The French House

by Helen Fripp

  A couple of hours into their journey, a battalion of soldiers could be seen marching towards them. Châtelet pulled over to let them go by, but the officer called for them to halt. Nicole eyed them in their scarlet coats and tricorn hats, bored young swaggerers with swords.

  The officer stepped forward and bowed to Châtelet. ‘Papers, Monsieur?’

  Nicole produced them from her bag. ‘You’ll find they’re all in order. This is my cargo, and the driver here is working for me.’

  The soldier shook the papers open, taking his time to scrutinise the documents.

  Natasha drew a secret figure of eight on her skirt. ‘Trouble. I warned you,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s one hell of a big load for a lone peasant and a few female accomplices to handle, is it not?’

  ‘It’s the widow’s coffee, bound for Russia,’ said Châtelet.

  Thérésa jumped down off the wagon. ‘A cargo of mercy. An old woman’s life savings invested in coffee to take to her dying mother and relatives in Russia. She has a long way to go and is weary from the road. Indeed, we are in a hurry to reach Charleville-Mezieres to meet our cargo barge.’

  His expression hardened. ‘Heart-rending. You realise all the trade routes are closed to Russia?’

  ‘We’ll take our chances. Let us pass,’ said Châtelet. ‘On what authority do you stop fellow citizens on the road?’

  The soldier marched up to him, sword drawn. ‘On mine. You are high-handed for a peasant, aren’t you? Hiding something, are we, citizen – or should I say, Seigneur?’

  Châtelet said nothing. The slightest whiff of ‘aristocrat’ would give these bored young thugs a good excuse for mayhem.

  ‘Get off your high horse and kneel.’

  The officer’s men sniggered.

  Châtelet stayed where he was. ‘You do not have the authority.’

  The soldier stroked Châtelet’s throat with his sword. ‘This gives me the authority. Get down, scum, and kneel.’

  Châtelet jumped down, taking his time, and spat in the officer’s eye.

  The officer kicked him down, sword pinning him to the dirt. ‘Filthy, inbred aristo. Think you’re better than me? Lick my boots.’

  Châtelet spat again. The soldier thrust and Nicole looked away as Châtelet cried out in shock. Thérésa’s eyes set in determination and Natasha crossed herself.

  ‘How dare you!’ shouted Thérésa, her voice piercing as a gunshot. ‘Step away this moment, or General Tallien will hear of this outrage! Your rank and name. Now!’

  The officer withdrew his sword from Châtelet’s bleeding chest, but stood his ground.

  ‘We are workers, like you, loyal citizens. Let us pass,’ Natasha pleaded. ‘A good soldier shows his men he is merciful, or the world is lost.’

  ‘He stays where he is, keep back!’ commanded the soldier as Thérésa rushed towards Châtelet. ‘Men, inspect the wagons. They’re hiding something.’

  Châtelet’s blood pooled on the dusty road. Two infantrymen prised open a coffee chest to dig through the coffee beans. Nicole held her breath.

  ‘Satisfied?’ called Thérésa. ‘It seems you don’t believe me. I am Thérésa Tallien. If I say the code word white goose, does that mean anything to you, fool?’

  The officer’s eyes widened and he stepped aside, saluting. ‘Madame Tallien. My sincere apologies. You can’t be too careful…’

  ‘You use your rank to cause trouble, soldier. You may continue this time, but keep a cool head. You are here to protect, not throw your power around like a crazed schoolboy. Instruct your men to leave the medical bag with us, and be on your way.’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  He waved over a young soldier with rosy cheeks who was surely no more than fifteen years old. The boy dropped the leather medical bag at Thérésa’s feet and shuffled backwards, then scuttled back to join the battalion who were already marching away.

  Natasha set to work stemming the blood, prising the wound open to inspect it. Nicole couldn’t watch.

  ‘In future, don’t involve us in your death wish,’ admonished Thérésa as Natasha tore the bandage with her teeth.

  ‘Press hard, here,’ Natasha instructed Nicole.

  Châtelet was barely conscious as they heaved him onto the wagon and made him as comfortable as they could.

