Vintage (4 page)

Retracing her steps along Bond Street in search of a birthday card for the Baronne, Clare had caught sight of a book in Sotheby’s window called Caring for Antiques: A Guide to Handling, Cleaning, Display and Restoration, which she thought might come in useful in tarting up her Saturday-morning stock.

She had been pressing her nose to the shop window, shielding her eyes from the reflection, and trying to make out the name of the author, when she felt a tap on her shoulder and heard the surprised sound of a
Mid-Western
voice which belonged to her past.

‘Excuse me. Isn’t this little Clare de Cluzac?’

Turning round, Clare looked up into the eyes of Big Mick (‘the nose’) Bly. At the same time she observed, from the gilt-lettered placard that stood on the pavement, that this morning there had been a sale of Fine and Rare Wines, Spirits and Vintage Ports in the auction rooms.

It was at Château Kilmartin, more than fourteen years ago, after playing tennis with her ‘cousins’ Pierre and Chantal (distant relatives on her mother’s side), during her final summer in Bordeaux, that she had been introduced to the larger-than-life American wine writer, once seen, never forgotten.

Big Mick, founder of Wine Watch, a US magazine sold on subscription, was reputedly the most influential wine critic in the business (‘If Bly gives it a ninety you can’t buy it, and if Bly gives it less than ninety you can’t sell it’). A seriously heavy man with a penchant for seriously heavy wines, he was feared throughout
Bordeaux, where obsequious cellarmasters were said to keep a ‘barrique Bly’, a hogshead of especially potent claret, in readiness for his unannounced visits. Bly’s talent was for tasting undrinkable stuff straight from the vat and predicting whether, given time, it would become a great wine. Since his numerical ratings and tasting notes were read, and slavishly followed, by readers throughout the world, Bly could make or break a grower. He had never set foot inside Château de Cluzac. No journalist ever had.

Clare took in the meticulously distressed denims, the luridly checked workshirt and the crumpled linen jacket which had most likely cost more than a bespoke suit.

‘Clare de Cluzac! Just wait till I tell Toni!’

Toni, Big Mick’s diminutive, polyglot wife and éminence grise, travelled everywhere with him, looked after his diary and set up his European meetings.

‘You’re not going to believe this, but Toni and I were only talking about you yesterday at the Reform Club. Stephan von Neipperg, the Tesserons from Pontet Canet, Daniel and Florence Cathiard, everyone was there…’

‘Why on earth would you be talking about me?’

‘Well strictly speaking, it wasn’t exactly about you. It was about your father.’

‘What’s he been up to?’ The enquiry was polite. Clare was not all that interested.

‘Didn’t you hear the news…?’

Clare imagined a peccadillo involving her father, some woman or another, on the front page of Sud-Ouest, although, unlike the English whose appetite for prurient gossip, particularly among politicians, was insatiable, the French were generally not exercised about such matters.

‘Château de Cluzac is on the market,’ Big Mick said.

‘On the market!’

It was as if Bly had told her that the Howard family had put their ancestral home in a Yorkshire estate agent’s window, or that the Marquess of Bath was getting rid of Longleat after four hundred years of unbroken occupation.

Taking her for coffee in South Molton Street, where they sat at a pavement table, Big Mick filled Clare in with what was happening in the backwaters of the Médoc, which hadn’t known such excitement in years. There was no longer anything to be said about the quality of her father’s wine, which had been steadily deteriorating and was now near the bottom of the league table in Wine Watch (‘a below average wine containing noticeable flaws’). However, the unique position of Château de Cluzac, with its eastern slopes, well-drained soil, and sans-pareil vineyards, in the patch of agricultural land alongside the Gironde river which ranked among the most expensive in Europe, had attracted a great many private and institutional buyers, including wealthy Japanese businessmen and Parisian bankers.

Bordeaux had always attracted corporate money and outside investors. Very few vineyards were still family owned and two or three of these changed hands each year, depending on how well the market was doing. Among those who were anxious to get their hands on the Cluzac estate were a German financier who wanted to convert it into a luxury hotel and conference centre, a Swiss consortium which had plans for adding it to its chain of exclusive health resorts, and a wealthy Californian who aimed to create a Napa-Valley-style theme park in the Médoc. According to Big Mick, who had his ear to the grapevine, the Baron had seen off the more bizarre contenders, and three prospective purchasers had made the final running.

