Vintage (38 page)

‘Christiane Balard?’

Coming in with the champagne in an ice-bucket and two glasses on a tray, Halliday followed her gaze.

‘How did you guess?’

Taking the Krug from the bucket, he clasped the cork firmly and, concentrating hard, twisted the bottle.

Pouring out two glasses, he handed one to Clare.

‘To your grandmother.’ He touched Clare’s glass with his own. ‘May she rest in peace.’

They sat side by side on the sofa.

When the champagne was almost finished, Clare said, ‘Have you ever thought that the bliss of the saved in heaven is more difficult to imagine than the torments of the damned in hell?’

‘It’s only in this world that life can be hell. What do you think of it?’

‘Hell?’

‘The Krug.’

Clare held her glass by the foot. ‘The apotheosis of elegance. Rich but well mannered, perfectly balanced and beautifully textured, with an understated bouquet and long finish, dry…fruity…smoky…meaty…’ Her voice wavered unsteadily as a tear fell into the champagne.

‘Hang on there.’ He removed the glass from her hand. ‘This was meant to cheer you up…’

Sobbing unashamedly, Clare let all the misery of the past week come out.

Halliday fetched the incriminating handkerchief from the buffet. Sitting close to her, he dried her face gently. ‘Christiane Balard lent it to me,’ he said softly. ‘When Big Mick chucked the claret over me at the Fête de la Fleur.’

Feeling the warmth of his body leeching into her own, conscious of strange and jangled feelings in her head, Clare turned to face him. Meeting her eyes for no more than a moment, Halliday got to his feet.

‘What you need is some fresh air.’ His voice was brusque. ‘Why don’t we take a walk? I’ll buy you a plate of oysters at the Bistrot des Quinconces.’

By the time of the trial assemblage, Clare had spent an entire week painstakingly tasting every single barrel of new wine in the first-year cellar.

Ever since Baronne Gertrude’s funeral, she had not been herself. At first she had thought she was ill. Sidonie had made her stay in bed and brought up tisanes made from fennel and from lemon-balm from the herb garden. Later Clare had put it down to the unseasonably cold weather, which had kept her for long nights in the damp cellars, making sure that the vats were adequately heated and that, because of the drop in temperature, the fermentation did not suddenly stop.

She had not seen Halliday, who had spent Christmas in Australia, since the night they had disposed of the Krug. That night, heading back along the river after leaving the oyster bar – the Quai Louis XVIII and the Quai Richelieu, as far as the Place de la Bourse illuminated like a giant opera set – Clare, still in her funeral black, had slipped her arm into his.

‘It’s all very well for Grandmaman, comfortably settled in her pew in her church in heaven. Do you believe in God?’

‘Bacchus.’

‘Dionysus.’ Clare gave the god of wine his Greek name.

‘On the island of Naxos, Bacchus…’

‘Dionysus!’

‘…found a young woman lying asleep on the shore.’

‘Ariadne.’

‘The very same.’

‘Daughter of Minos, whom Theseus had brought with him from Crete and abandoned.’

‘When she awoke, she realised that Theseus had left her. She gave way to uncontrollable tears. The arrival of Bacchus…’

‘Dionysus!’

‘Have it your own way. The arrival of
Bacchus-stroke-Dionysus
consoled her…’

‘And shortly afterwards…’

‘Shortly afterwards’ – Halliday turned to face her beneath the light of the street lamp – ‘they were solemnly married.’

Clare pointed an astonished arm over his shoulder, as a well-built man and a woman with hennaed hair, strolling close to each other with the matched steps of lovers, appeared on the quayside.

‘Isn’t that my father?’

‘It certainly looks like the Baron.’

‘He’s with Biancarelli!’

In the courtyard of Château de Cluzac where, as dawn broke over the vineyards, Halliday dropped her off, Clare had put grateful arms around the Australian.

‘You saved my life.’

‘Any time.’

She had not seen her oenologist since, and it was over a month since she had seen Jamie, although she had been back to England twice. On the first occasion she had discussed her wedding dress – a simple sheath of oyster satin worn with Grandmaman’s veil – with Hannah, and before Jamie left for his conference in Barbados they had finalised the guest list. Next week the invitations were going out.

On the day following Grandmaman’s obsequies,
Monsieur
Huchez and Monsieur Combe had presented
themselves 
in the Bureau d’Acceuil and asked for the Baron on a matter of some urgency. They refused to budge until he was found.

Having just seen her father leave the château with his shotgun, presumably to pot rabbits, Clare had set out along the drive to find him. A large saloon car, coming towards her at what seemed to be an immoderate speed, made her hop smartly on to the safety of the grass verge.

