“How’s the book coming along? You’ve certainly been hard at it these past few weeks. Working like a regular little eager beaver.”
She laughed, her face lighting up. “I find this place so conducive to work. And actually, in some ways, the book’s proving easier to write than I thought.” She shook her head. “Except that I’m not sure who’s going to read it.”
“A lot of people,” I asserted. “Take my word for it.”
Catherine laughed again. “I can’t. I don’t believe there is anyone around who is interested in Fulk Nerra, Count of Anjou, war lord and predator, known as the Black Hawk, founder of the Angevin dynasty and the Plantagenet line. Perhaps it only matters to me that the house of Anjou continued on its unrelenting course for well over a century, culminating in 1154 when Fulk’s descendant Henry Plantagenet, Count of Anjou, was crowned King of England, married Eleanor of Aquitaine, and sired a son who became the famous Richard Coeur de Lion.”
“I’m interested,” I reassured her. I meant what I said. “You’re a good storyteller. Even though you’re dealing with facts not fiction.
You’ve intrigued me when you’ve talked about the French-English connection .
“It sounds as if Henry and Eleanor had a real soap opera going.
All their lives.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Catherine replied with a loud guffaw, looking amused. “And I suppose their lives together did have sort of operatic overtones, what with their competitive, quarrelsome sons, Eleanor’s scheming and meddling, Henry’s philandering, and his constant banishment of her. He was always shoving her off to one of their many castles.”
“It would make a helluva good film,” I pointed out.
“Somebody beat me to it. A screenwriter. James Goldman. He wrote The Lion In Winter, which was all about Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
“Peter O’Toole and Katherine Hepburn! That’s right! I saw it.
And it was a nutty family. Dysfunctional. Just like the royals today.
I guess it’s all in the genes.”
“Not in this instance. The Windsors are not descended from the Plantagenets,” Catherine replied. “They are of German descent through Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert. He was her cousin and all German. So was she, as a matter of fact. Her mother -was a German princess and her father the Duke of Kent. He was descended from the Hanoverian kings who were invited to rule En gland because of their Stuart connection. In a way, Victoria was born because of the scramble by the brothers of George the Foram the Hanoverian kings who were invited to rule En gland because of their Stuart connection. In a way, Victoria was born because of the scramble by the brothers of George the Fourth to produce an their. But going back to the Plantagenets, they were eventu ally eclipsed by the Tudors. When Elizabeth the First died, the throne of England went to her distant relative, James Stuart, King of Scot land.”
I laughed. “Whatever you say, Catherine. But I bet a lot of people will read your book. Because you tell it all so well. Make it sound so modern.”
“I guess human nature doesn’t change much, Jack. Anyway, the Plantagenets were very colorful. But don’t forget, I’m not really writing about them, but about Fulk Nerra. Nobody’s interested in him.
Except for me and my editor.”
“Don’t be so sure. Listen, far be it from me to tell you what to write.
But get more of the Plantagenets into the story. I guarantee it’ll be a best-seller.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears, darling,” she said, still laughing.
We had reached the bottom of the slopes where the vineyards grew, all thirty-three acres. I paused, took hold of Catherine’s arm affectionately . “I’ve got to work for a few hours. With Olivier.
What about you?
Are you going back to do more on your book?”
“For a while, and then I thought I would go riding. I think a good gallop across the fields will do me good. Blow a few cobwebs away.
Would you mind awfully if I rode Black Jack? He’s quite easy for me to handle.”
“I told you before, you can ride any horse in the stable. Of course you can take Black Jack.”
Leaning into me, she gave me a resounding kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you. Have a good afternoon. Don’t work too hard.”
I smiled at her. “Nor you.”
She was walking away, walking toward the chateau when I called after her, “Catherine!”
She swung around. “Yes? What is it?”
“How about dinner in Air tonight? We’ve been cooped up here far too long.”
“That’s a lovely idea, darling.”
“I’ll make a reservation at Cbs de la Violette. Is that okay?”
“Only perfect.” She waved and went on her way.
I strolled toward the winery. As I passed the Home Farm I slowed.
