The French House

by Helen Fripp

  Nobody knew how she could afford such a lavish mansion on the rue de la Vache, but many suspected that Moët had a hand in it. Nicole never asked; she would rather not know. In the year of the comet, Thérésa’s money had helped her lay down the Cuvée de la Comète and her presence had also helped her through the birth of Louis’ first child, though she didn’t know it. Thérésa was a distraction from watching Louis’ eyes light up, first when he talked about his new little son, then at the sight of his increasingly confident new wife. She never met them together, but she saw them in town sometimes, or dropping Louis off at the press. They were quite the little family unit and Nicole hated herself for the bitterness she felt at their delight.

  Louis was her business partner, they saw each other most days, and it would have been the most natural thing in the world to embrace the couple, to invite Louis and his wife to social occasions, or to give his son a tour of the vineyards in her pony and trap. But it was all she could manage to smile at Louis’ happiness and wish them well. Anything else was too painful. Louis seemed to instinctively understand and never pressed the matter, or mentioned them too often to her, and she was silently grateful to her warm-hearted friend for his tact and care whilst being ashamed at her own feelings.

  Her precious comet champagne stood in her new riddling tables, deep in the cellars, away from prying eyes, going nowhere thanks to the trade blockades and the war. Her business, her livelihood, everything she had, depended on this champagne making it to market.

  After all the years of war, business was bad for everyone. The harvest would be difficult to bring in again this year with so many men away at war. Thérésa started to spend more and more time back in Paris. Parties and salons were the only thing that brought back her sparkle and she was easily bored by Reims and its little gatherings. Nicole missed her lively friend. Louis came to work, but left every day promptly at five to rush back to his family, so she was delighted when Josette handed her a note elaborately tied in pale pink silk ribbon. Only Thérésa would throw away such an expensive thing on a prosaic note.

  Darling, how lovely to be back in the old town again. Paris stifles me. I am sure I was meant to be a country girl, with all the sweet air and champagne and visions of fireflies and starry nights. Please join me for tea and gossip this afternoon. I have so much to tell you.

  Nicole folded the note. As a rule, she avoided town. She preferred to keep a close eye on her lands and bypass the gossip and pitiful looks she inevitably got on each visit, but seeing Thérésa would be worth it.

  She stopped at Natasha’s, feeling guilty as she grasped the polished brass handle of the boulangerie. It was a long time since she’d seen her. Natasha’s bakery had always been the epicentre of the Reims gossip machine and Nicole just hadn’t been able to face it, or, she had to admit, Natasha’s penetrating questions. Easier just to get on with her work than face up to anything else.

  ‘Babouchette. The prodigal returns.’ Natasha shuffled stiffly out from behind the counter and kissed her. Natasha’s cheeks were papery and her hair was more white than grey now. She pursed her lips. ‘You are thinner than when I last saw you. What do you do out in Bouzy all alone with no one to talk to?’

  ‘My vines are good company.’

  ‘Well, I can see that. You neglect your friends for them.’

  ‘Things are just so busy at the presses and out in the fields. My farming families are willing, but have their own land to keep up with so many lads away at war.’

  Natasha put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. ‘Show me your hands.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t question your elders.’

  Nicole reluctantly took off her gloves and held them out.

  ‘Just as I thought. You’ve been out there yourself, haven’t you? Digging and tying and pruning like a peasant.’

  ‘No shame in that.’

  ‘It’s why I love you.’ Natasha gestured to her counter, the shop, the ovens in the back. ‘You are more beautiful than me, and considerably more successful, but we are the same, you and I.’

  Nicole smiled. She hadn’t realised how much she had holed herself away, reading Chaptal’s theories on wine growing, obsessively checking her ledgers, roaming the vineyards inspecting every last detail, turning bottles in the cellar when labour was short, verifying the fermentation and praying to St Rémi for a good harvest and to whatever God was out there for an end to war.

  ‘I got here early to get the best religieuses. Where is everything?’

  Natasha stared at her darkly. ‘You really haven’t been anywhere, have you? There’s a war on. The only thing I have are these miches.’

  Nicole stared at the solid brown loaves on the bare counter, like clods of sodden earth.

  ‘What are you living on? Nettles and blackberries?’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Happy, in fact, with my grapes. I am not what you need to be worrying about. How are you coping with nothing to sell?’

  Natasha sniffed. ‘And vice versa. You deal with your business, I’ll deal with mine. I don’t need anyone fussing or worrying over me. At least I haven’t sold the most precious thing my husband gave me.’

  Nicole’s heart lurched. Her firefly necklace. It was three years ago now that she had pawned it. ‘Don’t! He wouldn’t have wanted me to give up on the business and I needed money.’

  ‘I know,’ said Natasha more gently. ‘I just wanted you to know that I knew, and I am looking out for your interests, even when you stay away from me.’

  ‘Is there nothing I can hide from you?’

