The French House

by Helen Fripp

  Nicole sent a prayer to her precious cargo making its way overland to Louis.

  ‘Sadly, he wouldn’t listen to me even if I did,’ said Nicole.

  ‘I’ll say one thing, you certainly inspire loyalty,’ said Madame Olivier. ‘Xavier here won’t hear a word of criticism against you, so my husband tells me. He’s like a bull in a china shop on your behalf. I’m yabbering again, but here’s another offer of loyalty from me. You’re determined to continue, I see that now, and I’m sorry if my mouth speaks before my head has checked it for offence. What I really wanted to say is that I’d like to help you. I can bring you intelligence from the other vintners. The men can’t wait to impart their superior knowledge to each other and they’re always in my house, discussing all the latest details and happenings.’

  ‘Why would you do that for me?’ said Nicole.

  ‘You’re a free spirit. I wish I could be, but this will be my little bit of freedom, a secret.’ She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the extent of the bruise, right up to the elbow. It was vicious. ‘And my revenge.’ She held up a hand to bar Nicole’s embrace. ‘No sympathy! I don’t want that.’

  Nicole stepped back. ‘Then I gladly accept, Madame Olivier. Thank you.’

  When they left, Nicole went to her study. A new friendship. From such an unexpected place! She hadn’t realised until now how lonely she was, in grief and battle for the last year.

  She put down her quill and stared across the vineyards. Emile was dashing through the press courtyard towards her, waving a letter. Her heart galloped.

  ‘Emile?’

  ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Were you asked to say anything?’

  ‘It’s from Thérésa and you are to contact her the minute you’ve read it. Shall I wait?’

  ‘Yes. Go and ask Josette for some lunch. Tell her I said so.’

  She tore open the letter. It was dated St Petersburg, 23 September 1806. Almost two months ago, thought Nicole. Slow, even by Russian standards.

  My darling little vintner,

  Your companion lights up every time he speaks of you. He substitutes his love for you with his love for your wines, my wild country merchant. I will leave this knowledge for you to do with what you will. I know you country girls remain loyal even to the dead.

  That is my good news, but there is also bad. Louis has been arrested as a spy. The jails in St Petersburg are no more salubrious than the ones in Paris and, as you know, I am very familiar with their filth and cold. I bribed my way in with the handsome young jailer in the only way I know how (a little light relief in the darkness. You are welcome). Louis told me to ask you to forgive him. How foolishly romantic! He said he would escape to make your name. Don’t cry. You give him hope and that is what he needs in dark days.

  I will do what I can when I have escaped this precarious situation where all French citizens, even me, are accused as spies.

  Your Thérésa

  Nicole let the letter fall. Louis could be dead by now. And all because of her relentless obsession with Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie.

  Chapter 15

  Camouflage

  March 1810

  Louis didn’t come home. That year, or the next. Four years limped by. Nicole anxiously kept track of Napoléon’s advance across Europe, and prayed to God that Louis was still alive. When the news came that Napoléon had taken Berlin, then large parts of Prussia in the autumn of 1806, Nicole was laying down the blends and planning her next shipment for Louis, still optimistic she would have news of him. In 1808, a late frost ruined that year’s harvest and Napoléon crowned his brother King of Spain. Rumblings of discontent abounded amongst even the most fervent of Napoléon’s supporters and the grip of poverty closed tighter around France, thanks to endless wars and lack of European trade. As Nicole saved what she could of her blighted vines, she looked for Louis, half expecting him to appear with miraculous orders secured for better years, but there was no news.

  Even Thérésa was unable to work her magic; incarcerated French weren’t considered important enough to keep proper records of. There were times when news of his death would have been better than the dull ache of hope. Now, in 1810, Napoléon had divorced Thérésa’s oldest friend, Joséphine, formed an alliance with Austria through his new wife, Marie-Louise, and continued his warmongering unabated.