I almost went in to see Madame Clothilde. She ran the farm. As her mother had done before her. I had known her since I was a little boy.
She had been a teenager then. Her husband Maurice was one of our vignerons, who worked in the vineyards. But he also helped out on the farm, along with their daughter, Helene, and son, Vincent.
She always made me very welcome, whipped up a cafe’ all lait in an instant. Brought out a warm brioche, or a slice of torte tatin.
My mouth watered. But I hurried on. Olivier was waiting for me.
He wanted me to take a look at some bottles of wine. Quite a lot of bottles. He thought there might be something wrong with them. I wondered if they were bottle sick. I hoped it was only that. Wine that was bottle sick usually rectified itself if left to its own devices.
“There’s a thin veil on the surface of this batch of wine,” Olivier said when I found him in the bottling plant.
“Maladie de la fleur,” I exclaimed as I walked over to join him.
I was referring to the flower disease which was the most frequent form of spoilage in wine. It was the yeasts that created the scum, or veil, on top of the wine.
“You’re right, Jacques,” Olivier responded. “But fortunately it is -only the young wine which we made last year. Not so bad after all.
And not too much of it either, only a couple of casks. Hardly a great tragedy .”
I nodded and said, “On my way over here I wondered if the wine might just be bottle sick.”
“No, more than that. And this spoilage is only minor.”
“We’ll have to ditch the wine,” I asserted.
“Probably. However, let us not dwell on it, since we rarely have any spoilage. There’s another reason I wanted to see you, Jacques, about something much more important. I want you to come with me to the cave.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Turning on my heels I led the way. I knew he had a pleasant surprise for me. I could tell from his face.
Together we went down into the cellars.
These covered an immense area underground. It was here that the wine was brought to maturation and also sorted in casks, vats, and bottles.
There was a small wine-tasting area at one end of the red wine maturation cellar, and this was where Olivier was heading. Racks of wine had been arranged to create a two-sided corner. There were several chairs grouped around a small table. On this stood the mandatory white candle in its holder, a box of matches, various implements, and a fresh white linen napkin neatly folded. -.Olivier had already placed a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. The first thing he did was light the candle.
I stood watching him. He was tall, and he stooped over the table slightly as he began to open the wine. Olivier was my mentor, teacher, and friend. He was a good-looking man in a quiet, understated way. At sixty he was twice my age. But he looked much younger than his years.
Maybe because he was a happy man. He loved his wife, his children, his work, and the bastide where he lived with his family.
This charming old country house, part of my property, was situated across the fields near the orchards. He and his wife, Claudette, had made it a warm, welcoming home.
I watched Olivier opening the bottle. As usual I was struck by the way he worked on it. Delicately. Carefully. Like a surgeon.
After cut ting the red metal capsule around the neck of the bottle he removed it.
This was so that he could see the wine in the bottle neck later.
He then removed the cork, his movements smooth, gentle. I knew he did not want to disturb the sediment. Once the cork was out, he smelled both ends.
Next he wiped the neck of the bottle inside and out with the white napkin. Finally, holding the bottle above the candle’s flame, he peered at the color of the wine in the neck and nodded to himself.
A smile of pleasure came to his face. “An, Jacques, you are going to be pleased with this. I know you are.”
After pouring two glasses, he handed one to me.
We raised our glasses to each other.
“Sante’, Jacques,” he said.
“Sante’, Olivier.”
We both sipped.
I rolled the wine around in my mouth, savoring it. How delicious it was. Soft, velvety, yet full-bodied. I held the glass up to the light.
The wine was a deep red color. A beautiful red. Bringing the glass to my nose, I sniffed. Immediately I detected the perfume of violets. And something else, something not quite discernable.
“It’s the red you put down in 1986,” I said, grinning at him.
“You used three grapes to make it. The Mourvedre, the Syrah, and the Cinsaut.
The first two for their deep red color and hint of violets in the taste.
The Cinsaut also for its depth of color as well as the softness it brings to the other two.”
Olivier beamed at me. “Correct. Well done, Jacques. It has aged well, don’t you think?”
