by Helen Fripp
‘I am not to leave without an answer,’ he said importantly.
‘You can tell Xavier of course I will come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can you remember that?’
The boy hissed in derision. ‘Easy.’
Perfect. She could escape Paris for a while, honour François at the parade, then put it all behind her in a deal with Moët.
The day of the St Vincent Fête des Vignerons was bright and cold. The patron saint of vintners was smiling on them, people said. Last year, there was hail and it was a terrible year. The bright January sunshine was a good omen and people crossed themselves as they stepped in time to the tambours and cornets, past the mairie with its tricolore snapping smartly in the breeze.
Nicole’s bonnet and scarlet Bouzy robe gave her a kind of anonymity and importance. The town was in festive mood, all whispers about François forgotten, at least for today. The vintners had actually given her this position in the parade to honour his memory, so perhaps she’d been a little hasty in condemning the whole of Reims as her enemy. The first woman ever to lead the parade – François would have been so proud. He would have delighted, too, at their triumph over tradition.
Girls held ribbons sewn to floats piled with barrels, wine bottles, winter flowers and vines. The tasting committee smiled in greeting, wearing robes coloured according to their villages, or leather aprons and caps depending on their status. She pictured Thérésa laughing at their earnest country ways, but Nicole was surprised to realise that she felt at home, even without François at her side.
When the swirl of Natasha’s brass shop handle glinted at her in the sun, she strained to see her face at the counter. To her delight, Natasha ran out of the shop, bolted the door hastily and fell into step with her.
‘The prodigal returns. Reims is glad to have you back, Babouchette.’
Nicole looked at her friend. So different from Thérésa, and with so much unsaid between them.
‘Those are the first words you’ve spoken to me since François.’
‘I’m so sorry. My heartbreak was so deep that I didn’t have the strength for a friend, and I can’t forgive myself. I hope that you can. It was like Daniel died all over again. The memories of cradling his head, blood on the street.’
Natasha fingered her horseshoe necklace with trembling hands and made a quick movement, like a figure of eight, in front of both of them. Nicole noticed a few tiny grains of salt form the shape.
‘We have both suffered,’ said Nicole. ‘What should have brought us together set us apart, it seems. But let’s not talk about it, I’m just glad you’re here now.’
Natasha linked arms with her and squeezed her close. ‘I’m glad, too. I’ve missed your rebellious ways. The town has been a little too ordered without you and your wild schemes. You are submitting to Moët, I hear.’
Nicole gasped. ‘Not submitting. How did you know?’ she whispered, not wanting her Bouzy guild to hear before the deal was done.
‘I have a way of seeing, even when you are far away.’
‘Giving away patisseries in return for gossip?’ laughed Nicole.
‘Let’s just say that sugar loosens the tongue.’
‘Nothing is settled. But you’re right, of course. You always are! I’m meeting him in a couple of weeks to discuss terms. I don’t have the heart any more.’
By now the parade was almost coming to a halt in the cathedral square and the band was deafening.
‘Your business is your heart. Meet me later, at this address.’ Natasha pressed a note into her hand and melted away into the crowd.
How wonderful to have her old friend back! But why this mystery?
As soon as the ceremony was over and she was safely at home, Nicole opened the note and grabbed her cloak. She was glad to escape the townhouse in Reims, where François’ ghost still lived.
She’d recognised the address immediately – Antoine and Claudine. There was rarely a time when she entered that house and something momentous didn’t happen… François standing by the fireplace with his violin, eyes full of mischief. She smiled to herself, then quickened her step. A good memory! A picture of him, so vivid, that she could smile at it without wiping away a tear.
She clattered up the stairs, two at a time. Claudine was waiting.
‘Hush, what a racket! You’re not ten years old any more!’
‘I was so looking forward to seeing you. Plus, two stairs at a time is tradition.’ She smiled at her old friend.
‘Paris has done you the world of good, I see. Now, I’ve got a pot boiling on the stove, come and get warm. I’ve got your chair ready.’
‘Where’s Antoine?’
‘You won’t see him, he’s in the cellars. He’s got thousands of the things to shake and turn for riddling, and you know how fastidious he is.’
‘It’s why he’s my foreman.’ Nicole choked on her words. She thought of the cellars, full of magic, Antoine slowly turning, faithful and knowledgeable, as much a part of her life as eating or drinking. Then there was her riddling experiment, untouched since the day she’d hidden it in the basement, so full of hope, thinking she could save François. Was she really going to give it all up?
Natasha was waiting by the fire for her, dark eyes reading the flames, sitting in François’ chair. ‘This is where he used to sit, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know? He was sitting right there the day I met him.’
Natasha snorted. ‘It’s not magic. If that’s your chair, where else was he going to sit? Now. I have a proposal for you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘I’m getting old.’
‘No…’
Natasha waved her hand. ‘I’m getting old. It’s a simple fact. Happens to everyone, even me. I want to go back to Russia and you will help me.’
‘You sound sure about that.’
Natasha threw something invisible into the fire and it leapt. ‘I am. What I have to say will be irresistible to you.’
‘François is in Russia?’
‘A joke at his expense?’
