The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(19)

“Welcome. To what do I owe this unexpected surprise?” he said, meeting the pair in the courtyard.

Du Monde removed his hat. “You must excuse the intrusion, Monsieur Martel. I’m not sure what happened. One minute the damn thing was running smooth as a kitten, the next it’s fuming like an alley cat trapped in a rubbish bin.”

Jean-Paul shook his hand when offered. Though not strangers—they had twice been introduced at a meeting of the village wine council—it would not be accurate to say they were friendly or even on a first-name basis. But one thing they shared was an appetite for the roaring age of new technology. Automobiles, to be precise. Not the wind-up steam confound-its of his father’s day. No, these new engines could rev up to sixty-five miles per hour. This very model had won the Grand Prix three years earlier doing precisely that. Bastien, who had been there to witness the race, had relayed the excitement of the final lap over cigars and glasses of port at their last council meeting. Jean-Paul was rightfully envious. In his old life he, too, would have been there to see it.

With a sigh he greeted Madame du Monde more formally and then took an appreciative walk around the vehicle to get a glimpse of the engine. “They’d just added the electric headlamps when I left the city. Must be a dream to drive.”

“It never met a rut in the road it couldn’t stay away from,” Gerda du Monde said, peeling her gloves off in anticipation of being invited inside. “Honestly, they’re little improvement over the pleasant Sunday pace of a double-team and carriage, if you ask me.”

He resisted the urge to argue. “I’m sure it’s just overheated. Please come in and sit while she cools down.”

“My wife or the car?” Du Monde guffawed at his own joke and then ducked a chastising slap from his wife’s gloves.

Jean-Paul extended a hand toward the front door and escorted the couple inside to where Madame waited. The old woman stood as if poised for battle, though he hoped there wouldn’t be a confrontation. He rather liked Du Monde, or at least admired all that he’d accomplished.

“Welcome—do come in,” she said, though her smile appeared forced against the sagging lines in her face.

Gerda du Monde offered her hand. “The esteemed Madame Gardin. A pleasure to meet again.”

The women shook hands. As far as he knew this was the first time Gerda du Monde had come to the house, yet something familiar traveled between the women. He saw it in their eyes, their body language. Daring. Defiance. Respect. When their hands parted, Madame rubbed her thumb and fingers together at her side before excusing herself to prepare some refreshments for their guests.

Jean-Paul led the couple into his sitting room, where the whiff of kerosene smoke lingered in the air. Gerda inspected the space with keen eyes that searched from the coved ceiling to the fringe on the oriental rugs. Her hand trailed over the chair where Elena had been sitting moments before. She drummed her fingers three times before returning to her husband’s side.

“You keep a lovely home,” she said. “There’s evidence of a woman’s touch. Not a bad thing for a single man.”

He motioned to the padded leather chairs near the fire. “Most of the furnishings are Madame’s. I didn’t bring much with me when I left the city,” he said, taking a seat on the flowery upholstered sofa.

“It’s just the two of you in the house?”

He pinched the seam in his trousers, straightening the fabric as he crossed his legs. “Yes,” he said, avoiding her eye.

Her stare trapped him in his seat so that he could not move. He feared any twitch might reveal the lie. He didn’t know why he owed Elena such loyalty, but he’d given his word and he meant to keep it. Especially after he’d seen the fear creep over her face when she understood who was coming to the front door. He quickly changed the subject.

“So what new surprise will Domaine du Monde have for us this season?”

“We’re aging a fine blended red,” Du Monde said, eager to brag after the compliment. “One of our best. Gerda’s full talent is truly on display with this barrel. It will be our entry at le Concours des Vins, I am almost certain.”

“Ah, of course. No doubt another grand champion wine. You do the valley proud.”

Du Monde tilted his head in obvious feigned modesty and squeezed his wife’s hand. “We’ve done well together.” Then, likely realizing he was not in a position to offer a similar compliment, commented where he could. “Er, I noticed as we drove up that you’d dug out half an acre of chardonnay on the north end of the property. Those were new, weren’t they?”

“Rot.” He gave a small shrug. “Seems to affect one patch or another each year.”

“Madame Gardin doesn’t have a cure for it?” Gerda inquired, apparently perplexed.

“A cure?”

“For the roots. Any working vine witch ought to have the counterspell. It’s all part of the game, isn’t it?”

He blinked back at her. “Game, madame?”

“Oh, come now. Everyone does it. A little jinx here and there to keep the competition on their toes. I myself had to rid three acres of aphids in January, if you can believe it. Perhaps you’ve found a new vine witch to work the property. Someone who can take care of it?”

Jean-Paul had no immediate response. His good manners fought against his intellect’s desire to put the irrational woman straight on the matter. But he was getting better at holding his tongue. He understood he was the outsider. A man from the city, with city ways and city thoughts he must keep to himself to get along in the country. “I’m afraid we run a simple winery here.”