“Neither do I, and if I did manage to destroy your business, I would court the scorn of an army of old Frenchwomen. My grandmother would haunt me, and this is not a fate I would wish on any man.”
Rye took a final sip of his brandy, not sure what to make of the conversation. “Somebody wants me utterly disgraced.”
“I am not that somebody, though it strikes me that you should tell your old women of your concerns.”
They are not my old women. “Why involve them in what could quickly become a matter of honor?”
“Une affaire d'honneur. Bah. This is how Englishmen attempt to make their drunken stupidity appear brave. The old ladies have granddaughters and goddaughters in service, working as lady’s maids and companions. They hear everything. The nephews and grandsons are fencing masters, dancing masters, and drawing masters in the best English households, and they hear even more. Whoever speaks against you does not want to confront you over pistols or swords, so perhaps your foe is a woman.”
Not a cheerful thought, but worth pondering. Rye had accomplished what he’d come to do, so he rose and set his glass on the sideboard. “I have been notably careful not to give offense to any ladies.”
“You are a monk,” Fournier said, getting to his feet. “This is not good for the animal spirits. The French and English parts of you would agree on that. Might your French half do me a favor, Goddard?”
“If I cannot meet demand at the Coventry, I will tell Dorning to maintain an overflow contract with you.” Rye could make that offer because he knew damned well he could meet the Coventry’s demand, easily.
“Most generous of you, but that is not the favor I seek. Would you put in a word for me at the Aurora Club?”
“Is that request an ambush, Fournier?” Though the Aurora already had several Frenchmen on its rolls, as well as the occasional German professor and at least one American whose fortune had origins in trade.
“I merely make a polite request, Goddard. I must ingratiate myself with the club set if I want such organizations to purchase my champagne. I cannot aspire to the more exalted institutions in St. James’s, but one must make a start. My sons, should I be so blessed, can build on the foundation I lay, but not if I neglect to purchase the bricks.”
Every Frenchman was a philosopher at heart, according to Tante Lucille. “I will vouch for your business integrity and gentlemanly demeanor. I will not criticize your champagne.”
Fournier clapped him on the back. “You will damn with faint praise, eh? I will not attempt to sell my wine to the Aurora, you understand, but I will learn of the house parties, who has a daughter making a come out, and so forth. Then I send a short letter humbly offering my wares, and business does not intrude on a social venue. The English must have their crotchets, non?”
Much business transpired in the clubs, which Fournier would soon realize. Rye suspected, however, that Fournier’s motivation was subtler than mere mercantile ambition. He would offer his wares, but he would also inch closer to acceptance in the middling level of English society where much of the work was done, and increasingly, much wealth also accumulated.
“I will walk out with you,” Fournier said, escorting Rye to the front door and passing him his greatcoat. “I have an appointment at Angelo’s. Do you fence, Goddard?”
“I do not.” Rye did not have time, and—might as well be honest—he had no taste for turning a lethal pursuit into mere sport, nor any longing for the company of those who did.
“So sérieux, Goddard.” Fournier donned a flowing black cape and tapped a top hat onto his head, which made his height even more formidable. He tilted the hat at a jaunty angle and wrapped a maroon silk scarf about his neck. The embroidery on the scarf echoed the pattern of his waistcoat, a detail few Englishmen would have aspired to.
His finishing touch was a cherrywood walking stick with a dark red gemstone set into the top.
“Garnet,” Fournier said, winking. “I cannot afford rubies, but the garnet is said to bring peace, health, and prosperity to the home. Perhaps if I acquire those blessings, a wife won’t be far behind.”
He led the way out into the dreary day, tipping his hat to passing ladies and generously rewarding the crossing sweepers. Rye stalked along at Fournier’s side, wondering why an exponent of a foreign and defeated nation should strut around London as if he’d been given the freedom of the city, while a knighted soldier endured slander and falsehoods.
“You don’t miss France?” Rye asked as they waited for a phaeton to rattle past.
“I miss France every day, but I thank the good God that I have a livelihood and my health. Too many men brood for too long, Goddard, and that is not my nature. I go to fence with Philippe Deschamps, a former officer in the Grande Armée. Perhaps you know him? He was once a charming young rascal, and now he’s all sour and silent. Woman trouble, one supposes, along with a surfeit of bitter regrets. He should drink more champagne.”
“Is that your solution to all woes?”
“You have a better one?”
A quiet hour with Ann Pearson had done much to restore Rye’s sense of pleasure in life. “Not at the moment. Give Deschamps my regards.”
“I will do that, and, Goddard?” Fournier stepped close. “The bottling technique of Madame Clicquot, with turning the bottles and the ice?”
“Icy brine. What of it?”
“You do this with your champagne?”
Champagne had fizz, but it also tended to muddiness, due to the dead yeast that remained after the first fermentation. Madame Clicquot’s technique, turning the bottles upside down to allow the sediment to settle in the neck, where it was more easily removed, was only a few years old.
“We use her technique,” Rye said, “and see much less waste as a result. We immerse the neck of the upside-down bottle in freezing brine. The frozen lees are disgorged naturally before the sugar is added for the next phase.”
Fournier was listening intently, also—for once—scowling. “This undertaking is complicated.”
This undertaking, and the desire to learn the details of the new process, were also at least half the reason for Fournier’s jovial welcome. To have that motive in plain sight was something of a relief.
“I will send you a letter of introduction, Fournier, so your winemakers can pay a call on my own and discuss the innovations in detail. Turning the bottles and so forth is tedious, but the results are worth it.”
Fournier took his hand. “My grandmother would have liked you. Good day, Goddard, and thank you.”
He sauntered away, exuding great good cheer, while Rye turned his steps for home and pondered the encounter. Ann might be able to make sense of it, while Rye was puzzled. Fournier had presented himself as more of an ally than a competitor, and yet, he was off to frolic with Deschamps. Was that a casual connection? A warning?
Could a woman be behind Rye’s troubles?
Rye was arguing with Otter over the need to learn Latin—the boys, with the exception of Victor, were already fluent in French—when another aspect of the meeting with Fournier dawned upon him.
Fournier had not once referred to Rye as either Colonel or Sir Orion. The entire conversation had been conducted with last names only, and Rye had been comfortable with that.