The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 10)
One day last week, Monsieur le Comte had brought a chair and his painting things and begun a picture of the scene. ‘It always seems such a hopeful time,’ he’d remarked to Eliane as she gathered tender young salad leaves for his lunch, although they were both aware that that year it was overshadowed by the news from beyond France’s eastern borders.
Mireille had told them that Paris was filling up with refugees who were flooding in from Austria and Czechoslovakia, which were now under Nazi occupation. What must it be like, Eliane wondered, to wake up one day and find that your country was being run by an invading force?
‘Aren’t you worried that they may decide to target Paris next?’ she asked her sister again.
Mireille shook her head firmly and gave the bread dough another good thump. ‘They wouldn’t dare! Think of the backlash it would create. France and her allies wouldn’t just sit back and let the German army march across the border. Every day in the Parisian newspapers we read of the political and diplomatic efforts that are being made to bring this madness to a halt. They will win through: no one wants another war across Europe.
‘I feel so sorry for the refugees, though,’ she continued. ‘We’ve got one working at the atelier now. She’s from Poland – Esther is her name. She’s going to have a baby. Imagine how desperate she must have been to leave her home in her condition, carrying only a few belongings. Her husband is in the Polish air force. Sometimes you see whole families, often with young children. Paris is full to overflowing with them these days. There’s talk of the French borders being closed to prevent any more coming in.’
Lisette finished rinsing the cooking implements piled up in the sink and wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘I wish you’d come home, Mireille, just until things quieten down a bit. We worry about you.’
‘Don’t worry, Maman, I reckon Paris is about as safe as anywhere else in France. I love working at the atelier; I’m getting such good experience, working on all that beautiful couture. I wouldn’t have such opportunities back here. So I think I’ll stay put for the time being. I can always come home if the worst does happen.’
Mathieu appeared in the doorway, his bulk blocking the sunlight for a moment. ‘Gustave says the oven is ready whenever you are,’ he reported. He came over to stand behind Eliane and peer over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She turned and popped a scrap of sweet pastry into his mouth, then kissed him on the cheek. He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, before remembering where he was and, becoming flustered, glancing over towards Lisette.
From the other side of the kitchen, she smiled at him fondly and said, ‘We’re looking forward to meeting your father and brother tomorrow, Mathieu. It’s lovely that they can be with you for Easter, and so kind of the Cortinis to invite us all to eat together.’
He smiled his shy smile back. ‘I know. I’m looking forward to it too.’ Gaining in confidence, he wrapped an arm around Eliane once more and said, ‘They’ve been wondering why I’ve been so busy in the wine cellar, at a time when not much is going on in the winemaking calendar, that I’ve not been able to come home to see them more often. I told them that pruning the vines has been keeping me occupied, but I think they’re growing suspicious!’
Mireille laughed. ‘I think they’re probably more than suspicious by now . . . Tulle isn’t so far away from Coulliac that the gossip can’t reach them there!’
‘Surely the dough has proved enough now.’ To change the subject, Eliane lifted a corner of the muslin cloth that covered the loaves to protect them from any wayward draughts.
‘They look perfect to me.’ Lisette smiled.
‘Here then, Mireille, you can carry one and Mathieu you bring this one. Let’s get them in the oven.’
It was the morning of Easter Sunday, and after church the bells, which had been silenced for the past two days since Good Friday, pealed out from village to village in joyful pronouncement that Christ had risen. Dressed in their Sunday best, the Martins drove over to Château de la Chapelle in the neighbouring commune of Saint André, bearing gifts of golden, plaited bread and a basket of eggs that Eliane had coloured with natural dyes gleaned from her larder of winter crops: yellow from onion skins, deep pink from beetroot and azure-blue from the leaves of a red cabbage.
It was warm enough to drink their aperitifs outside. The Cortinis were welcoming and hospitable, and especially keen to share their wines with their friends and neighbours. Beneath the generous branches of a walnut tree whose new green leaves were just beginning to unfurl, a table was spread with dishes of pâté, olives and baby radishes alongside a generous array of wine bottles.