As she did so, Rougemont, who had been running alongside the Baron, on the opposite side of the park, caught sight of her. With a yelp of excitement, he bounded across the drive.

‘Attention!’

Charles-Louis’ anguished yell came at the same moment as the screech of brakes, the squeal of skidding tyres, and a sickening thud, as the bumper of the oncoming car caught Rougement’s flank. In apparent slow motion, the heavy red setter was tossed high into the air, before crashing, spreadeagled and immobile, like a burnished hearthrug, into the road.

Thinking about it afterwards, Clare was unable to recall the precise sequence of events.

As the Baron belted between the trees like one possessed, an appalled and ashen-faced Claude Balard climbed out of his BMW. Dropping to his knees,
Charles-Louis
gazed in disbelief at his dog, whose fixed eyes were staring into space and whose blood was leaving his body at an alarming rate.

‘Va cherchez la voiture,’ he ordered Clare.

‘Ma voiture est à votre disposition.’ Claude Balard offered his car to Charles-Louis.

‘Allez-vous en, Balard!’ the Baron roared. ‘This is the last time you set foot on this estate…’

‘Mais… I have come about the château. We set up a meeting…’

‘Foutez le camp!’ Raising the shotgun, Charles-Louis pointed it at the petrified Balard as the overweight negociant stumbled towards his car.

As the wheels clumsily mounted the grass verge, and the BMW disappeared in a cloud of dust towards the gates, Clare tried, and failed, to find the pulse in Rougemont’s neck.

‘Il est mort, Papa.’

‘Non.’

‘Regarde-le!’

‘Get the car.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m taking him to the vet. Hurry!’

‘Rougemont is dead.’

Fondling the dog’s silken ear, his eyes strangely moist, Charles-Louis shook his head.

‘Va vite!’ His voice was numb.

By the time Clare got back with the Renault, her father, in an unbelievable act of strength, was standing, like some blood-stained Colossus, splay-legged in the middle of the drive with Rougemont, limp and inert, in his arms. Helping him to manoeuvre the dead weight on to the back seat of the car, an exercise that left them both breathless, she watched with disbelief as he climbed, like a robot, into the driving seat and motioned her imperiously out of the way.

Left staring at the puddle of blood seeping into the gravel, Clare could scarcely credit what, in the space of just a few moments, had taken place. The dog was Charles-Louis’ immortal beloved: the only thing in the world for which he truly cared. Clare would not have put it past her father to kill the perpetrator of the crime, Claude Balard, with his own hands.

Remembering Monsieur Huchez and Monsieur Combe, she had made her slow way back to her office.

‘Ou est votre père?’

‘II n’est pas ici.’

Judging by the look on their faces, Monsieur Huchez and Monsieur Combe were up to no good. Clare guessed that Philip Van Gelder had shopped her father to the fisc. She told the inspectors, in her best château owner’s manner, that she had no idea when the Baron would be back.

‘Nous l’attenderons.’

Clare left them in the Bureau d’Acceuil. This was not going to be her father’s day.

‘Did your father go back to Florida?’

True to his word, Halliday had come to Château de Cluzac to help Clare with the assemblage. They were in the tasting-room.

‘My father is in Monte Carlo…’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen Rougemont.’

‘Rougement is dead. Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse…’

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

Clare had been to visit the Baron in the Avenue Princesse Grace, where he lived with a devoted Biancarelli, leaving the orange groves to tick over by themselves. His time was spent at the blackjack tables. He was no longer interested either in oranges or in vines.

‘He is awaiting trial for fraud. In connection with his profits. I felt quite sorry for him. Fortunately Papa doesn’t believe that any judge in the land would dare to find him guilty.’

With her yield low, Clare’s first decision was how much of her wine she was going to declassify. Bearing in mind that her Petite Clare would realise little more than
quarter as much per bottle as her grand vin, it was a decision that could cost the château up to half a million pounds in badly needed cash.

Watched by her cynical chef de culture, who stood, with his arms folded, by the door, Clare began tasting and mixing from the carefully racked bottles and calibrated measuring-cylinders on the table. As she silently practised her alchemist’s art, Jean Boyer and Halliday Baines, making frequent journeys to the sink in the corner, concentrated on their own selections.

Noticing that Clare had discarded a vat sample he had put to the fore, Jean, who was watching her every move, protested:

‘C’est un des Merlots!’

‘It’s too soft.’

‘Don’t forget your yield is low,’ Halliday said, backing up the cellarmaster. ‘You’re going to need the merlot for volume.’

Clare replaced the cylinder of merlot in the reject rack. ‘Remember forty-five? Great vintage. Very little merlot. Did you hear anyone complain?’

