Veuvemeant “widow,” Rosalyn knew, but she had never really thought about the meaning of the famous champagne named Veuve Clicquot.
At least Rosalyn had no child to worry about when Dash died, though that always felt like a double-edged sword.“Too bad you didn’t have children to remember him by.”
Grief brain again. Rosalyn forced herself to refocus on the conversation between Emma and Blondine. Although Emma had claimed her French was bad, and even Rosalyn could hear she had an atrocious accent, she displayed a good command of the language.
“In Champagne we say that we would be nowhere without the widows,” said Blondine.
“That’s a saying?”
“Oh, sure.Les veuvesClicquot and Pommery, and later Lily Bollinger, too,” said Emma. “And England’s Queen Victoria—another widow—was one of Pommery’s best customers, and helped to popularize champagne in Britain. The history of champagne is a history of widows.”
Rosalyn wasn’t the only one.
“Emma, didn’t Lucie and the others take refuge in the caves of the Pommery winery?” Rosalyn said.
Blondine tilted her head, a questioning look on her face.
“From my letters,” said Emma, explaining to Blondine the correspondence between Émile Legrand and her aunt Doris. “Lucie is the name of a young woman Émile mentions often. She and her family took shelter in the Pommery caves during the German bombardment.”
Blondine waved off the idea. “I don’t like war talk. The old people always go on and on about the war.”
“Wrong war,” said Emma. “This was theFirstWorld War, the Great War. Meant to end all wars.”
“They got that wrong,” said Blondine.
“They did, indeed.”
“I did always hear about the smiling angel of Reims, though,” said Blondine, taking the pan off the heat. She tilted it with a practiced hand, and the omelet slid smoothly onto a platter. “I think that was from the First World War.”
“Do I want to know what happened to the smiling angel of Reims?” Rosalyn asked, wincing slightly.
“Her head fell off,” said Blondine, drawing a finger across her neck in a dramatic gesture, “during the bombings.”
“She never stopped smiling, though,” said Emma. “Talk about a metaphor.”
“The Reims Cathedral was bombed by the Germans,” said Blondine, dividing the omelet in three and placing the slices on plates, garnishing them with chopped parsley and a croissant, and setting the plates on the table nearest the counter. “It was a scandal, a true outrage, that such a monument should be destroyed. All of the kings of France were crowned in the Reims Cathedral, and even Joan of Arc came there in her triumph. It was barbarous of them to destroy such a treasure, the whole world agreed.”
“It’s true,” said Emma in English as they all sat down to eat. “The German destruction of such a beautiful and historic building was used as anti-Hun propaganda—Germans were said not to respect religion, or art. But to me the worst part was that the cathedral had been used as a makeshift hospital, with the wounded sleeping on straw on the floor. The incendiary bombs caught some scaffolding on fire, which melted the lead from the roof and rained molten metal down on the wounded, lighting the straw on fire. It was a bloodbath.”
“That’s horrifying,” said Rosalyn. The food on the plate in front of her lost its appeal.
“Enough war talk,” said Blondine. “With the festival of SaintVincent coming up, you will see bottles opened to accompany breakfast—that is sure.”
“Speaking of celebrations, Rosalyn, you’ll want to investigate the region before the craziness starts,” said Emma. “These sleepy little villages will be inundated in a few weeks, and you won’t even be able to park.”
“That’s why I came early,” said Rosalyn. “I was supposed to connect with François Martin, and reach out to a few other producers, before the festival.”
“Martin is in Martinique,” said Blondine. “A lot of the producers leave after the Christmas celebrations, because things are quiet in the vines.”
Not for the first time, Rosalyn wondered why Hugh had booked her on a flight departing immediately after Christmas. He had to have known that everyone she was supposed to meet in France would be somewhere else during the holidays. Now that she thought of it, why had he made all the travel arrangements himself, instead of having her do it, as he usually did? Had he understood, better than she had, that she’d needed a break—and thought he knew just what kind of break she needed most? Typical Hugh.
Bless him.
“Speaking of the festival,” said Blondine, “you’ll need a costume.”
“Excuse me?” Rosalyn’s heart sank. She wore a mask every day; if only they knew. “I’m not what you would call a costume person.”
“Don’t worry. I will help you. It’s simple: a skirt and a blouse, a red cape, and the lace cap. It’s traditional, and maybe seems silly, but we all do it.”