  Not a day passed when she didn’t imagine Louis appearing on the horizon, a skeleton in a wolfskin coat and a warm brandy smile, with a million stories to tell. Perhaps what the town said was right, that she was bad luck, that her arrogance had killed two men.

  She snapped awake. Still dark, the cathedral clock tolling 5 a.m. Lighting a candle, she pulled on her morning gown, crept into the basement and checked on her experiment. Useless. A quarter of the bottles ruined and cloudy, no better than the quota in any cellar across Reims. Why did she think she could find a solution that no one in the entire history of winemaking had ever managed?

  In her study, she creaked open the account ledger. The figures looked no different from 5 a.m. yesterday, or the day before, or in fact every early morning for the last four years. There had been some sales – she took the time to ensure the highest quality in every bottle that left the cellars, and a few buyers still had enough money to pay for luxuries, but in general, sales were down for everything. She’d just about managed to keep the vineyards and press going over these hard times, through economies and favours. But her business didn’t have the cash reserves of some of the longer-standing operations, and now there was barely enough to pay the wages.

  Two of the few black entries in the ledger were from selling her sapphire ring, and the other from the sale of François’ gold-plated cutlery canteen. No need for fancy dinner parties any more. Thank goodness for her parents – at least she and Mentine wouldn’t starve, but that money wouldn’t help the business.

  She fingered the yellow diamond firefly François gave her the night he died. That alone was sacrosanct. Every last cushion and chair would be sacrificed to the business if she needed it, but not the firefly. The stark figures in black and red were unyielding. Can’t they lie, just this once? She made minute adjustments until her eyes stung, trying to do something useful until the sky turned a shade paler and she could race to the vineyards.

  On her way out, she stared at herself in the hall mirror. A pinched face stared back. You’ll ruin your looks with all this work, Thérésa had warned. Nicole pulled on her riding gloves. I’m living for two, for me and François, and I’ll live twice as hard.

  The spring sun was warm on her shoulders as she rode out into the vineyards. The land didn’t judge and it yielded to her touch. Her field hands were already out digging trenches and they stopped and waved as she passed. A band of renegades, like her. None of the regular field workers would agree to work for a woman, even in these hard times. Her workers were dropouts, outcasts and rejects. Emile’s mother, Marie, had been a notorious whore, but her digging was quicker and more efficient than any man’s. She smiled a gap-toothed salute as she passed. Christophe-Baptiste’s one leg had left him begging on the streets when he came back from Napoléon’s war. No longer. He still had two hands, and they were proficient at banging in the stakes needed to tie the vines.

  The orphanage kids were Xavier’s idea. A ragbag of undernourished, foul-mouthed, twitching, snivelling lads. At fourteen they were big enough to be useful and if he taught them well, they would always have a job in Champagne.

  ‘You’re not shovelling cow shit, you’re digging trenches.’ He held up a stick. ‘This wide, even, all the way along or I’ll send you back to the holes you crawled out of.’

  ‘The only hole round here is yours and it smells like shit!’

  Xavier gave the boy a good clip, grinning with pride, crow’s feet radiating. They were all getting older. The soil didn’t age though; every year it looked the same, the pale crust turned over to reveal a moist underbelly full of worms as birds hovered, bagging a breakfast of wriggling meat.

>   ‘Morning, Xavier, how’s the planting going?’

  ‘Forty centimetres apart. And I’ve been over that soil so many times I could wash my arse in it. You know it makes no difference whether it’s forty-five or thirty-five centimetres?’

  ‘Bon,’ she said, shaking out her ruler and working the length of a row, measuring for herself. ‘On est presque là. Move this a little to the left…’ She secured a stick at the exact point. ‘This one needs to move here.’

  She carefully planted the vine, sprinkled it with sand and tramped it down with a little of the fumure – the ashes from the quarry. All being right, these grapes would taste clean, bright and creamy, a perfect accompaniment to oysters. She already had the right Paris buyer in mind.

  ‘Give me that,’ said Xavier, grabbing the ruler. ‘You have company.’

