Page 80 of Echo in the Wind

Zoé led them to a cluster of stands and stalls where farmers and merchants sold a variety of things from bread and cheese to oysters and fish. Summer fruits were available in abundance.

Cloth, too, was displayed, mostly the plain muslin and wool worn by the working class. Occasionally, she glimpsed a seller of lace.

Mingled among the people standing around and shopping were small groups of soldiers, their cream-colored uniforms trimmed in dark green so different from those worn by British soldiers.

Zoé noticed her watching them. “The soldiers you are looking at are from the Régiment de Saintonge that has returned from the American War. My papa told me they served under the comte de Rochambeau who helped the Americans win a battle at a place called Yorktown.”

“Yorktown was a great victory for the Americans and a great loss for the British,” Joanna said.

“Do you mind so much?” asked Zoé.

“I am glad ’tis over, but it cost me my father.” In truth, Joanna had mixed feelings about the war, unpopular as it was in England. France had helped America win her independence, but the war had taken the lives of many of her countrymen. Her father had been killed early in the war at the Battle of Saratoga. Polly Ackerman lost her husband much later but in the same war.

“I am sorry,” said Zoé.

“Let’s just hope there will not be another.”

“Ye have spoken well,” said M’sieur Bequel, standing nearby. “I lost my brother in the war. I wish for no more, but I fear my hope may be baseless.”

“I am sorry,” she told the quartermaster who, for a moment, looked very sad. “I, too, lost a brother who was a soldier.” Lord Hugh’s words came back to her. Would there be another war between England and France? And, if there were, would she be caught between her family in England and Donet in France? She thought of his exchange of fire with Commander Ellis off the coast of Bognor and shuddered. She couldn’t bear to think of Donet fighting against England.

Until he had taken to the sea, Jean had loved walking through the vines with his father. He and Henri would go with him, checking on each stage of the ripening grapes. As Jean walked among the vines with his estate manager, he thought of those earlier days. He had loved the familiar smell of the grapes, harvested in the winter, being pressed and then made into white wine, acidic and undrinkable, but perfect for distillation. Afterward, the distilled spirits, or eau de vie, would be aged in oak casks until the brandy became fine cognac.

That had been a lifetime ago. Today the sun was hidden behind gray clouds, the unripened green grapes long on the vines. In the time he’d been gone, his knowledge had not faded. He found it easy to fall back into the role of the master’s son asking questions of Giroud about the soil and condition of the vines. Only now he was the master.

As Jean thought of it, he preferred the merchant’s role to that of the grower and brandy maker. Transporting the casks from the estate and sailing them to England and other parts of Europe was more to his liking. For that, he wouldn’t have to live in Saintonge. He could retain Giroud and others to handle this end of things. It would be enough if he came several times a year, allowing him to live in Lorient. He would still keep his warehouse on Guernsey and, perhaps, his townhouse in Paris.

“The grapes are doing well,” he remarked.

Giroud, his wiry gray hair hanging in waves to his nape and his scant, short beard adorning his chin, stood next to Jean surveying the vines. “Oui, Monsieur, the grapes they are fine. For the time being, we have enough peasants to tend them. But I must speak to you of another matter, something that has concerned me in the last few years.”

Jean looked into the man’s ageless gray eyes. “What would that be?”

“I can show you as easily as I can explain it.”

Jean swept his arm away from the vines. “Lead on.”

Remounting their horses, they rode to the large warehouse next to the distillery where the brandy was stored and allowed to age. By now, this year’s eau de vie would be in the casks and the three prior years’ yield would be there as well, nearing the time they would sell it.

As they entered the warehouse, Jean looked around seeing the dusty oak casks. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. In the dim light from the windows, there appeared to be twice as many casks as he expected. “Why so many?” he asked Giroud. “Did mon père somehow increase production?”

“Non, Monsieur. While you have been gone, the taxes charged on Cognac’s brandy have trebled. Two years ago, they were raised again so that the growers pay double the amount levied on the vineyards near La Rochelle. Your father stopped shipping in protest even though the demand from Ireland and Holland had grown.”

“Et alors, he was a stubborn man. We will sell the extra stock. Aged longer, it will be more valuable. You have buyers, I assume?”

“Oui, many. Edinburgh, London and Ireland among them. The estate’s cognac is a fine one.”

“Très bien. Join me at dinner and we can discuss it. My initial thought is to change the shipping port from La Rochelle to Tonnay-Charente. ’Tis closer and, since it’s within Saintonge, we’ll pay fewer duties. You can use the existing shippers for now, but eventually I will keep at least one of my ships at the ready.”

Giroud grinned and dipped his head. “It will be done as you say, Monsieur le comte.”

He gave the maître du château a kindly look. “I have been Jean Donet for a very long time, old friend. M’sieur Donet will do. Oh, and tonight you can meet my guest from England, Lady Joanna West.”

Giroud nodded. Jean thought the man would walk away, but he hesitated as if not knowing how to broach whatever was on his mind. “There is something else I must tell you.”

Jean lifted his gaze expectantly. “Oui?”

His expression grave, Giroud said, “Shortly after the carriage accident, I found the body of the driver behind the warehouse. His throat had been slit. I buried him, but I have told no one. I can show you the grave if you would like.”