Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 2

  'Father could have written to her!' Chantal burst out.

  'Of course he couldn't!' Peter flung savagely from the window. 'No man with any pride would risk being accused of scrounging, which is what—judging from the little we've learned about our grandmother—she would immediately have assumed.'

  'She does appear to have been a proud, unforgiving sort of person,' Chantal agreed, 'and yet,' her green eyes quizzed, 'you mentioned earlier, Uncle James, that you'd come here today to discuss the contents of her will, which leads me to assume that we're to be beneficiaries. Does that prove that she did eventually relent?'

  He sighed. 'How I wish I could reply yes to that question, my dear, but unfortunately I can't. You're correct in one respect, Peter and yourself are each to receive a share of your grandmother's estate.'

  Peter shot upright, his face alive with excitement. 'My guess was right, Sis, it is a windfall!' He shot her a triumphant look.

  But Chantal, sensing that a lot remained unexplained, remained calm. 'Such generosity is hardly the act of an unforgiving woman, Uncle James, and yet you say our grandmother's attitude didn't soften?'

  'That is correct. Two factors are responsible for the fact that you and Peter are to inherit part of your grandmother's property. Do either of you have knowledge of the Code Napoléon?'

  Eagerly, Peter nodded. 'I learnt about it last term. It's a Code of Law prepared under the direction of Napoleon Bonaparte which forms the substance of the laws of France and Belgium. Equality in the eyes of the law, justice and common sense are its keynotes.'

  His uncle nodded approval. 'One clause in the Code concerns inheritance and stipulates that most of a deceased person's property must be divided equally among members of his family. Therefore your grandmother had no say in the matter. Her daughter was bound by law to inherit a share in her estate, a share which, because of her death, is to be passed on to her children. Sadly, however,' he directed Chantal a sorrowful look, 'being fully aware of the circumstances, your grandmother proved that she carried her grievances to the grave by making sure that most of her assets were shared out amongst minor members of her family before she died!

  'Which brings me to the second factor involved in your inheritance, but before I elaborate, I must explain that the vineyards in the Champagne district are split into a great number of small plots owned almost exclusively by true Champenois, who guard each square inch of their land with obsessive possessiveness. Champagne firms of world reknown have not been able to persuade small growers to sell their plots. Though they would much prefer to own their own vineyards and work them with salaried workers, they're forced to buy the grapes they need from the Champenois proprietors. This tradition of ownership was behind your grandmother's reluctance to transfer her vineyards to the House. Fortunately for you both, she hung on too long, which is why, as her only remaining blood relatives, each of you now owns three acres of the most valuable Champagne vineyards.'

  He sat back, well pleased with the effect his words had had upon his two listeners. They were stunned, each deep in thought, wrestling with disappointment brought about for two different reasons—Peter wondering what could be gained from a parcel of land no bigger than a couple of football pitches; Chantal full of regret at having found a grandmother and losing her again within the space of an hour.

  Their solicitor's voice penetrated their absorption, sounding far distant. 'If you're pondering on the best way to cash in on your inheritance, I'm happy to be able to tell you that you have no need to worry, the solution is at hand in the form of a certain Marquis de la Roque who took over from your grandmother as Head of the Establissement la Roque à Remi. For a very satisfactory sum of money indeed, he's prepared to buy you out. Tomorrow he's flying from France in order to visit you personally. On his behalf, I've been requested to present his compliments and to ask if it will be convenient for you to receive him here, in your own home, at approximately two o'clock.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER a night of endless discussion Chantal awoke heavy-eyed. Sunshine was flooding into her bedroom, yet she rose with reluctance, feeling a premonition of disaster. Then realising that in a few short hours the Marquis de la Roque was due to arrive, she was galvanised into action.

  Would he expect to be served lunch, or could she assume that he would have eaten before he arrived? To offer tea might be better, but then again, perhaps Frenchmen did not indulge in the very English ritual. She would have to extend some sort of hospitality! Inspiration struck. A drink should suffice. Vaguely she recalled hearing mentioned that the French were partial to Pernod, a revolting-sounding drink tasting of aniseed. She would send Peter to the supermarket to buy a bottle—and a bottle of brandy; too, just in case!