  Natasha folded her arms. ‘Nothing. I have many more links in this city than you imagine for a poor old bakery widow. Monsieur Nadalié, the pawnbroker, has been a client for years.’

  ‘A client?’

  ‘The people who visit him are desperate. They need a little good news, and I give it to the people he refers to me. They believe that I can see into their future. I find whatever elements of comfort for them I can. There’s always something good to come, even if there’s bad, too. He told me about your transaction. Well, I suppose it has kept you in vineyards for another few years, but for shame.’ Natasha tutted and muttered something under her breath.

  Nicole was so choked remembering the moment François gave it to her, she couldn’t respond. This was why she avoided company. Too painful. Better just to keep going with the business.

  The door swung wide open and a child fell in through the door. Ginger curls, brown eyes, chubby cheeks like a choux bun. The boy ran towards her and hid behind her skirts, held on tight. With that hair, he could only be Louis’ son. Nicole froze, avoiding Natasha’s sharp eyes.

  A girl of no more than nineteen or twenty came rushing after him, flustered. ‘Pas si vite, Misha! Arrête!’ Her accent was similar to Natasha’s. Black hair, pulled back, strands escaping to frame dark skin and large brown eyes, rosebud lips. Big hands, thought Nicole, as Louis had told her. He hadn’t told her that she was so young and pretty. The girl panicked when she couldn’t see her son. ‘Misha?’

  Natasha pointed behind Nicole. A nettle bite of envy pricked her neck.

  The girl curtsied. ‘So sorry.’

  She prised Misha from behind her skirts as Louis stood in the doorway, with a look of – what? Panic, sympathy – in his warm eyes.

  He scooped Misha into his arms, ruffled his curls. ‘I have told you a million times, you are not to run off.’

  The boy curled into him, giggling, and Louis was won over.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my errant son.’ He took Misha’s pudgy hand and waved it to her and she smiled and waved back. ‘And this is my wife, Marta.’

  Marta looked at her proudly, and proprietorially linked Louis’ arm.

  Nicole kissed her on both cheeks, noting the cool reluctance on Marta’s part.

  ‘Well, Natasha. Have you managed to work your wonders?’ said Louis, too brightly.

  Natasha blushed. ‘Of course, anything for my little Russian boy. S dne
m rozhdeniya. Happy birthday.’ Natasha pinched the boy’s cheek and winked at Marta. From the kitchen, she brought out a millefeuille the size of a cauldron pot, topped with hedgerow fruits.

  ‘How on earth did you come up with that when all you have to sell are those loaves?’ asked Nicole.

  Natasha tapped her nose. ‘You are not the only resourceful woman around here.’

  ‘It’s a masterpiece!’ said Louis. He kissed Natasha on both cheeks.

  Marta said nothing, noted Nicole, a blushing, timid little thing. Natasha and Marta exchanged some words in Russian, and when Louis joined in with broken Russian, she felt sick with loneliness. She left with a feeble goodbye, berating herself for caring.

  The florist only had a few straggly geraniums to sell, so she plumped for cherries from the épicerie. They would complement the blackberry of the Merlot she planned to share with Thérésa. Her outrageous friend always chased away her cares, if only momentarily. She put everything in her basket, and hurried to the mansion on rue de la Vache.

  ‘Ma belle, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come and sit here.’

  The maid showed her into Thérésa’s orangery, steamy with exotic plants and orange trees. Thérésa lounged in a see-through dress, her skin dewy in the heat of the glass room.

  Nicole kissed her and settled opposite her, dazzled.

  ‘I’ve been waiting with bated breath for you all morning. I have had quite the hideous time in Paris. People can be so cruel.’

  ‘Real trouble this time?’ asked Nicole.

  Thérésa blinked. ‘Those grey eyes could bore holes in stone.’

  They held hands and giggled.

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry to say.’ Thérésa stood. ‘Don’t move a muscle, I have something to show you.’

  Thérésa glided over to a box so jewel-encrusted it was almost grotesque, the size of a large jewellery case. Nicole imagined the spice of the huge Indian rubies, the damp crevice where the inky blue sapphires once hid, the brown African river that had smoothed the emeralds.

  ‘Promise not to be shocked?’

  ‘I can never keep that promise with you,’ said Nicole.

  ‘At least, promise not to judge me?’

  ‘That I can promise.’

  Thérésa took out a necklace and put it on.

  ‘Come,’ Thérésa said. ‘Take a closer look.’

  It was a miniature portrait necklace, enamelled in Russian reds, greens and blues. The picture was clearly of the Russian tsar, Alexander I, side by side with a beautiful woman who was definitely not the empress, his wife. Nicole studied it closer. Whoever had painted it had got her ethereal white skin just right. The figure next to Alexander was unmistakably Thérésa. Underneath was an inscription: in perpetuum. Nicole searched the dusty corridors of her convent school education for the Latin: forever. The miniature portrait was surrounded by heart-shaped rubies, rich as claret, and underneath, scintillating on a delicate link below the image, was a diamond as big as an egg.