Alain Lamotte, on behalf of Assurance Mondiale, one of the first major investors to run a group of vineyards as a business, was anxious to earn brownie points for himself as well as acquiring another French château for his insurance company; Claude Balard, the sole distributor of the Baron’s wines who, like other Bordeaux wine merchants since the nineteenth century, was desperate to become a ‘cru classé’ owner; and Philip Van Gelder, a shadowy industrialist and absentee vineyard proprietor from the Franschhoek Valley, who was persona non grata in South Africa.

Courteously sending her regards to Toni Bly, Clare, who was now running late for her appointment with Michael Millington, headed for Albemarle Street. She gave no further thought to Big Mick’s revelation until later that evening when she and Jamie were dining with the Baronne.

Baronne Gertrude had been waiting for them in the elegant but shabby drawing-room with a decanter of dry sherry, which was all she permitted by way of an aperitif. Clare’s visits, bringing with them as they did an aura of youth and vitality and brightening up the high-ceilinged rooms, in much the same state of desuetude as she was herself, were always eagerly anticipated.

Graciously accepting the Hermès box, the Baronne greeted her granddaughter warmly but formally.

Acknowledging the roses that Jamie had brought her, she allowed him to kiss her hand.

‘A house without flowers is like a day without sunshine.’ She tinkled the little bell that lived permanently on the table beside her chair together with her silver rosary and the book she was currently reading.

When Jamie had first been introduced to the flat in Hyde Park, he had regarded the bell – which was rung when the Baronne needed a handkerchief from the bedroom or had inadvertently spilled a drop of water on a polished table – with horror.

‘Never feel sorry for a servant Jamie,’ Baronne Gertrude had told him. ‘He is thinking, One day, when I have saved enough money, I shall be able to imitate that man.’

Indicating to Louise, who had come in response to her summons, that she should relieve Jamie of the flowers, the Baronne opened the Hermès box. With a practised movement she draped the scarf, the colour of the silk complementing the agapanthus blue of her still piercing eyes expertly round the neck of her dress. Chastising Clare for her extravagance (for which the Baronne, who was extremely acquisitive, was secretly glad), she dispensed the sherry and invited her guests to sit down. Precisely thirty minutes later, she led Clare and Jamie into the dining-room, where the table, with the Victorian silver candelabrum – which had belonged to the first Lady Donaldson, and was lit even when the Baronne dined alone – was set for dinner.

In honour of her birthday, Baronne Gertrude had opened a Château de Cluzac 1945, made by Baron Thibault, which she had decanted half an hour earlier.

Putting down her spoon on the consommé, which had taken Louise three days to prepare from specially selected marrow bones – simmering and clearing the broth with egg whites then simmering it again, according to her employer’s precise instructions – she signalled to Jamie to serve the wine.

She watched, with a sharp eye, as he poured a small quantity into her glass, which was engraved with the Cluzac coat of arms.

‘Wine is the most civilised thing in the world, and drinking almost the last pleasure that the years steal from us…’

‘Jamie and I are getting married,’ Clare said, as Jamie replaced the heavy three-ringed decanter, which added a sense of occasion to the table.

‘How very sensible of you. I couldn’t be more delighted.’ Holding up her rouged and papery cheek to be kissed by both of them, the Baronne, who had tears of genuine happiness in her eyes at the thought of a wedding, exchanged her glass, with its inch of crimson claret, for Clare’s empty one.

‘Tonight, Jamie, Clare will taste the wine.’

Over the years Clare had learned from her grandmother that what made the difference between a great wine and an average one was its length on the palate. Picking up the glass, and taking her time, she examined the claret in the light of the candelabrum then sniffed it appreciatively before taking tiny sips and finally swallowing it. Baronne Gertrude would have nothing to do with such value judgements as ‘blackcurrants’ or ‘raspberries’ or ‘audacious bouquet’, which she considered an affectation. One did not, after all, as she was fond of saying, attempt to put into words the flavour of roast chicken or the taste of tarte tatin. Every wine tasted of itself and nothing else, and the only thing that was important was whether or not you liked it. This one, elegant and complex, had a softness and sweetness in which neither fruit nor oak was dominant. Baronne Gertrude was anxiously awaiting her verdict.

‘Superbe!’

‘Not like that rubbish your father makes. It’s not fit for a carafe in a bistro.’

When Jamie had filled the three glasses, he followed the Baronne’s gaze to Clare’s left hand.

‘Clare’s ring won’t be ready until next week. I’m having it made for her in Butler’s Wharf.’

‘Butler’s Wharf? Nonsense!’ Baronne Gertrude indicated to Louise, who was standing patiently by the door, that she might serve the gigot. ‘Clare will wear the de Cluzac sapphire.’