  ‘We need to get him to Charleville,’ said Thérésa, ‘as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’ll take the reins,’ said Nicole.

  ‘I would expect nothing less of my country girl. You can really drive four horses?’

  ‘I’ve never done it before, but I’m sure it’s not that different from two.’

  They started slowly. Natasha held Châtelet in her arms, sang him Russian lullabies. After an hour, Nicole’s hands were blistered from holding the reins and relief flooded her when the roofs of Charleville welcomed her, a sunlit canal at its centre.

  ‘He’s hiding something,’ whispered Natasha whilst he slept. ‘Something more. What if he’s related to the family that killed Daniel? Life is full of dead ends, but there are times when things come full circle. Maybe that’s why he’s here, bleeding into my skirt.’

  ‘You have melancholy thoughts,’ tutted Thérésa. ‘Life needn’t be so dull. We faced down danger and here we are.’

  ‘For now,’ said Natasha, squinting at the horizon.

  They reached the canal, where a brightly painted barge was waiting, as arranged, but Nicole scrutinised the scene carefully before going closer.

  People were going about their business, loading and unloading, shouting and swearing as crates bumped up against each other. Great loads were winched backwards and forwards over the canal and lowered onto barges, destined for the port or further inland. It all seemed normal, but did any of these men belong to Moët? Who among them was sent to spy on her, or worse, stop her? There was no way of knowing and all she could do was press on.

  ‘This man can’t travel any further, he desperately needs to rest,’ said Natasha, carefully peeling Châtelet’s soaked bandages to replace them with more. ‘We have to stay the night here.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Thérésa. ‘There’s nothing to him, apart from bone, muscle and grief. I’ll stay here with him and you go on. Two is less conspicuous than four and the barge pilot knows where he’s going. I’ll sign us into the inn as husband and wife and no one will suspect a thing.’

  ‘But you’ve come this far. And how will I know the code word if we get into any more trouble?’

  ‘Oh that. There has to be some advantage to humouring powerful men, apart from jewels and a roof over your head. Politics is a little hobby of mine and I make sure I keep my hand in. My ex-husband loved code words and it can’t hurt to have more than you need of anything.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I saw you when Châtelet helped me onto the carriage.’ Thérésa gave her a knowing look. ‘Jealousy is such a useless emotion. Your place is there, with the cargo. Besides, someone needs to deal with this.’ Thérésa handed Nicole a letter, smeared in Châtelet’s blood. ‘I found it tucked in his shirt. I thought it might be a clue to what happened to his family, so I read it.’

  Route: Rethel, Charleville-Mezieres. Destination: Russia. Barge at Canal de la Meuse 23 May. Fifty thousand bottles of champagne. Route onward so far unclear.

  Thérésa handed her an addressed envelope. Smudged by blood, it was clearly marked.

  Jean-Rémy Moët

  Hôtel Moët

  Épernay

  Champagne

  ‘What have you done to upset poor Monsieur Moët that he would go to such lengths to stop you? Have you been a little too successful? Get your champagne onto that barge and fly. Leave the rest to me.’

  Chapter 10

  Loyalties

  February 1806

  The shire horse paced along the hot, turgid canal, dragging the barge at a lethargic plod, oblivious to the urgency of his task. Nicole could only submit to the motion of the boat whilst the sun beat down and d
istract herself by watching the sparkles on the brown-green water. Natasha spent the morning clicking her beads and making salt shapes on the deck.

  ‘Everything’s so slow,’ Nicole grumbled, already missing Thérésa.

  Natasha looked at her sideways. ‘You find me dull compared to her. She is dazzling, but be on your guard.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t stand this slow barge when there’s so much at stake. You’ve known me all my life, through thick and thin. Sometimes I wish I could hide from your scrutiny!’

  ‘It’s a curse,’ Natasha replied. ‘I would rather not know. I know my mother is dying and that my journey is the only thing that’s keeping her alive. It’s thirty years since I last saw her and I’ve missed her every single day.’

  ‘Yet you’ve never spoken of her. Tell me about her.’