They spent the rest of day arguing, lining up, as
possibles
, mixtures which they all agreed had balance, spurning others which were short. When Clare dismissed out of hand a sample of cabernet, which Jean was convinced should be added to the final blend, it was as if she had slapped the cellarmaster’s face.

‘It’s an adequate luncheon claret, Jean. That’s all that can be said.’

‘C’était assez bon pour Monsieur le Baron…’

‘It may well have been good enough for my father, but it is thin and unconcentrated. It is not going anywhere near my grand vin.’

Another sample, this time recommended by Halliday, was rejected on the grounds of its not having the ‘class’
which Clare was determined from now on must be
synonymous
with the Château de Cluzac label.

Refusing to give up until she was satified, choosing only from the finest casks, and working on the premiss that a wine that would please her would please everyone, and have a common language which could be enjoyed
anywhere
, she produced a plummy, seductive claret with the elegance of a woman, the potential body of a prize fighter, and the insouciance of a courtesan. Even Jean Boyer, who had recovered from his pique, was impressed.

‘Félicitations, Mademoiselle Clare!’ He raised his glass of deep ruby Château de Cluzac, which he tasted appreciatively and swallowed.

‘A bloody beauty! And it has your handwriting!’ There was admiration in Halliday’s voice as he savoured the final blend.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ Clare pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘I’m bushed.’

Making her way with Halliday to the cheerless
vineyards
, where the few remaining leaves on the resting vines were yellow and curling, she picked up a handful of gravel and ran it slowly through her fingers.

‘I’m going to miss this place.’

‘You’ve made a pretty good job of things. The vintage was great. You’ve vinified brilliantly.’

‘More by good luck than good management…’

‘Only the ignorant make good wine by chance.’

‘Have you ever thought that, when you do things to “show people”, they’re either dead or they no longer care?’

‘Why don’t you stick around?’ Halliday said casually. ‘In three years, based on today’s showing, the château should be making a profit. Big Mick will be licking your
boots. You could replace the dead wood. Plant new vines. Computerise the chais…’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘An A-one bottling plant?’

‘Alain Lamotte’s loan has to be paid off. The château has to be sold.’

Picking up a quartz pebble, Halliday made it appear, a second later, from Clare’s ear.

‘Did you know that pieces of quartz from the vineyards of Latour were once polished and presented to King Louis XVI as buttons for his waistcoat? What if I paid off the loan?’

‘You? Since when have you got so much money?’

‘I could sell my vineyard in Chile…’

‘You’d do that!’

‘We’d make a great team, Clare…’

A great team. She could recite Grandmaman’s last letter by heart. ‘…Jamie is as strong-minded as Thibault. He knows exactly where he is going. Thibault and I were always a team, but there was never any doubt who was team leader…’

‘Your flair…’ Halliday was saying.

‘And your expertise.’ Any partnership with Halliday would be a partnership of equals.

‘We could turn this place into a showpiece.’

‘Château de Cluzac would be known all over the world.’

Halliday took his cards from his pocket. ‘When I was about twelve, I was taken to see a magic show. I helped my dad round the place and saved up enough to buy my first book of card tricks. By the age of fourteen I was hooked. You can’t expect every trick in the book to suit your style, but find the right ones and they can fill your life, bring you riches you’ve never imagined…’

‘I’m getting married in four weeks.’ Clare glanced involuntarily at the ring from Butler’s Wharf. ‘You’re leaving Jamie out of all this.’

‘Not me. You.’

Touching the wooden pickets with her fingertips as they walked along the rows, Clare examined the thoughts she had been suppressing. She tried to picture herself walking down the aisle in the little church in Scotland, supervising the extension to the cottage in Waterperry, working her butt off in the Nicola Wade Gallery, selling her wares in Portobello, joining the spouse tours at conferences, waiting for Jamie as he reduced fractures and pinned bones.

She wanted to see the vines beneath their blanket of snow in winter, to be there when the sap rose, to witness the first buds of spring.

Halliday had stopped. His eyes were level with her own.

‘There are things that must be confronted,’ he said.

‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

‘Nothing that you don’t already know.’

‘What if it’s a mistake?’

‘If you don’t make decisions, you can’t make mistakes.’

Clare glanced up at the crenellated château, which stood, as it had for three hundred years, severe, rigorous, rational, silhouetted against the Médoc sky; she looked down at the arid earth which would shortly build up its deep reserves of water on which the success of next year’s vintage would depend. She could hear Baronne Gertrude’s voice.

‘You have de Cluzac roots, Clare. Like the roots of the vines, they are planted deep.’

‘You belong here, Clare.’ Halliday spoke softly, reading her mind.

Unaware who made the first move, she found herself in his arms.

After twenty-eight years, Clare de Cluzac had come home.