by Helen Fripp
‘You, François Clicquot, are a known dilettante, a dangerous radical and a melancholic.’ Moët swept the papers off the table. ‘These are worthless.’
Even Maman looked shocked.
‘How dare you, Monsieur! Enough!’ Papa exclaimed, colouring with anger as Philippe scrabbled to gather the papers up. He squared up to him, ready for a fight.
‘What’s her favourite colour?’ François interrupted.
Moët regarded him with contempt. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. I don’t know. She’s a woman, she likes gold, and diamonds.’
‘The colour of a slice of cucumber when it’s held up to the sun. Her favourite grape is Pinot Noir, she named her new foal after the fruit she tasted on my land. She loves Rousseau and prefers lace-up boots to shoes that pinch.’
‘All very touching, until you need to put food on the table. It seems my fiancée’s parents have allowed Nicole to get to know you a little too well.’
‘She is never out of my sight, or without a chaperone, Monsieur Moët…’ Maman pleaded.
‘Apart from when I swam with him in the lake,’ said Nicole. ‘Or the day we stole the boat for a picnic on the Vesle, or the full moon when we listened for budburst in the vines at midnight.’
Papa raised his hand, in possession of himself again. He gave Moët the conciliatory smile Nicole had seen him use when his clerks came to him with a dispute at his mills. ‘Monsieur Moët, I can only apologise. My eldest girl is good like her mother, but my youngest is a little too wilful, like me. Please apologise, Nicole, and let’s find a way to settle this amicably.’
Nicole steeled herself, trusting her father. ‘Monsieur Moët, I am sorry. I should never have sent the letter to you.’
‘No you should not. You should be careful, leading men on.’
Papa held up a settlement paper. ‘You are angry, Monsieur Moët, and rightly so. In business, there would be a financial penalty for reneging on a contract. My dowry to the Clicquot family was to be thirty thousand livres. If ten thousand of that was redirected to your business at Epernay, would that redress the broken contract?’
Monsieur Moët quickened. ‘It’s not just about the money. I’m sure in time that my affection would have been reciprocated…’
‘There are vineyards, too,’ her father said, tapping the paper.
‘Which ones?’ interrupted Monsieur Moët, putting on his spectacles.
Papa pointed to the figures they’d noted down. ‘We just finished measuring today, so it’s all up to date.’
‘Is this one really 204 pieds du Roi? That is more sizeable than I thought.’ Moët scooped up some soil and ran it through his fingers, tasted a little on his tongue. ‘Grand cru. These vineyards, especially Tois-Puits, would be wasted on these two novices. They’d kill the lot within a year.’
Papa smiled. ‘It would certainly put my mind at rest to see them pass on to good hands. The vineyards would have been amusing, a hobby, but they will be well provided for without them. And I would feel, along with the money, that I had bought myself out of a contract honourably, should you accept.’
‘You’ll send the papers directly and agree on all three vineyards?’
‘It’s the least we could do.’
Nicole felt she was going to explode. He didn’t deserve this, despite her transgression. She wouldn’t be the first girl to break off an engagement, nor the last. But François squeezed her hand to steady her.
Moët sniffed and raised his chin to make himself taller, refusing to look at Nicole. ‘I see the young couple are hell-bent on their course and I have no choice but to wish them every happiness they can hope for. Due to their meetings, it would be impossible for me to take the girl now. I can only withdraw and accept reasonable compensation.’
‘Graciously said, Monsieur Moët. Please, take the horse. We can get another for the barouche later,’ said Papa, shaking his hand.
‘Send the papers directly to my office,’ he instructed, kissing Nicole’s hand. ‘You have a lifetime’s lessons to learn, my dear. Allow me to demonstrate the first, that even you can be bought and sold.’
‘Don’t threaten us,’ François confronted him. ‘There are things we have that you will never buy. You know she’s special, and one day I’ll make her Queen of Reims.’
‘My dear François, you’ll ruin her,’ said Monsieur Moët, walking away.