Mathieu introduced the Martin family to his father and brother, both of whom were as silent as Mathieu himself at first. Later, though, as the wines flowed and they found themselves in the midst of the most convivial company, they relaxed and became a good deal more talkative. Luc chatted and joked with Yves and the Cortinis’ son, Patrick, and Monsieur Dubosq joined in an animated discussion with Gustave and Monsieur Cortini about the state of farming in France and the merits of mechanisation over the use of horses in ploughing. Mathieu and Eliane held hands beneath the table and watched as new bonds were forged between their families.
Finally, they all pushed their chairs back from the dining table, replete with the feast of succulent roast lamb, which had been washed down with several bottles of the Cortinis’ finest vintage red.
‘So tell me . . .’ Monsieur Dubosq turned to Monsieur Cortini. ‘Are you going to make a winemaker out of my elder son?’
‘He has great aptitude, and he’s a dependable pair of hands in the cellar as well as in the vines. I’d be happy to keep him on here, if he’d like to stay.’
‘That’s good to know. And what about you, Mathieu? Do you think you’d prefer to be a wine farmer than to come back to our cattle and our fields of grain?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure, Papa. I know you will need me in the summer to help with the harvest. But I really like it here. I like working in the vines. I like learning how to make wine . . .’ He tailed off, unable to say more. Eliane gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze under cover of the tablecloth.
Monsieur Dubosq shot Mathieu a piercing look from beneath his bushy eyebrows and then smiled. ‘Don’t worry, mon fils, I can see that this place has done you good. You’re learning a lot and you’re growing up. I’m thankful to all these good people who have become your friends.’ His dark eyes included Eliane in his remarks at this juncture. ‘If Monsieur Cortini is prepared to keep you on then I daresay I can find someone in Tulle to help me and Luc at harvest time. Let’s see how it goes.’
Monsieur Cortini clapped his hands. ‘Excellent! This calls for a glass of something special to celebrate. I think I have a bottle of Armagnac in the cellar . . .’
That night, as the girls lay in their attic bedroom at the mill listening to the owls softly declaring their territories in the darkness, Mireille whispered, ‘Eliane? Are you awake?’
‘Yes,’ came the reply from across the room.
‘It’s been a good Easter, hasn’t it?’
There was a pause. ‘One of the best.’
‘I’m glad you and Mathieu are so happy. You’re really good together.’
‘His family seemed nice, didn’t they?’
‘Of course they did. Luc’s coming over with Mathieu tomorrow to go fishing with Yves. They’re already firm friends. And I could see that Monsieur Dubosq approves of you, even if he is a man of few words. I can understand where Mathieu gets it from now!’
As they fell asleep, in the room filled with the hush of the river and lit by moonbeams that stole in through the window by her bed, a smile of contentment played over Eliane’s face.
Abi: 2017
‘This is Karen, my right-hand woman.’ Sara is in the kitchen, sorting dusters and cleaning cloths into three plastic buckets, but she pauses to introduce me to the capable-looking woman who has just appeared in the doorway.
‘Pleased to meet you, Abi.’ Karen has an Australian accent that is almost as broad as her smile, and a handshake so firm that it leaves my fingers numb for a moment or two. ‘Sara’s told me about you. I hear you turned up out of the blue to save us, just in the nick of time.’
‘Actually, I think it was more like the other way around.’
‘How are your digs down by the river? Not too dusty?’
I shake my head. ‘The room’s perfect. It’s so peaceful down there – at night-time at least. When I left this morning Thomas had just turned up with a cement mixer, so it’s probably not going to be so serene during daylight hours.’
‘You’re definitely better off up here in Wedding Land.’ She nods, and then turns to Sara. ‘What’ve you got in store for us this week then?’
Sara glances at a bulky folder sitting on the table. ‘The MacAdams and the Howards: a full contingent staying here, all arriving Thursday afternoon; one hundred and twenty for the wedding on Saturday; the usual timings for the service and pre-dinner drinks. Caterers and florist booked for Saturday morning. We’ve got the wines in the cellar. So this morning it’s going to be making up the bedrooms. Abi, you can work with me and I’ll show you the ropes.’