  ‘Ach. Broken memories. My two brothers stayed in the village with her. I was the only one to leave. They were wild. Dmitri used to make me ride with him on his horse. No saddle or reins. I cried at first, but then I felt like a tiny seed, flying across the tundra on the wind. I could have landed anywhere and grown. I remember her cold pink cheeks after a day out in the fields, the smell of lentils and herbs. We were always cold; there was never enough wood for a proper fire, but she made up for it with her love.’

  Natasha paused and took the snowglobe she’d always given to Nicole to play with as a child out of her pocket. She shook it and watched the snowflakes float and settle on the little figures in the tableau, wrapped in capes and fur muffs. The miniature world seemed to take Natasha off into a reverie.

  ‘She was beautiful when she was young. Her one extravagance was to decorate our bread. Girls with plaits, bouquets of flowers, sprays of holly, a tablecloth spread with plates and cups and piled with jellies, bread fit for a queen. She was only fifteen when she had me. Her hair was straight and black like mine, and her eyes were black, too. She can’t have been much more than thirty, not much older than you, when I left, but she already looked old. Hers was the grinding life that peasants have lived for hundreds of years. Your revolution has changed all of that here. Daniel’s blood was not wasted, that is my comfort.’

  ‘He believed in the revolution,’ said Nicole, realising that one of the reasons she was on this barge, hauling a cargo she hoped to smuggle against all the odds to Russia, was to give François’ life meaning, too. ‘You’ve borne it all with dignity and spirit, dear Natasha.’

  ‘I don’t want pity. My life has been one of relative prosperity. I love the boulangerie and I have my independence and dignity. My mother had neither. It’s allowed me to be an observer of life. I don’t know, I see. I am invisible behind my counter and people unwittingly let me into their lives. I knead dough, feel the gritty flour on my fingertips, decorate it as my mother taught me and listen. Things happen in full sight if you just open your eyes and keep quiet. I see charged glances between lovers pointing to their morning croissants with no appetite, their eyes glazed with a kind of madness.’ Natasha tutted, eyeing Nicole. ‘Do they really think nobody notices? I’ve seen what the world tolerates when they look the other way, too. The bright-eyed children who come to beg stale bread, orphaned by poverty, turning from rosy-cheeked innocents to angular, dead-eyed thieves. It drove Daniel to challenge the Comte in the square that day. I’ve seen good things too. Girls with flowers in their hair blushing over cream meringues with their beaux, returning over the years to show off their babies, plump and creamy as the meringues. You were one of them.’ She smiled.

  ‘A million years ago,’ said Nicole.

  ‘If I’ve learned anything, it’s that anything is possible. Impossible dreams happen – but not if you stick to the rules, Babouchette.’

  The Canal de la Meuse meandered through the Belgian border and became the Maas. Days and weeks slipped by. Villages and towns lined the water, in places sleepy, elsewhere alive with commerce: cargo winched back and forth, barrels rolled noisily into warehouses; cows cooled in the shallows, women washed clothes and screeches of laughter echoed off the water. With so much traffic, it was a world of waiting at locks, mêlées of shouts, instructions and tall stories. Over the border, the same flat horizons met them, but the fields were full of precious tulips. Windmills creaked like big, ticking clocks, marking lost time.

  The night before they were due to sail from Amsterdam, they arrived at a flight of thirteen locks. It was already past dark, and the night was moonless. The barge pilot refused to negotiate so many in the dark, so Nicole agreed that an early start would give them plenty of time to meet the 3 p.m. deadline she had agreed with the ship’s captain.

  ‘Thirteen is too unlucky to leave it until tomorrow,’ Natasha warned.

  ‘Let’s not push our luck tonight, in the dark,’ said Nicole.

  The water roared as it rushed through the lock gate, swallowing the dark space above it. François might have been drawn to this in one of his black moods and she wouldn’t be there to save him. She shivered at the ghost.

  The clock struck three, then four. Sleep wouldn’t come. She ached for François, for Thérésa, for Louis. Better to rise, even if just to freeze on deck. Pulling a shawl tight around her shoulders, she stepped out, the horizon a dirty smudge of dim light. Thirteen locks stepped steeply down, but at least they were the first barge in the queue and the minute the sun was high enough to light the fields, they’d be off.