Papa caught François’ arm. ‘Let him go. You have Nicole and he has nothing. Those vineyards are worthless, too, apart from Rilly. The Clicquots still own the best vineyards in Champagne, everyone knows that, and they will be yours. Use them to make the finest vintage – the sweetest revenge needs time to mature.’
François scowled. ‘I know you’re right, but I still hope the bastard gets fruit rot; he doesn’t deserve a sou from you.’
‘Come on,’ said Papa, kissing Maman on the cheek. ‘Remember twenty years ago, just here, when I begged you to marry me and your parents, quite rightly, disapproved of me?’
‘You were a rogue then and it’s no different now,’ said Maman with the ghost of a smile. Then to François, ‘It’s done, so make sure you prove me wrong and make her happy.’
It wasn’t quite the triumph Nicole had imagined. The way Monsieur Moët looked when she apologised to him for the letter betrayed something unexpected. He was hurt, and Natasha had always told her that was more dangerous than anger. She tucked the uncomfortable feeling away in a corner of her heart and promised herself she’d make up for it sometime in the future. Natasha would say ‘what goes around comes around’.
Antoine worked through the night to make the cellar beautiful for the wedding. Candles lit the place where Nicole had first taken refuge on the day of the revolution. She’d since learned that the cellar was actually owned by the Clicquots, just another piece of the journey that had led her to this point in her life, which felt so unaccountably lucky. It was Thermidor, sixth year of the republic, though everyone knew it was really August, in the year 1798.
She peeped into the cellar from behind the curtain and saw Jean-Rémy Moët sitting straight-backed next to Monsieur Olivier from the tasting committee. Only she knew what it cost him to be there. He was just one of the many dignitaries invited by the Ponsardin and Clicquot families. Nicole had her own way with her choice of husband, but the wedding was her mother’s.
Such a fuss, hidden away in the cellar so that her mother could bring in Priest Lescelles from the cathedral. He was hiding like a criminal now that the cathedral was the Temple of Reason. He no longer spat fire and brimstone at his congregation, but there was plenty of opportunity to glower about heathens heading for eternal damnation after the revolution. The heart had been ripped out of the church, but the hidden priest was her mother’s coup. Not just anyone could sneak him out of hiding for a wedding. It took time and resources – and the Clicquots and the Ponsardins had both – she and François would never have to worry about money. This was the coming together of two great families of Reims and her mother wasn’t going to let anyone forget it.
None of it mattered today. Nicole was glad they were getting married in a cellar rather than the cathedral. They had met and courted in the vineyards amongst the skylarks. Spent months watching the leaves turn from acid green to yellow and red, the grapes grow mellow, the poppies in the cornfields turn from crimson to drooping purple. They had helped turn the presses, overseen the blend, watched the fermentation once, then twice. Despaired at blown corks, spoiled champagne and late-spring hailstorms, rejoiced at carts of green bottles heading for the ports, danced to the accordion at the harvest feast of St Rémi.
Who would have thought that she, the smallest and plainest of her cohort, would marry for love?
Love or otherwise, it didn’t matter to her mother. The Clicquots were a prominent family, worthy of the Ponsardins, according to Maman’s measures, which were harsh.
François’ father was obsessed with his vast, lucrative textile business, as was Papa. They spent many happy evenings comparing notes, and ever
ything was just right.
That Papa was delighted was the icing on the cake. Nicole would have married François whatever anyone thought, but she and Papa had a special bond and everyone told her they were alike. She hoped so. Papa was shrewd, dynamic and a leader of men.
Priest Lescelles arranged the gleaming offertory vessels and opened his Bible on the makeshift altar. He had anointed the kings of France in Reims Cathedral with the sacred Sainte Ampoule. Now he was hidden in a cellar. Fortunes rise and fall in a heartbeat. Nothing could ever stay the same. Traditions of hundreds, maybe thousands, of years had been overturned the day of the revolution. Life was uncertain. Natasha had always warned her of that. But today was her day and she was marrying François and it was perfect.