  To her surprise, Peter nodded instant agreement when she broached the suggestion. He had demolished his breakfast without a word, seemingly deeply involved in his own thoughts. Noting his expression of tense preoccupation, she teased lightly:

  'Though our inheritance promises to bring us quite a bit of money, it will hardly be large enough to cause us worry about how to spend it.' She cast a frown around the small kitchen, mentally tabulating in order of importance what needed to be replaced. A new toaster was a must; in parts, the lino was worn almost into holes, and new curtains would immeasurably brighten the house's rather drab exterior. But even those items could wait, if only——

  'Peter,' she blurted impulsively, 'now that we have prospects of becoming financially secure, won't you reconsider your decision not to continue with your schooling? Scholastic qualifications are bound to improve your prospects, whichever career you eventually decide upon.'

  'I have decided.' His quiet statement halted her in mid-breath. 'The job I want to do calls not for diplomas but for a skill that I already possess. I want to grow vines, Sis !' He leant across the table to stress his sincerity. 'I've been reading up on it—I knew I'd seen some reference to the Champagne district, so I rummaged through my books until I'd unearthed the information I wanted, then spent best part of the night reading about the planting, grafting, cultivating and harvesting of vines. I found the whole subject fascinating. As I read, it was as if a small pinpoint of light appeared on my mind's horizon, then slowly grew until, with blinding insight, I recognised that it was my lodestar, a magnet guiding me towards the knowledge that growing things is what I'm best at, and is what I want to do for the rest of my life. If you care anything at all about my happiness, Sis, you won't try to put obstacles in my path.'

  Though he kept his fingers crossed, luck deserted him.

  'I've never heard anything so outrageously idiotic!' Chantal exploded. 'You may have the advantage of a little knowledge gleaned from books, but even I, ignorant as I am, realise that vine growing is a complicated procedure and that success in such a specialised field can't be achieved without years of experience and practice.'

  Peter jumped to his feet. 'And how do you gain experience, tell me that !' he challenged mutinously. 'If someone shows an aptitude for maths or physics one naturally progresses via college or university until he has a complete grasp of his chosen subject. My aptitude is for growing things—it may have been inherited, have you thought of that!' he fiercely stated. 'My university could be Champagne where already I feel I belong, and my tutors the Champenois, men whose expertise is second to none.'

  When he had stormed out on his errand to the supermarket, Chantal vented frustration and impotent fear by shaking cushions to the point of threatened disintegration, beating rugs until their tassels frayed and by polishing furniture with such ferocity that by the time Peter returned in a rather subdued mood the house was sparkling as a new pin.

  Plonking two bottles swathed in tissue paper on to the nearest table, he strode across to slide an arm around her still trembling shoulders.

  'I'm sorry I sprang it on you so suddenly, Sis. Naturally, your first impulse was to regard my idea as the whim of a vacillating adolescent, but I swear to you it's not. Think about it,' he urged, turning on all the
charm of which he was capable, 'ask yourself whose produce has, for the past two seasons, gained most awards in the local flower and vegetable show? Who's the young upstart blessed with so-called beginner's luck who's upset the conceit of every hoary old gardener in the district?'

  Striving to be equally reasonable, Chantal forced the stiff admission, 'Our garden is certainly a showpiece. You have green fingers, Peter, there's no doubt of that, and you enjoy your hobby—but that's all it is or ever can be—a hobby!'

  She tensed for an explosion of wrath, but was instead surprised and a little shamed by his mature response. 'It's not a hobby to me, Sis, it's my life. To own a piece of ground, to dig, to hoe, to plant seeds and watch them spring to life, gives me more happiness and fulfilment than words can describe. I must have colour around me if I'm to thrive! Blue sky, golden sun, green leaves, rainbow petals, are as essential to me as the air I breathe. I'd wither and die in an office, Chantal! If I must have mud and slush, please let them be under my feet !'

