ashes must be raked over for heaven's sake let's get on with it!'

  A man of less sensitivity might have taken Peter's attitude as an afront to his dignity, but to Chantal's relief their solicitor agreed with him.

  'You're quite right, painful matters should be disposed of as speedily as possible. I'll be brief, any minor details can be discussed at a later date.

  'Your father's request to the Comtesse to marry her daughter was met with a scandalised refusal. They were both too young, she insisted, the match was entirely unsuitable. Then without warning her daughter was whisked out of his sight—sent to live with relatives, I suspect—and as your father's duties did not allow him time to go in search of her he had no option but to accept the situation.

  'Shortly after that our company split up and your father and I lost touch. The war had been over for five years, we were both civilians, when I received a letter asking me to be best man at his wedding. Yes,' he nodded in response to Chantal's gasp of surprise, 'he'd searched until he found his bride. The only drawback was the fact that, so far as the Comtesse was concerned, nothing had changed. She forbade the marriage, so they married against her will. As a consequence, the Comtesse disowned your mother—consequently she must have been unaware that her daughter had died at a tragically early age, leaving her husband to cope alone with a five-year-old daughter and an infant son.'