She walked steadily up the aisle, thanking herself for the sturdy boots hidden under her dress, grateful Maman hadn’t noticed she’d swapped them for her silk slippers. If she did now, then tant pis, too late. Claudine had made her dress from layers of sheer ivory muslin in the empire style she loved, fitted low across her shoulders, and she felt as light and seductive as a glass of champagne. François was waiting for her at the altar, and he would take it off her tonight. She felt that everything she had done in her life so far was propelling her to this moment, like a sunlit current in the river that would always have found its way to the sea.
Trestle tables with white tablecloths were laid out in the vineyard at Verzenay for the wedding breakfast. The vines were in full flower and the air was filled with the scent of lemon and vanilla and summer. Bunting fluttered in the vines, wine bottles glinted in the sun, silver salvers were piled high with delicacies, and conversation brimmed above the lark song.
‘Look,’ said François.
Natasha had insisted the cake should be a secret until now, and he took her to see it. There were five tiers, and around each cake were crimson grapes hanging from icing vines.
‘Did you tell her about the bright red grapes you showed me?’ she asked, surprised.
‘No, and you destroyed the last of the evidence when you spat them out! Just a coincidence?’
‘It never is with Natasha.’
If it was one of Natasha’s signs or spells, it made Nicole feel uncomfortable. She picked up François’ violin to distract herself. ‘Play for us?’
An extra row of tables was set out for the vineyard workers. Xavier was already drunk, whirling Natasha, protesting, to the strains of the violin.
Afternoon turned to evening, a big yellow moon rose, moths flung themselves at the candelabras and the accordion had everyone jumping to its bellows. When the night dew clung to the black shawls of the seated widows, making them shiver, the crowd began to disperse.
François wrapped a warm cloak around her bare shoulders. ‘Time to go, Madame Clicquot.’
He handed her up into the barouche and put a black velvet blanket over her knees. She felt like a diamond in a box.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
They waved goodbye to the wedding crowd and old Widow Joubert caught her bouquet and cackled, much to the disappointment of Nicole’s unmarried school friends. Her sister Clémentine beamed her beautiful smile, Xavier gave them a lurid thumbs up, Natasha traced a figure of eight around them with an amulet, Maman dabbed her tears, and Papa waved enthusiastically, blowing kisses. Monsieur Moët had already left.
Alone at last. Nicole tucked herself into François’ arm and watched the moon blur as the carriage jolted.
He turned off the main track, and Nicole counted ten vineyards before they came to a shepherd’s hut.
‘Is this it?’ she laughed as he spun her down.
‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered.
He led her forward and she opened her eyes. Lanterns dotted the walls, throwing prisms of light all around. The floor was covered in Russian rugs and in the corner was a big silver urn, etched with patterns that looked like Natasha’s salt bag. In the middle, a low bed, piled high with furs and a window in the roof revealing an expanse of sky above it. A fire cracked and spat in the chimney.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, giddy with the romance of the place.
‘Come.’
He led her to the big urn, bubbling and warm. He turned a little tap and gave her a patterned glass.
The warm brandy made her woozy and as she sipped, he silently took the hairpins out of her chignon, caressed the place on her shoulder where her hair fell, then kissed her brandy lips. Putting his arm around her, he led her to the furs, tenderly laid her down and stood back to regard his sultry wife with yearning, blue-green eyes.
‘Come here,’ she whispered above the fire’s roar.
He took her, there and then, with her dress still on, the stars astonished above them. He took her dress off and did it again, more slowly this time, and she was dewy and slippery and the stars shattered into a thousand pieces just for them.
They talked under the furs until the sun came up, together, sticky and warm. Nicole had never thought it was possible to be as happy as this.
He brushed her hair away from her eyes. ‘It will be a good harvest this year.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There are more shooting stars than usual. I’ve watched all my life from here. The more there are in June, the better the harvest.’
‘How long has this hut been like this?’
