The Vineyards of Champagne by Juliet Blackwell

Author:Juliet Blackwell [Blackwell, Juliet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-01-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-seven

The attic space itself was like the rest of the house, but more so: Objects were piled high, a few covered with sheets, most not. They zigzagged their way between piles of musty books and old magazines, cardboard boxes and decrepit small appliances, the air smelling of dust and abandonment.

Rosalyn moved a box aside and jumped back in alarm.

“A mouse?” Blondine asked.

“No . . . a painting.”

A stern-looking older woman stared out of a gold-framed oil painting, tight curls on the side of her head, lace at her throat and wrists.

“Speaking of the veuve Clicquot,” said Blondine, peering over her shoulder. “That looks very much like a famous portrait of her. She was . . . intimidante.”

“This one certainly looks intimidating. In English we would say ‘formidable,’ but that word means something different in French.”

“Back in the day, women in portraits were either young and beautiful or old and scary.” Blondine gazed at the portrait, her head tilted to one side. “I’m not sure what that means, really, but maybe this woman was also a widow, ready to rule the world.”

“And more than a little annoyed,” said Rosalyn.

Blondine laughed. “Yes, more than a little annoyed. I said those wealthy widows were impressive, not that they were a lot of fun to be around.”

They made their way farther into the cluttered attic room, pushing aside a sewing mannequin, a baby’s cradle, and a stack of dining chairs.

Blondine picked up what looked like a large scrapbook that was sitting on a small cupboard. “Oh, my grandmother had one of these.”

“What is it?” Rosalyn came to see the book, which held embroidered scraps of linen.

“A young woman’s journal, from nineteen twenty-seven. These are samples of how to fold napkins for different sorts of occasions. It’s the sort of thing a well-brought-up young lady was expected to know before marriage. Can you imagine a life like that?”

“It’s a far cry from Pilates classes and Netflix marathons—that’s for sure. But it’s also sort of sweet, thinking of a girl putting that book together.”

Blondine nodded and replaced the scrapbook where she had found it.

Part of Rosalyn wanted to flee the dusty attic—now that Blondine had put the fear of fire in her head, she felt a certain sense of urgency—but another part of her wanted to sit and sort through these boxes. Because while it was junk, it was old French junk.

“We are looking for a big black trunk, yes?” Blondine asked, noting her distractedness.

“Right. According to Madame Bolze, it should be in the corner.”

“There are four corners.”

“True. Divide and conquer,” Rosalyn replied. “I’ll take these two corners and you take those two.”

At long last, they located the steamer trunk hidden beneath a pile of old curtains.

It took both of them to lug the heavy trunk a few inches away from the wall so they could open the lid. Rosalyn unlatched the big clasp, then paused.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Blondine.

“I don’t know, really. I just needed a moment.”

“Take your moment, then,” Blondine said. “But the sooner we open it, the sooner we can get out of this firetrap.

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