The Winemaker's Wife(92)

“But—”

Inès began to cry, and instead of coming closer, Edith backed away, still clutching David. “Inès, I love you, but you can’t just snap your fingers and undo what you’ve done.”

“I know. I know! That’s why I have to do something. Anything! I have to redeem myself.” This was what was meant to be. Inès knew it without a doubt. If Inès left the baby with Edith and simply vanished, Edith would have no choice but to become a surrogate mother to the child until Céline returned, and David would have the love he deserved, from someone who was good and kind and worthy of him. “I’m sorry, Edith. Will you watch David for just a little while? I—I just need to go to Ville-Dommange to pack a few things, and then I’ll be back tonight. After that, you won’t have to worry about me again.”

“Whatever you’ve done, whatever has happened, Inès, I will always worry about you. You will always be my friend. I will always love you like a sister.”

Inès smiled sadly. “We both know I don’t deserve that.” She kissed David on the top of his head, inhaling the milky scent of him, and then she backed away.

? ? ?

When Inès pulled down the drive to the Maison Chauveau, the place where she’d built a half-life with a husband who was never coming back, she found a gray-haired man in a suit standing at the front door, jotting something in a notebook. At the sound of her approach, he turned and squinted at her, waiting as she got out of the car and approached tentatively.

“May I help you?” Inès asked.

“Madame Chauveau?” The man was wearing tiny round spectacles and a thin black tie.

“Yes.”

“Ah, hello. I am Georges Godard, the Chauveau family lawyer. Perhaps you remember me from your wedding?”

She wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a crowd, but he was undoubtedly familiar. “Yes, of course, Monsieur Godard.”

“Madame Chauveau, please allow me to say how sorry I am for your loss. I understand that Monsieur Chauveau is deceased.” His expression was compassionate, though it looked a bit forced.

“Yes.” She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“I’ve come by to see if I can offer my assistance.”

“Your assistance?”

“You see, with Monsieur Chauveau deceased, the property will pass to you, his only living family.” He swept his arm around, indicating the entire Maison Chauveau. “He saw to it. It will take some time for the paperwork to be completed, but I wanted to make myself available in case you need some assistance running things.”

She blinked at him. “You’ve wasted no time in coming, have you?”

“Monsieur Chauveau asked me to help you, in case anything ever happened to him. But I trust that your winemaker will be able to assist you, too? A Monsieur Laurent, I believe?”

Inès shook her head. “He’s gone. For good.”

“I see. But you will be staying on, then?”

Inès hesitated. “No. I don’t think I will. Not for now, anyhow.”

“Well, perhaps I can help manage things until your return. For a small fee, of course.”

So that’s what this visit was about. Inès returned his thin smile. “Of course.”

As he launched into a long-winded suggestion of a winemaker who currently worked for Ruinart in Reims, Inès found herself nodding along, her heart not in it. But here, on a silver platter, was a solution she hadn’t even known she was looking for, someone to keep the Maison Chauveau from ruin, even if that came at a price. She would need to ensure that there was a future in this place so that one day, David could inherit his birthright.

Monsieur Godard handed her some papers that smelled of fresh ink. “I took the liberty of drawing these up in case you were interested in entering into an agreement with me to help manage the Maison Chauveau.”

As she took them, she could see this meeting for what it clearly was—a shakedown. But she was too tired to care. She didn’t need Michel’s money. She didn’t deserve it. Let Monsieur Godard profit while she was gone if he wanted to. “I will read them over and sign them tonight.”

His smile faltered. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to sign them now?”

She ignored him. “You can pick them up tomorrow at the Brasserie Moulin, in Reims. Good day, Monsieur Godard.”

“Wait,” he said as she moved past him to let herself into the house. “My wife wanted me to ask you something.” He hesitated. “There’s some gossip in town that the winemaker’s wife was arrested, too.”

Inès swallowed. “Yes.”

“And what of her baby? She was pregnant, yes? My wife heard that Madame Foucault delivered the baby just before Madame Laurent was taken by the German authorities?”

Inès’s dislike of Monsieur Godard had now deepened into disgust, but she realized this was an opportunity. His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, hungry for gossip, and Inès arranged her features into a mask of despondency. “Thank you for your concern, monsieur, but the baby died just yesterday. His lungs were not strong enough in the end.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that.” But Monsieur Godard didn’t look sorry at all; he looked like the cat that had eaten the canary.