‘It’s my little piece of Russia. The rugs and furs are collected from my travels. They appreciate champagne even more than the French. And certainly more than the English. The urn over there, that’s a samovar. Every Russian house has one and it’s always bubbling. It’s an extraordinary place, Babouchette. Like the east and the west have collided and they’ve taken the best of both. We’ll go one day, together, sell them our best champagne. I’ll take you on sleigh rides and show you minarets and we’ll drink in underground bars, side by side with peasants, and tell them about Rousseau.’
‘Russia…’ She dreamed. She tangled herself around him and the sun began a new day in vermilion rays.
Chapter 4
The Tasting Committee
October 1799
Republican date: Brumaire, year VIII
‘My wife, Madame Clicquot.’ François introduced Nicole to the assembled tasters.
They nodded, tight-lipped, not bothering to disguise their annoyance at the presence of a woman. After over a year of marriage, people still found it difficult to accept that she was just as much the boss as her husband. In the wine calendar, the wine tasting committee was the most important moment of the year. Only the most highly respected ‘noses’ in the region were invited to arbitrate on which wines would make the finest vintages and which would be relegated to become a common vin de table. That such an upstart, never mind a female one, should be admitted to the sacred circle was, in their opinion, an outrage.
Nicole brazened out the raised eyebrows, harumphs and turned backs with smiles and greetings, François shooting her admiring glances for her boldness.
Never mind the revolution, that Napoléon was waging war in Egypt and that uprisings and lawlessness were constantly bubbling up across France. The tasting committee must endure, tradition must be upheld and young women most certainly should not be admitted. Jean-Rémy Moët, their de facto leader, encouraged this viewpoint whenever he had the opportunity and, more, was constantly petitioning her and François to sell him their best vineyards, always wanting to ‘help’ in any way he could. That was how she knew their business was becoming increasingly respected. She had Monsieur Moët good and worried.
The base wine was decanted with a slow gurgle, the bottleneck wiped reverently between each pour, solemn as a church.
Nicole sniffed the first glass, rolled it around her tongue.
‘Pinot Meunier,’ she said quietly, afraid to be proved wrong.
François nodded in encouragement.
The committee spat and pronounced their verdict. ‘Silky, blackberries. Single wine, grand cru, but not for this c
hampagne.’
The next wine was poured. Nicole sniffed, rolled and spat.
‘A complex Pinot Blanc. Clover and cornflowers shared the soil with the vines. It will make an interesting top-note to the champagne. I recommend we include it.’
The venerable Monsieur Olivier, the head taster, took another noisy slurp, pressing the glass to his quivering nose, then spitting.
‘I agree, this will be good for the blend. I know the vineyard, she’s right about the flowers too.’ He grinned at the committee. ‘Your husband has given you a kind head-start, chère Madame Clicquot.’
‘He doesn’t need to. I can taste it, right here in the grapes.’
The next wine was poured, then the next. She called each one correctly, more confident as time went by.
‘If nothing else, she’s got a good memory,’ said Monsieur Olivier. ‘We have tasted ten wines, and each one has been on the nose.’
François laughed as they came out into the sun and looked out over the Clicquot vineyards. ‘It was more like they were sucking lemons than tasting wine.’ He kissed her. ‘They’ll just have to get used to my wife being more talented than them.’
She was triumphant. It was the result of two years of hard work, of shadowing his every move in the vineyards and at the press to learn. She learned about the terroir, the conditions and ‘magic’ that made a grand cru vineyard, the press and the blend, and the qualities of each varietal, nuanced by the soil that nourished them. It was magic, alchemy, science and chance in myriad colours.
Their fledgling wine business was growing, and it was their shared joy. They rode out every day side by side, kicking up dust on chalky paths to check every detail. They railed at spring hailstorms, delighted at budburst, watched the tendrils as they wound themselves around the posts and created a solid foundation for the plants to grow. They joked with the workers, understood their trials and tribulations, prayed with them to the harvest saints at church on Sundays and talked into the night about the finer points of viticulture. François made it sound like poetry. Sometimes, too tired to go to bed after their long days, they made love by the firelight and woke in the morning, still in each other’s arms, with the embers glowing white and hot.