Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (39 page)

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“T
here'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 cutting 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. “Ah, 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.

“Santé, Jacques,” he said.

“Santé, 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 Mourvèdre, 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 wine would have a wonderful life span because of that.”

“Thankfully, I was right. I think, though, that we must start shipping,” 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.”

“Ah, 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 Aix. 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. Proud 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 château 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 château, 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. Tuned 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 childhood.

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. “Antoinette! Antoinette!” I cried. I was afraid. Afraid she was dead. Or badly hurt.

She had been thrown by Tyger Bright just as she jumped the hedge. Now she lay there in a crumpled heap. Her face was the color of chalk. Her hair, spread out around her face, looked more firey than ever 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.

“Antoinette. Oh Antoinette. Speak to me,” I whispered, bringing my face close to hers. But I knew she wouldn't speak again.

“Get out of the way, Jack!” Sebastian shouted, bringing his horse to a shuddering standstill, jumping down onto the grass. “You can't do anything. You're just a little boy.” Pushing me to one side, he knelt next to her, touched her face, as I had done.

“Run, Jack,” he said urgently, looking up at me. “Run to the kitchen. Ask Bridget to bring a damp facecloth. And find Aldred. Tell him to come here.”

I was immobilized. I stood there staring at Antoinette.

“What's wrong with you? Do as I say!” my father screamed. “Are you an imbecile? Go to the house, boy. Get Aldred. I need a man here to help me, not a child.”

I ran. All the way back to the farm. I was panting when I found Bridget in the kitchen. “Antoinette fell. Off her horse. Wet cloth. My father wants a wet facecloth. Take it to him please, Bridget.”

Before Bridget could say anything to me, Aldred appeared. “What's wrong, Jack?” he asked quietly. “It's not like you to cry. Speak to me, child. What's wrong?”

Bridget said, “Mrs. Delaney's had an accident. Her horse threw her. Jack says Mr. Locke wants a damp facecloth.”

“He wants
you
to go,” I said, tugging at Aldred's sleeve. “He needs a man to help. Not a child. That's what he said.”

Aldred stared at me for a moment, frowning, but made no comment. He turned and raced out of the kitchen. Bridget followed him. I ran out of the house after them.

“I'm afraid to move her,” I heard my father say to Aldred as I staggered up to them a few moments later. “That could be dangerous. Something might be broken.”

“Here, Mr. Locke, let's put this damp cloth on her face,” Bridget said. “It'll revive her. Yes, she's sure to come around in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Bridget,” Sebastian said, taking the cloth from her. He placed it on Antoinette's forehead.

Aldred and my father spoke softly together. I couldn't hear them. I knew they didn't want me to know what they were saying.

She was dead. And they didn't want to tell me. I began to cry again. I pressed my balled fists to my streaming eyes.

“Stop that at once, Jack!” Sebastian said sharply, in a harsh tone. “Don't be such a big baby.”

“She's dead,” I said and began to sob.

“No, she's not,” Sebastian snapped. “She's just unconscious.”

“I don't believe you,” I wailed.

“It's all right, Jack,” Antoinette murmured, finally opening her eyes at last, looking straight at me. And only at me. “Don't cry, my darling. It was just a little tumble. Really, I'm fine, angel.”

I was so relieved I sat down hard on the grass.

“Where do you hurt, Antoinette?” my father asked, searching her face. “Can you straighten out your legs?”

“I think so,” Antoinette said and did so as she spoke.

“Are you in any kind of pain, Mrs. Delaney?” Aldred asked.

“None whatsoever. I just feel rather shaken up, that's all.”

“Let's get you upright, darling,” Sebastian said. “Do you think you can sit?” he asked, looking at her in concern.

“I'm sure I can. Help me, please, Sebastian, would you?”

He did so. Once she was upright, she moved her head from side to side, stretched out her arms somewhat tentatively. Then she stretched her legs again.

“I'm sure there's nothing broken. I'm not really hurt, perhaps just a bit bruised,” Antoinette remarked with a light laugh. “Although as I say that I think I might have sprained my ankle. I suddenly feel a twinge or two, can you help me to my feet, Sebastian?”

A moment later my beloved Antoinette, my Special Lady, was standing in front of me. She was alive. Not dead. My tears ceased instantly when she looked down at me, rumpled my hair, and smiled. “You see, Jack darling, I'm as good as new.”

However, she had sprained her ankle. At least she said it felt funny So my father lifted her in his arms and carried her all the way back to the farm.

He took her up to her bedroom and came out after a few minutes. Bridget was sent in to help her undress. Later Doctor Simpson came to examine Antoinette's ankle. “Just to be sure it's not broken,” my father told Luce and me. “And also to be sure she hasn't hurt herself in any other way.”

After supper I went to Antoinette's room and tapped on the door. My father opened it. He refused to let me in to say good night to her. “Antoinette's resting,” he said. “You can see her tomorrow, Jack.” Without another word he closed the door in my face.

I slumped down on the floor next to the grandfather clock in the corner of the upstairs hall. I would wait until he left. Wait until he went to bed. Then I could creep in to kiss her cheek, to say good night.

I must have fallen asleep in the darkened hall. It was the sounds that woke me. The groaning. The moaning. And then the strangled cry. A split second later I heard Antoinette's voice. “Oh God! Oh God!” she exclaimed. There was a little cry again. “Don't—” The rest of her sentence was muffled.

I scrambled to my feet, ran across the hall. I burst into her bedroom. It was dim, shadowy. But I could see my father in the light from the bedside lamp. He was naked. He was on top of Antoinette. Holding her face in his hands. He was hurting her. I knew it.