  Careful not to wake Natasha, Nicole crept up onto the towpath to get a better look at the locks. She peered into the first; the black was water way below, with most of the ladder visible above water, so deep it would surely take a good half an hour to fill.

  As she looked closer, water began to trickle in, though she hadn’t seen anyone open the gate. There was something about the depth that gave her that edge-of-a-cliff sensation, drawing her into its depths. Absorbed in her thoughts, she heard someone behind her too late, moving very fast. They grabbed her waist from behind, gripping so tight it took her breath away. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped it shut. It tasted of salt and grime.

  ‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’ His hiss was hot and rancid at her ear. ‘Give up the shipment, go home like a good little girl.’

  He held her over the edge of the lock. The water began to roar as it spewed in, the level rising.

  The man’s grip tightened, his stinking body pressed against her. ‘Advice from Monsieur Jean-Rémy Moët.’

  ‘Please,’ she choked, terrified.

  He let go, but the force of the release made her stumble and she fell forward into the icy water which rushed in at her. She clawed at the surface, fighting to keep her head above the foam, her dress dragging her under. Gasping, she tugged off her underskirt and it was sucked out of her hands by the undertow. She shot up out of the water, fighting for air. The water swallowed her scream and gagged her, the level churning upwards. Thrusting for the black sky, she surfaced again and took another shuddering breath. She could just make out Natasha craning over the side.

  ‘Help me!’ she shrieked.

  ‘Spread your arms and legs and breathe. Save your energy!’

  Back under again, water booming in her ears. A figure scrambled down the ladder and stretched out his hand. She fixed on the lifeline, but the drag pulled her back. Hope heightened her choking panic. Her lungs burned and her legs ached with cold and effort.

  ‘You can do it! Kick for your life, this is not your time!’ screamed Natasha.

  Nicole thrust with all her strength and gripped the hand, felt herself pulled forward.

  ‘Keep your head up, I’ll do the rest.’

  The man yanked her to the ladder and she gripped it, afraid to move. He put his arm around her and his face came into focus. She froze in terror – Châtelet, Moët’s man!

  ‘Hold on to both sides of the ladder. Find the bottom rung and climb before you freeze to death and the water catches up with us,’ he urged.

  Natasha stretched her arms out above her. ‘Look at me, don’t look
back. Just climb.’

  She heaved herself up. The rungs were slick with green slime, the ladder was vertical and every muscle cramped, but she wasn’t going back in that water. At the top, she collapsed on dry ground and shook uncontrollably in Natasha’s arms.

  Luckily, Natasha had been woken by the movement of the barge as the water level began to change and she realised Nicole was missing. As she’d searched for her on the deck, she saw Valentin grappling with a man, and heard Nicole’s screams.

  ‘It was Jean-Rémy…’ Nicole gasped urgently. Then, in case they hadn’t understood her meaning, added, ‘We have to leave – now!’

  ‘Shh, hush. Let’s get you dry and warm. I thought I’d countered all the bad omens, I must have missed one,’ said Natasha.

  ‘Never mind omens. Immediately, I said! We cannot miss the boat in Amsterdam.’

  ‘I know, we’ll go. It’s all settled, Valentin is going to help us.’

  ‘Valentin is Moët’s man! That turncoat is not coming near my shipment. He betrayed us! He’s not here is he?’

  Natasha held up a hand. ‘Hush. Thérésa sent him on as soon as he was well enough to travel, and we can trust him now. He’s explained everything to me. We’ll get you fixed up, and just promise me you’ll hear him out. We need all the help we can get.’

  In dry clothes, she stared into the wood burner in shock while Châtelet stoked it.

  ‘Let me help,’ he murmured.

  ‘Like you did before?’

  ‘Moët doesn’t know I’m here. I know the low-life fool who did this; it was one of his paid henchmen. He wanted to scare you,’ said Châtelet simply. ‘But even Moët wouldn’t have wanted to nearly kill you. His man is an ignorant blunderer – he’s known for it. Thank God I was here to deal with him – he won’t be bothering you any more. I knew Moët would try something desperate. I’m sure he’s convinced himself he’s doing you a favour by forcing you to give up your wine business.’