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Gerard?”
    â€œYes. Nice fellow. Very helpful.”
    â€œWhat did he tell you?” she asked.
    â€œHe said Peregrine is seeking expansion. He thought your two vineyards together would be a powerful force in the wine business.” I was overstating a little but it might stimulate her into telling me something. She didn’t.
    â€œHe pointed out that the two of you don’t compete so there would be every reason to combine.”
    â€œDon’t compete?” Her voice rose.
    I brought back my surprised look. “That’s what he said. You mean you do?”
    She shrugged. “Maybe not.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Is this what you want to talk about? Merger? Takeover? I thought you were interested in how we run the vineyard?”
    Whoops. She was sharper than I had thought. “I am,” I said promptly. “But the emphasis of the articles will be how English companies run vineyards in France. If you’re going to be bought out by a French conglomerate, then I may have to do some rewriting before we go to press.” I hoped that was the right expression.
    She stood up suddenly. She was wearing a light gray sweater and a light green skirt. “If you want to look through the operation, come along. I’ll show you.”
    The Willesford vineyard was quite a contrast to the pristine neatness and sparkling cleanliness of the Peregrine operation. Not that it was dirty or untidy, but it didn’t have that shiny look of constant care and attention. The copper and stainless steel at Peregrine made a big difference, of course. Their metallic glitter conveyed a naturally immaculate appearance whereas the oak vats and barrels at Willesford looked brown and dull and lifeless.
    The floors here were well swept, though. That was one of the first things I looked for. There were no dropped grape skins, stems, or leaves. Nor were any pieces of equipment in need of cleaning or repair. The place appeared to be operating at an optimum level of production.
    Simone led the way on to a catwalk above a row of presses. A dozen enormous vats stood open on either side. The air was sweet and cloying; motors rumbled and the catwalk vibrated. Simone explained that the grapes were crushed and de-stemmed in the bins outside. The red grapes were pumped into the big vats to steep, skins and seeds too. The natural yeasts clinging to the skins would kick off the fermentation and the juice would turn deep red.
    â€œWhite wines are in the next building,” Simone said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the din of machinery. “Their juice has to be pressed from the grapes first and allowed to ferment by itself. That’s called the must. It’s more sensitive and has to be kept cleaner—at a lower temperature, too, to protect the aroma.”
    She hadn’t asked me how much I knew about wine making and I didn’t volunteer any information. Better to let her think I didn’t know much—that way she might talk more.
    In the bottling room, metal conveyor lines clanked and bottles rattled as they were filled, six at a time. Corks were rammed home and foil slipped into place, all mechanically. The next stage was labeling and although none of the equipment was new, it was all running smoothly. Bottles were slid into cardboard cases and automatic folding and sealing completed the operation.
    It was a sketchy tour—American friends would call it a ten-cent tour—and Simone didn’t describe any of the departments. We went to the tasting room, which was open though none of the public was here yet.
    â€œTry this one,” Simone said and I wondered if she thought that plying me with wine was a way of shutting me up.
    It was a white, the Pont Vieux. I recalled that Sir Charles had told me this was one of their table wines and that their best white was Sainte Marguerite. Simone wasn’t doing me any favors, that was clear, though when I had drunk half the glass,