  Moët, advancing towards her from the place where his vineyard abutted her own. It seemed wherever she looked he was always there.

  ‘Nothing is to be left to chance,’ she addressed the men, tugging a root out of the soil and sniffing it. ‘Horseweed. Give the new vines a chance! Each one of you is responsible for making sure they are in pristine soil. I will keep you all in jobs and pay every person here a bonus if we have a good harvest. War or no war, we will keep selling and that will keep us all in jobs. But it all depends on the vines. What you are doing now will lay the ground for Chardonnay, for our best vins mousseux. I am giving my best territory to it. Centre of the slope, facing south. I expect the best labour you can give in return. Between us all, our wine will be the best.’

  ‘I admire your confidence,’ said Moët as he arrived at her side. ‘But you know you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘It’s the best waste of time I can think of, n’est-ce pas?’

  He pointed to a withered shoot down the line of vines. ‘Keep an eye on that one, you can’t afford to waste a single plant in this operation.’

  ‘Your advice is invaluable, Jean-Rémy. I imagine the day it’s not so forthcoming and dream of what might happen.’

  ‘A man sees the detail and the bigger picture simultaneously. I won’t disturb you further – there’s clearly a lot of work to do here.’

  She saluted. Let him think what he liked. Thanks to her continued failures, she and Moët had reached an uncomfortable understanding. He’d even shared a few trade secrets and introduced her to a decent bottle supplier when hers went bust. An introduction from him smoothed any worries they might have had about opening a credit account with a woman, and it was easier to keep him sweet where she could. He enjoyed bestowing his superior wisdom and having it accepted, so for now things were stable and she even had some standing amongst the vintners as a tolerated curiosity.

  He saluted back, spurred his horse and rode on by. Every small victory built towards a bigger one, Natasha said, but Madame Olivier had delivered bad news the day before. She had it on good authority that a banker’s cheque written by François’ father, Philippe Clicquot, had not been honoured. He still had his personal wealth, but the business account was running dry. Nicole resolved not to take another sou from him, and to pay him back everything with interest when things came right.

  She joined the band of orphanage boys, grabbed a spade and helped with the digging. The responsibility of all these dependants pushed her shovel deeper. Louis disappeared, François… and poor Philippe. What would she do if it all fell apart?

  She turned over another shovelful of earth. The only way was to push forward, create the finest wines, keep her team together. François had taught her that a vintner was only as good as his workers, and respect grew from working alongside them. After all these years, François’ face had faded, but every now and then her memory clarified, like ripples dissipating in a well, settling to a clear reflection. The reflection smiled and her stomach flipped.

  Fragmented dust hanging in the sunlit, silent cloisters of her childhood school, the crimson of her woollen dress on the day of the revolution, the taste of the mellow harvest sun in a Muscat, François leading her on a wild polka in their walled vineyard at Villers-Allerand. Like a year in the fields, her life had come full circle and yet here she was, still completely alone.

  When the trenches were dug, she headed for Natasha’s bakery. It felt like home on days like this, each patisserie a little celebration.

  ‘You are melancholy, my dear. Come,’ Natasha said, leading her by the arm to the kitchen and sitting her down. ‘No time for brooding. I’ll cast a spell that will make you happy.’

  Natasha sprinkled salt at her feet and knocked the table three times.

  ‘Knocking and a bit of salt? Life’s pretty simple if that’s all it takes.’ Nicole took a sip of Natasha’s hot coffee and sighed.

  ‘You want to believe. And I know you can’t stay unhappy for long. It’s not in your nature. You just need a friend to tell you to stop.’

  As she kissed Natasha goodbye, a bird smacked into the bakery window and fell, stunned, to the ground, its speeding heart pounding visibly. Natasha’s face darkened and she hurried inside, crossing herself.

  Nicole shivered and paced across the square past the cathedral, where a tall figure standing by a loaded barrel cart beckoned. Moët again. It was one thing bumping into him out in the fields, surrounded by her workers, quite another to be trapped alone with him.