‘A relief to be able to.’
‘You are healing, slowly. He will never leave you, but one day you will walk with him at your side without grieving.’
Nicole took her friend’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘Thank you for your wise words. I know you are right, but I can’t imagine it. I almost don’t want to imagine it, because then a little part of him will be gone.’
Natasha stroked her hair. ‘Patience. You will let him go when the time is right.’
Nicole gave her a watery smile and changed the subject to save her tears. ‘How can I help you get to Russia?’
‘I want to go and see my mother, one more time. She’s ill, possibly dying. We talk across the stars to each other. You can do that if your bond is close, but I want to touch her one more time before she leaves this world.’
‘I will help however I can.’ She knew better than to question Natasha on exactly how she intended to travel to Russia alone through pitched battles at every border along the way.
‘Good, then you are coming with me. And you’re bringing fifty thousand bottles of champagne and wine with you. Louis sent me this to show you – he said you were being your usual troublesome self and wouldn’t look at it if he sent it direct.’
Natasha placed a pink order slip, signed by Louis, on the table. Nicole picked it up – fifty thousand bottles, for the Great Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, St Petersburg. Louis had told her that there were possible markets in Russia, but not that he was actually in the process of securing an order of this magnitude.
‘What! That’s almost my entire stock. In fact, it might not be my stock any more if Jean-Rémy gets his way. It’s only two weeks until we meet to discuss a deal. I’ve been holding off all the time I was in Paris, and in truth, it was me who proposed selling in the first place. Even if I was still in the business, the rumours are that all the ports are closing and trade is closed to all French exports now that the British a
nd Russians are talking of allying.’
‘Exactly. We have to move quickly.’
‘But Louis had to come home because it was too dangerous for the French. And now he’s secured a big order?’
‘He told you there is still a massive market for your wines, even though the official line is no French exports. But when he heard you were thinking of selling, he didn’t want you to act rashly and throw in a big order as a sweetener to Moët, or let slip that Russia was even a possibility. Moët would be all over it like a dog on heat and any advantage for you would be lost. He waited ’til you were safely back here amongst your friends. And he is a very good friend to you, my dear Nicole. The order’s right here in black and white in front of you. If you take me, I can get us safe passage. I still have my contacts there.’
‘Natasha, there are other ways you can get to Russia. It doesn’t have to involve me, or a massive shipment. Perhaps I could accompany you, but I’d have to leave Mentine and…’
‘And nothing. You’re wasting time.’
‘Everyone seems to think they can push me into returning when I just want to go.’
Natasha shook her head in frustration. ‘Do you want to go when you hear that Moët is intending to sack Marie for running what he calls a “house of tolerance”? She depends on you. Or that he intends to build a house over your finest vineyards in Bouzy, the one where yours and François’ shepherd’s hut is. The one with the vine that grows the sour crimson grapes? Or that any workers who transfer with the deal will work longer hours for less pay and that many will be without work? Even if you don’t care about yourself – and you obviously don’t – you are not free. Many of the town depend on you.’
‘My life is in Paris now.’
‘You’re tiring of it already. I know you. I can see.’
A journey to Russia with Natasha, accompanying fifty thousand bottles of her finest? Running the trade blockades? Nicole thought hard, back to her final week in Paris, the swirl and glitter. Really, it was all a veneer. Natasha was right – she knew her, more than anyone in Paris did. Deep down, they all saw her as a curiosity from the country, a peasant girl in Paris, only as good as the fashions she chose. Thérésa had hardly noticed when she said goodbye. And Mentine was happily installed with the other children at rue de Babylone for now.
‘For you. For your mother. Let’s try it.’
Natasha narrowed her eyes. ‘For you, too, Babouchette. For us both. And I have found a less demanding partner for you than Monsieur Moët. It seems the whole town think I have your ear. Dear Philippe Clicquot has asked me to petition you on his behalf. I know you’ve always refused his money, but you should let him help. Your father-in-law is desperate to have a stake in the future of the business on behalf of his son and it’s wrong of you to refuse him. You see, the decision is out of your hands.’
‘It seems it is and rather than submitting to Moët, it seems I must submit to you.’
She could blame Natasha, or convince herself she was doing the right thing for Philippe Clicquot and his son’s legacy, or the temptation of the fifty-thousand-bottle sale, but she knew this feeling had begun at the Fête des Vignerons when she had taken her place amongst Champagne’s finest producers. New shoots of hope and ambition, whatever the odds. The excitement of the sale, a chance to beat the competition, new customers to taste the subtleties of her finest creations.
She picked up the sale bill again and studied it for the buyer’s name on the order slip, mentally sifting through her ledgers to make sure they were good payers and would be worth the effort.
Natasha met her hungry gaze. ‘Finally you’re seeing sense.’
Claudine bustled in with a tray of coffee. ‘All settled?’
It was a conspiracy of kindness.