‘That’s very kind of you Madame, but…’

‘She will accompany me to the safe deposit. You can’t be too careful. Lady Folgate – we play bridge together – had her bag snatched outside the Army and Navy Stores. In broad daylight.’

‘…I have already ordered the ring.’

‘There is far too much violence on the streets…’ Baronne Gertrude’s voice tailed off. She exchanged glances with Clare, who would have liked to have a say in her engagement ring but did not want to upset Jamie, who said:

‘It was to have been a surprise.’

‘Now that you are to be married, Jamie,’ Baronne Gertrude said, changing the subject, ‘you must call me Grandmaman. Where is the wedding to take place?’

‘Farm Street…’ Clare said.

‘Soho.’

‘Jamie! I refuse to get married next to the wind-dried ducks!’

‘A good woman would lay down her life several times for her lover,’ the Baronne sighed. ‘Yet she will break with him for ever on a trivial point such as whether a door should be left open or shut.’

Picking up her knife and fork, she addressed the extremely small portion of food (these days she had little appetite), which looked lost on the Sèvres plate. When the gigot was finished – in the interest of her supper the following day, second helpings were not offered – she tinkled the bell for Louise.

‘You will find a bottle of Cristal in the pantry, Louise. And we shall need an ice-bucket.’ She turned to Clare and Jamie. ‘Weddings, not to mention eighty-fifth birthdays, are few and far between these days.’

‘How does it feel to be eighty-five?’ Clare asked
curiously
.

‘“Old age is a shipwreck.”’

‘Tolstoy?’ Jamie said.

‘General de Gaulle.’

‘It’s better than what comes next,’ Clare said.

The Baronne eyed Jamie.

‘“There’s not much in dying. I shall go to sleep and it will all be over”’

‘Emma Bovary.’

The Baronne nodded in approval.

It was over coffee in the drawing-room, served by the long-suffering Louise, that Clare, who was perched next to her grandmother on the uncomfortable mahogany sofa, dropped her second bombshell.

‘Did you know that Papa is selling Cluzac?’

‘Qu’est ce que tu as dis?’

‘Papa va abandonner le Château.’

The Baronne had gone quite pale. Clare hadn’t realised the effect that the news would have on her grandmother and hoped that she wasn’t about to have a heart attack.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to explain.’

Repeating her conversation with Big Mick, trying to remember all the details, she attempted to comfort the Baronne.

‘To tell you the truth I’m rather pleased. Nicola and I have our eye on a gallery on Albemarle Street…’

‘You are speaking about your patrimoine!’ the Baronne said sharply. ‘You should have been informed.’

Clare knew that by her patrimoine her grandmother meant not only her inheritance but the defeat of the Vikings, the unbroken line of ancestors whose portraits hung on the walls of the château, the culture and customs of France. At the risk of offending the Baronne, she said, ‘It’s only an old house, Grandmaman…’

‘I thought you said it was a castle.’ Jamie helped himself to sugar.

‘Anywhere that produces wine can call itself a château, Jamie. There are more castles in Bordeaux than there are in Spain…’

A distant look came into the Baronne’s eyes.

‘Your grandfather took me to Cluzac as a young bride. Our honeymoon was spent in Paris. We bought a complete set of directoire furniture for the ground-floor salons and refurbished the château from top to bottom. We devoted all our time to it. It was young Pierre-Giles de Monfort who really encouraged Thibault to take the house in hand. He was a writer and politician quite famous in his day…’ The Baronne looked at Jamie. ‘I don’t suppose you remember Pierre-Giles? No of course you don’t. That was extremely stupid of me. One gets confused. We entertained a great many writers and politicians. Pierre-Giles joined the Free French in London. After the war he was mayor and deputy for the department. We used to hold the French carriage-driving competitions in the park. The de Cluzac coach had yellow-and-blue coachwork and yellow wheels. At the end of the championships we gave a dinner for a hundred and fifty guests. The preparations started weeks before – it was the preparations that I loved best. Choosing the menu.
Trial runs. Veal Marengo served in the copper cooking pots. We used to get them out for the hunting parties. From the old kitchens. Cakes, creams, sorbets, fruit. Tables for ten covered with damask tablecloths. A hundred and fifty napkins folded by Maurice. Maurice was the butler. Fresh flowers. Asters, roses, marguerites, ivy, asparagus fronds. Great floral arrangements for the hall, and little compotiers on each table. Then there were the placements. Decisions, decisions. And the last-minute changes! After dinner musicians played in the Louis XVI salon and the real party began…’