  Troubled thought kept her mind so completely occupied that the ringing of the doorbell caught her by surprise. She was lifting a tray of buns from the oven—having decided to be prepared in case their visitor should prefer to take tea—and almost tipped them on to the floor as she jerked her wrist upward to scan her watch. Two-fifteen! It had to be the Marquis ! Whipping off her apron, she yelled out of the window to attract Peter's attention. 'He's here! Come out of the potting shed and make yourself presentable. Don't forget to wash your hands!'

  She rushed to the front of the house, wishing she was less susceptible to argument and also to her brother's charm. In spite of having grave doubts, she had almost been won round to his way of thinking—but not quite. Hope still flickered, a hope that once face to face with a probably elderly marquis who would use both diplomacy and tact when pointing out the insurmountable difficulties that lay in the way of a novice attempting the job of an expert, Peter would reluctantly, but sensibly, abandon the whole idea.

  Consequently, when the door was flung open, the man standing on the doorstep was startled by the sight of green eyes sparkling a welcome, a tremulous, half-smiling mouth, and a shapely head crowned by a coronet of hair the colour of ripe chestnuts, tilted backwards to encompass the whole of him.

  'Mademoiselle Barry?' She jerked an involuntary step away from the man whose voice held all the warmth of cracked ice.

  'Yes ... Yes,' she stammered, scrabbling desperately to rearrange in her mind the picture she had formed of a small, dapper Frenchman, black-haired, black-eyed and dark-skinned. The only dark thing about this man was his brow, beetled at that moment by a frown. All the rest of him was fair—a blonde blue-eyed, tight-lipped giant whose sabre-slim frame was sheathed in an expensive suit of silver grey.

  'Are you the Marquis de la Roque?' She had not intended to sound so rudely abrupt.

  Blue eyes betraying the merest soupçon of hauteur flickered across her hot cheeks before his stiffly-held head conceded a nod.

  'My card, mademoiselle.' Gingerly, she accepted the crisp white oblong extended within two fingers. 'If you require further evidence of identification it can be supplied,' he added, seeming surprised by her hesitancy. 'One moment, I'll fetch more papers from my car ...' As he turned in the direction of a powerful automobile that seemed to be stretched half the length of the street, Chantal remembered her duties.

  'That won't be necessary!' she gasped, made to feel oafishly ill-mannered. Then, pride rampant, she tossed her head and stepped aside to invite him stiffly. 'Please come in, monsieur.'

  As soon as he did so, the small hallway seemed to shrink in relation to his size. Even the faded wallpaper lost its look of homely comfort and in contrast with his elegant presence adopted a tawdry air that had never before seemed evident.

  Uncomfortably aware of eyes boring into her back, she led him into the sitting-room and indicated a chair, inviting him to sit.

  Waiting politely until she herself was comfortably settled he sat down in her father's large, heavy armchair which immediately assumed Lilliputian dimensions. His attitude puzzled her. They were strangers, yet behind his polite façade she sensed contempt, not of his shabby surroundings, but of herself.

  Lean brown fingers drummed upon the briefcase resting on his knee, a tattoo of impatience urging her on to speak. When she did not, his reluctance to remain a moment longer than was necessary was emphasised when he flicked back a spotless cuff to scan his watch then, in a tone that turned enquiry into condemnation, added,

  'I believe you have a brother, mademoiselle. Is he not to join us?'

  Peter replied for her by bounding into the room. 'Sorry about the delay,' he grinned, extending a welcoming hand, 'I presume you are the Marquis we were expecting?' In response to a brief nod, he rushed on. 'How do you do. I'm not quite sure how to address you, monsieur, we know so little about our mother's family. You could be one of our unknown relatives, in which case we'd have no need to be formal. I'm Peter, and my sister's name is Chantal.'

  Whether the Marquis's action was deliberately snubbing Chantal could not guess, but when he rose to his feet to tower over Peter her brother seemed quite intimidated.

  'No, we are not related. My name is Léon, Marquis de la Roque—but as our acquaintanceship is to be brief I suggest you continue using your chosen prefix.' Calmly he resumed his seat. 'And now that the matter of mode of address has been settled, perhaps, Mademoiselle Barry, Monsieur Barry,' his emphasis was insultingly strong, 'we may proceed with the business in hand?'