“You bet. You’ve created a wonderful wine. A great wine.
Looking back, I remember how good the weather was that year. You said the Iwine would have a wonderful life span because of that.”
“Thankfully, I was right. I think, though, that we must start ship ping,” he said. “The wine is ready. It must go out.”
“I’m in favor. So let’s do that. And let’s have another glass of it.
I’m sorry I didn’t bring Catherine with me. She’d have enjoyed tasting this.”
Olivier filled my glass.
I raised it to him. “Here’s to you, Olivier. Congratulations.”
“An, Jacques, do not congratulate me in this manner. We both worked on the wine.
I laughed, shook my head. “Oh no, we didn’t. I was all of twenty one.
Knew nothing. Green behind the ears. I was still at Yale nine years ago. This is your wine. You created it, made it. You deserve all the credit for it, Olivier.”
“Merci, Jacques. You are very generous, as usual.”
For the next couple of hours I worked at my desk in my office in the winery.
There were accounts to study, figures to go over. I had been putting the job off for days. But I knew I had to get the paperwork out of the way. Today was as good a time as any. Gritting my teeth, I buckled down to it.
I worked until four o’clock. Finally it was all done. After putting the account books away, I picked up the phone, dialed the restaurant in Air. I made a reservation for dinner.
When I left the office a few minutes later I took with me the half finished bottle of wine Olivier had given me. I wanted Catherine to taste it. I was proud of this wine. I’roud of Olivier for having created it.
I walked out of the front door and into the sunshine, into the most glorious afternoon. I strolled along slowly, glancing about as I did.
Everything looked so well kept. This pleased me. I wanted the estate to be in good order.
The chateau ahead of me stood on flat ground. It was surrounded on three sides by gently sloping hillsides clad in vineyards. They rose up behind the vineyards like a giant flaring collar. Or, as Catherine said the other day, a huge Elizabethan ruff. The gardens and the fields were spread out in front of the chateau, splendid now in the golden light of the fading day.
To me this was the most idyllic spot in the world. I had always been happy here. Even when I was married, my difficult wives had not been able to ruin it for me. I had simply tuned them out. Thned into the land and the vineyards. Gone my own way. And I never wanted to be any -place but here.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a sudden flash of color.
I’veered to my left, made for the wooden fence at the side of the narrow road where I was standing.
Leaning against the fence, I scanned the horizon. Then I saw it again.
That flash of bright blue. Suddenly I could see Catherine in the distance, saw the flowing red hair, vivid against the blue sweater she was wearing.
Catherine was galloping across one of the fields, her hair streaming out behind her. She was a good horsewoman. I knew that.
But for a reason I didn’t immediately understand I held my breath.
When she took the first hedge I cringed. I was worried she was going to be thrown. Just as Antoinette had been thrown that day at Laurel Creek Farm.
I gripped the edge of the fence tightly, losing my grip on the bottle as I did. It fell on the grass. I left it there. I simply stood numbly staring at the figure in the distance. Waiting for her to fall off her horse The clock stopped. Its hands rolled back. I was pulled into my child hood.
A terrible memory I had kept locked inside me for twenty-two years broke free. It rose at last to the surface of my mind.
I was eight years old again. I was back at Laurel Creek Farm.
I was playing in the field with my red ball and bat when it happened.
Antoinette was riding toward me, taking the hedge. And then she was off the horse, sailing through the air, falling, falling.
I dropped my bat and ball and ran as fast as I could.
“Antoinette1
Antoinette!” I cried. I was afraid. Mraid she was dead. Or badly hurt She had been thrown by ger Bright just as she jumped the hedge Now she lay there in a crumpled heap. Her face was the color of cia”lelr Her hair, spread out around her face, looked more firey than against those pale cheeks.
Her eyes were closed. My fear spiraled. My teeth began to chatter. I thought she really was dead. I knelt down next to her.
Touched her face with my hand. She didn’t stir. Yes, she was dead.
Tears came into my eyes.bringing “Antoinette. Oh Antoinette. Speak to me,” I whispered, my face close to hers. But I knew she wouldn’t speak again.