  She held out her hand in place of a curtsey and he gripped it tight.

  ‘I’m afraid all the ups and downs of your little hobby business is the talk of the town. And even you can’t believe that your rogue salesman Louis is ever coming back. It’s been several years now since he disappeared with most of your stock, I believe?’

  ‘I’m a habitual provider of entertainment for this town, why stop now? I have enough planned to get the gossips through the whole winter.’

  He let go of the handshake. ‘That’s where you and I part company. I hate to add to your worries, but a person’s reputation is all, and yours is seriously in question. I’m telling you as a friend.’

  ‘Everyone has had their ups and downs these past difficult years, it’s part of the business. Why is my reputation particularly at stake? I hope you’re not going to bore me with your “man’s world” argument again?’

  ‘There’s a delicate matter that perhaps isn’t right for a busy square, so I encourage you to step into my office.’

  ‘Not now, Jean-Rémy, I’m meeting Xavier at the press in half an hour.’

  ‘You’ll understand the urgency if I mention a certain Doctor Moreau?’

  Her legs buckled and her heart slammed in her ears. Monsieur Moët ushered her into his office in a blur.

  ‘Sit there, my dear. I hate to bring up difficult memories, but you must face up to it.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Nicole asked quietly.

  ‘Unwanted pregnancies, sexual diseases… suicide, nothing is beneath our learned Doctor Moreau. If there’s enough money involved, he’ll cover anything up, isn’t that so?’

  ‘All doctors work for money,’ she stalled, afraid of where this was going.

  ‘But this one has a reputation he can’t shake off, a bit like you.’

  ‘Just come out and say what you want from me.’

  ‘Nothing at all. It’s more about what I can do for you. I’m sorry to tell you that Doctor Moreau is in jail for falsifying death certificates. The investigative bodies are doing a very good job of uncovering his misdemeanours – so many defenceless families have been exposed. The list is endless… unfortunate young ladies who thought they’d got away with concealing bastard children; whole families whose reputations have been ruined by the selfish actions of a loved one who saw fit to illegally take his own life. The truth will always out. The investigators are asking for all the death certificates he signed in Reims in 1805. My apologies for any distress this may cause you.’

  ‘Apart from that being the year that François died, I have nothing whatsoever to be distressed about.’ She thought about the rat poison. She’d take that
secret with her to the grave. Even she could never know the real truth of how he died.

  ‘Think about poor little Clémentine. No one would ever marry her. Bad blood. This town talks more than you think. We both know Doctor Moreau covered up François’ suicide.’

  He couldn’t possibly know, she told herself. It’s just the rumour mill that he’s exploiting.

  ‘It was typhoid, everyone knows that. The rest is just malicious gossip.’

  ‘Does truth matter? Gossip is truth in small towns and it will only be fuelled by Doctor Moreau’s arrest – and his name is on that death certificate. I can protect you. All you have to do is give up your foolish vineyard venture and then you can live a life of luxury. You can’t see it, but I really am acting in your own interests, if a little forcefully.’

  ‘By blackening the Clicquot name? Don’t dress this up as help.’

  ‘You will be ruined without me.’

  ‘I’m ruined anyway.’

  ‘Consider it. I know you don’t want to sell, but let me step in where Monsieur Clicquot has failed as a business partner. I will run the business and grow it. You could retain some part in it, add the Clicquot name to mine, and your dear husband’s name will live on. As part of the deal, I will protect you, including using my position within the mairie to access and destroy Doctor Moreau’s death certificate and finally put the rumours to rest.’

  ‘Instead of fanning the flames if I refuse?’

  ‘They say his body should have been staked at a crossroads to release his ghost, not buried in consecrated ground. They say his ghost haunts you and ruins all your associations with men. That is why your deal with Philippe Clicquot has expired and Louis has disappeared. Is your failing hobby worth it? You should do it for François and his poor father.’

  She put her head in her hands. No wonder he owned this town.