  Feeling she had just been slapped across the face, Chantal stared, so angered by the rebuff she was incapable of speech.

  Like a puppy that had received a cuff instead of an expected pat, Peter, red-faced with chagrin, slouched across to the couch. Casting an anxious look in Chantal's direction, he inched closer, taking comfort from the fact that her fists were tightly clenched, indicating that her temper was aroused on his behalf. He suppressed a chuckle—like that of all mild-mannered people, Chantal's ire was slow to rise, but when it did it could be devastating!

  He sensed that her teeth were clenched when, in a voice that bore no similarity to her usual sweet-sounding tone, she directed the insufferable marquis.

  'We, too, are eager to have this meeting terminated as swiftly as possible, monsieur. As we know so little, and you presumably are in possession of all the facts, perhaps you would proceed to enlighten us?'

  His imperturbability was astonishing. Seemingly oblivious to waves of animosity washing over him, he unfastened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers which he waved under their noses like a carrot with which to tempt a couple of hungry rabbits.

  'You say you know nothing of your grandmother's affairs and I am inclined to believe you,' he began.

  'How very gracious!' Chantal grated.

  His answering thrust was swift. 'Don't misunderstand me, mademoiselle. When I say that I believe that you knew nothing of her affairs it does not follow that I believe you were unaware of her existence! I have no doubt whatsoever that had you known the extent of her wealth you would have been very eager to claim her acquaintance. In one way, I suppose it could be said that you are partly responsible for the accumulation of such wealth—it is understandable, is it not, that a brokenhearted woman, ignored and neglected by her family, should throw herself into business in an attempt to assuage sorrow that would have swamped many a lesser person? To become rich was not her objective, wealth was merely a by-product of her grief. Yet it seems to me to be a great injustice that those who caused such grief should be allowed to benefit from it!'

  The clear, cutting statements revealed his dislike and explained the cold reserve Chantal had recognised at their first moment of meeting. Her first instinct was to repudiate the charge of neglect he had levelled against her family and, conscious of Peter's start of surprise, she guessed that his impulse was to do the same. Instinct told her, however, that any protestations they might attempt would be ignored, so she forestalled Peter's impendin
g outburst by laying a restraining hand upon his arm.

  'Don't waste your breath arguing with the Marquis, Peter, he's obviously very well informed and will no doubt have collated very carefully all available information before pronouncing judgment. He's a thinker,' she smiled tightly, 'who has thought thoroughly and reached a very definite conclusion.'

  Obviously undeceived by her honeyed tone, the Marquis threw her a narrow look. 'Are you accusing me of being a bigot, mademoiselle?'

  'How could I possibly, monsieur,' she lanced sweetly, 'when, as everyone is aware, a dogmatic man is one guilty of profound ignorance!'

  Two sharply indrawn breaths proved that she had scored a point—one from the Marquis whom she had rendered furiously angry, and the other from Peter who had never before heard acid sour the lips of his sweet-natured sister.

  The Marquis was quick to recover. Shrugging the barb from his armour of self-assurance, he began in precise businesslike terms to outline the proposal he wished to put to them.

  'As your solicitor has already explained, we—the Etablissement la Roque à Remi—wish to acquire outright ownership of the vineyard known as Trésor d'Hélène, which is situated in the area of the Falaises de Champagne. I believe that the price we propose to pay for this land is satisfactory to you both, therefore all that is required to conclude the deal is for each of you to attach your signature, where indicated, to these Agreements.'

  'No, monsieur, that's not the only requirement.' No one was more surprised than Chantal when the objection sprang to her lips. 'My brother and I need time for further discussion before deciding how our inheritance is to be handled.'

  'How it is to be handled ...' The rest of his sentence petered out on a puzzled breath. 'I don't understand—so far as I am aware the situation is an uncomplicated one : you want money, we want your land, a straightforward exchange hardly warrants lengthy discussion.'