On the first morning of the harvest that year, Inès and Céline accompanied Michel and Theo to one of the vineyards that supplied many of their Pinot Meunier grapes, and Inès watched with growing unease as children and old men did the work that in years past had belonged almost wholly to strong, able-bodied laborers.

The harvesters worked in pairs, cutting clusters of plump black grapes from the vines with secateurs and placing them into small baskets, which were then carried by some of the school-aged children to large wicker bins called mannequins.

“They are not working quickly enough,” Theo muttered, exchanging worried glances with Michel.

“We should help,” Céline said.

“Non.” Theo turned away. “You will need to save your strength. We have our own to harvest, too.”

“Yes, we should return to our domaine,” Michel said. “This batch should begin arriving soon. We must prepare.”

Inès knew that the grapes that were being clipped now would go to the press in their cellars by that afternoon, their juice extracted by machines that held four thousand kilos of fruit at a time in circular baskets. Plates would be lowered, crushing the fruit and forcing their juice down the sides and base of the press. The first hundred liters or so, full of impurities from the skins, would be discarded, and then the cuvée—the juice richest in sugar—would begin to flow into open tanks. Once two thousand fifty liters had been extracted, a final pressing or two would produce five hundred additional liters of a fruitier liquid called the taille. All the runs would be clarified and brought deeper into the caves for finishing.

There, Theo would start the fermentation process, and by November, the wine—still without its sparkle—would be racked to age, awaiting a series of tastings by Theo and Michel, who together would decide on the final blend that would make up the champagne from the 1940 harvest. It was a fascinating, complex process filled with lots of strict rules and regulations Inès was still trying to understand.

“I’m worried,” Inès said from the passenger seat as they rode home, all four of them crammed into Michel’s Citro?n. “The workers were losing so many grapes.”

“It was a doomed harvest from the start.” Michel’s tone was grim, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. “Anyhow, they were doing their best. Now we’ll have to do the same.”

There was silence for a moment.

“But what will we do if we don’t get as many grapes as we expected we would?” Inès asked.

Michel looked at her in the passenger seat. “We will make do.”

“But how?” Inès persisted.

In the back seat, Theo cleared his throat, and Michel glanced at him before turning to Inès. “Darling, it’s not your concern.”

“But of course it is,” Inès persisted, though she could see her husband’s face darkening. “Why won’t you talk to me about any of this, Michel? I just want to help. The Maison Chauveau is my future as much as it is yours.”

She’d meant the words as an expression of solidarity, but as he shook his head, he only looked angry. It seemed to be his default reaction to her most of the time these days.

It hadn’t been like this at the beginning. Michel had seemed enchanted by her inexperience. When she’d asked questions, he’d been happy to answer, explaining complicated steps of the champagne-making process in a way that allowed her to understand.

But things had begun to change just after war was declared. Now, when she inquired about something, he usually answered curtly, dismissively. She knew he had a lot on his mind, but it hurt. She missed the way they’d once laughed together, confided in each other, but that had only lasted for the first few months of their marriage anyhow. What if that had never been real, and this was what the future had in store for her?

“You’ll just have to trust me, Inès,” Michel said at last, his voice tight. “I have it handled.”

“But—” Inès began.

“I’m sure we will make the best of what we have at the end, Inès,” Céline interrupted from the back seat. “We’ll be able to salvage something beautiful. We always do. You needn’t worry.”

Inès wondered if she was imagining the condescension in the other woman’s tone. And who was she to speak for Michel and Theo, as if she was one of them, three against one? “Yes, thank you, Céline,” Inès said stiffly. “Quite helpful.” She turned to stare out the window so no one in the car could see the tears of frustration in her eyes.

Back at the Maison Chauveau twenty minutes later, Michel and Theo headed for the cellars to make their final preparations to receive the grapes for the press, while Céline accompanied Inès into the main house. Despite the shortage of available food, they’d managed to assemble the ingredients for a giant vat of rutabaga and turnip soup and several loaves of bread to feed the workers who would arrive the next day to begin harvesting on the Maison Chauveau’s own plots.

They started off working side by side as they peeled and chopped the vegetables, the only sound the steady slip-slip of their knives.

“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” Céline said, breaking the uneasy quiet between them.

Inès didn’t look at her. “Yes, well, I don’t think I’m wrong to be worried.”