Chapter 8
Contraband
February 1806
Republican date: Revolutionary calendar abolished
Nicole took the same route to Moët’s as she had the day she first met François. It was good to be back amongst the vines, even on this bleak February morning. As the carriage sped through the landscape, she saw in her mind François, a stranger then, pointing out the larks hovering over the poppies. It had been difficult to concentrate on what he was saying with those blue-green eyes smiling into hers, a mellow harvest sun melting the air. He’d explained about the terroir and the different grape varietals, ripe and heavy. Today the vines were dormant and black, the larks were long gone and the meeting with Moët filled her with dread and loneliness. She breathed in the musty smell of damp soil. No matter, the black vines would sprout fresh shoots again soon.
The meeting was at Moët’s own Petit Trianon, the replica Versailles summer house built especially for Napoléon’s visits, an incongruous wedding-cake of a place. Her watery reflection in the mirror pool looked much more sure-footed than she felt as she strode along, gulping in cool air fresh as Vinho Verde.
Moët was waiting, beckoning impatiently at the doorway.
‘Follow me, ma chère, it’s all arranged. You have made a very good decision, one that will benefit your whole family.’
Moët shepherded her like a demented sheepdog, ushering her along with his hand on her elbow. He found time to admire a gallery wall.
‘Just a few miniatures by Isabey,’ he prompted.
Isabey was the darling of the fashionable Paris set. He painted miniature portraits for disproportionately large amounts of money and Moët had a whole wall of them. They were of himself, his family, Joséphine, Napoléon – the most influential man in Champagne and in the business. A word from Napoléon meant thousands of francs’ worth of sales. Monsieur Moët meant to demonstrate that his pockets were deep enough to ruin her, but she wasn’t about to add her vineyards to his riches.
Nicole gave him what he clearly wanted from her by way of response. ‘Very impressive,’ she conceded. ‘Before we go any further, I—’
‘You have been through enough, chère Nicole. I have taken care of every detail for you,’ Jean-Rémy said, handing her a package. ‘Not another word until you’ve opened it.’
Out of politeness, she untied the ribbon. It was a wrapper of fat bulbs.
‘Grapevines are such a bore, and require an awful lot of skill, but these are irises, the highly scented ones. You adore them, I hear. Indulge your growing hobby and plant them yourself, appreciate the soil under your fingernails if you must, but you’ll find these so much more feminine than vines.’
She scrunched them up in their wrapper and handed them back. He had always got her so wrong. How could he think that she would be satisfied with such things? What was she thinking when she even considered marriage, or selling up to him?
‘So thoughtful, Jean-Rémy, but I came to tell you I’m not selling after all.’
‘I don’t expect anything in return. Your feelings have already been made clear to me on that score, but I insist on helping a bright young widow in need. One last thing, and you are free. Please open it and I think you’ll be persuaded.’
He handed her an envelope and she tore it open. It was a cheque for the business and the vineyards, double what they were worth.
‘I’m not selling,’ she repeated, unsure whether he had genuinely not heard her, or was merely pretending.
‘The vineyards will go to rack and ruin, and it will be such a waste – and for what? To play at business when you have no head for it? You’ll find other distractions after the terrible tragedy of losing your husband. This amount will make you an independent woman of means. I present you… your freedom,’ he said with a flourish.
‘Jean-Rémy, I don’t think you can have heard me…’ This man really was a self-regarding pompous arse who was incapable of listening.
‘Take it. Not another word.’
‘I don’t want it. I’m not selling the vineyards. I came back to Reims to run them myself.’
His eyes hardened. ‘Of course you’re selling. You have already agreed and you must understand that a gentleman never renege
s. This isn’t a drawing-room game, Madame, you can’t just change your mind on a whim. A woman has never run a vineyard in Reims. It’s just not how things are done. I shouldn’t have offered you extra, you’re proud of course and you don’t need it. I’ll write it out for the amount we agreed so there is never a question of obligation to me, if that is so odious to you.’ He went to his desk and hastily scratched out a new cheque. ‘Take it. I’m only thinking of you. I won’t be so generous when the vineyards fail and you can’t pay your workers. You’ll be living with debts you can never repay. Your poor parents will be wrapped up in your downfall.’
‘There will be no dramatic downfall, much as you might wish it. And I’m not reneging, I merely told you I was open to talks. My mind is made up. I’m not selling. And my parents fully support my decisions.’
‘That’s true, they have not adhered to the proper conventions in your upbringing, I have observed that in the past – no wonder you are so determined. It’s a trait unbecoming to a woman! I’ll give you more time. I’ve been protecting you from the rumours about your husband, but you should know they say the Clicquots are bad blood. I may have alluded to it before, in anger, but people talk. Stupid superstitions, but you know this town as well as I do. No one will do business with you.’
‘They have nothing else to think about,’ she snapped, incensed. ‘Don’t wait. It’s vines that are in my blood, nothing else. I’ll prove them all wrong.’
Jean-Rémy narrowed his eyes and looked at her for several long seconds. Then he spoke again, more coldly than before.
‘This is a wine town and it’s mine. When you’ve failed, come to me and I’ll buy your vineyards for the small sum they’ll be worth by that time. Until then, I’ll be watching your every foolish move. Good luck.’
Jean-Rémy lit the cheque over the candle and thrust it, flaming, at her face. It hung in the air, caught up by the heat, then dropped in ashes between them.