  ‘He should know that affairs with you are never forever, Tsar of Russia or not,’ giggled Nicole.

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘Napoléon found out about this? Alexander I’s army has killed thousands of French men. You could be hanged as a traitor!’

  ‘He is being such an impossible prude about it, after all he’s done, and he’s threatening to tell my husband. Just a little flirtation, nothing more. And how do you think I secured Louis’ release for you? It was impossible for me to give back such a lavish gift. I have six children, darling, and men are so unreliable these days. You’re right, he’s threatening to have me jailed as a traitor. I’m not sure even I can charm my way out of this one. You will help me, won’t you?’

  Nicole took the cherries and wine out of her bag. ‘Tell me everything. Only crystal will do for this wine. It’s ten years old.’

  Thérésa rallied. ‘Yes, everything you do is so right.’

  ‘You would do better dealing in bottles like me. Life is so much simpler that way.’ She offered her a cherry.

  ‘Yes, but so dull.’ Thérésa took a bite and smudged the juice from her lips. ‘If this gets out, I will be frozen out of French society forever and my husband will be ruined, and that’s if I can save my neck and keep myself out of jail. I’m a practical woman, whatever you might think. I’m not getting any younger and I can’t lose another husband. If you help me, I can weather this storm, and when it’s blown over, I promise I’ll retire to a little mansion somewhere in Paris and even become respectable.’

  ‘I will most certainly not help you to become respectable. But I will help in any other way I can.’

  ‘No chance you’d sell a teensy bit of your land to Moët? Just to shut him up, he’s being such a bore. He’s very influential and I’m sure if I could tell him I’ve persuaded you…’

  Nicole froze. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘What would it matter to you? You could buy different land with the money, somewhere away from Reims, and be free of him. He’s determined to stop you.’

  ‘Put it out of your head right now. I don’t even want to talk about it.’

  ‘Darling, so stubborn to the end. All right, all right, it was worth a try. I’ll never understand why you won’t do the smallest thing to make your life easier.’ Thérésa popped another cherry in her mouth, spat out the pip. ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man…’ She picked up the final pip and looked Nicole straight in the eye. ‘… thief. What if I told your little trade secret? Moët would do anything for it, you know.’

  ‘Unlike you, I have no secrets,’ said Nicole, meeting her gaze with a growing sense of unease.

  ‘Now you’re not being honest with me,’ said Thérésa. She ate another cherry and held up the pip. ‘Rich woman?’

  ‘What are you trying to do?’

  Thérésa’s eyes were granite. ‘You’re normally so perspicacious. I’ll spell it out. Moët is friends with Napoléon. He could put in a good word for me, bring back my social capital, get me out of hot water. All you have to do is sell some of your precious land to him and invest the money elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re not actually serious, are you? It’s more than just land, it’s my life. And I’ll never find such perfect, grand cru land on the open market. Families work centuries to own such prime spots and they never sell.’

  Thérésa pushed the wine glass away. ‘I’m deadly serious, Nicole. I’m rather busy this afternoon, so will have to cut this short. Your clever little invention, the riddling table, the one that means your champagne will be clearer than anyone else’s in the world? Moët’s dying to know all about it. Sell, or your little trade secret becomes public knowledge. The choice is yours, darling. Don’t look so shocked. It’s a tough world out there.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Men will tell you anything if you get them in the right way. Let me know your decision. So sorry, I must rush now. Can’t keep Monsieur Moët waiting. I take it you’d rather not bump into him when he calls?’

  Bundling herself out of Thérésa’s grand mansion, Nicole hurried along to her cellars, reeling. There was not a minute to waste. How could she ever have thought that Thérésa could truly by anyone’s ally, let alone hers? She had given herself to her so completely in the past that she thought that might count for something. She should have realised that their special bond was just another weapon that Thérésa used to get exactly what she wanted – complete devotion, and material gains. Nicole was just collateral damage. She felt sick with anger – and hurt, a foolish, naïve young girl again, despite everything that she had achieved. She should have been more watchful, and not let herself get blindsided by – what, love? Affection? Danger? She had worshipped all these things about Thérésa. What a bloody fool!

  As soon as she reached the safety of the cellars, her heart slowed. The lamps lit her way like glow-worms on a spring night, bottles still and quiet and working their magic. She took a breath; it was
her perennial place of safety. And there was a job to be done.

  From her waist, Nicole took the heavy key, turned it, and quietly closed the door behind her. Four pairs of eyes stared out of the gloom, lit by a single lamp, gathered around the riddling table. Xavier looked more like an old bull every day. Antoine returned immediately to the task in hand of bottle-turning as soon as he was satisfied she wasn’t a spy. Louis smiled a warm, concerned welcome. Emile felt his way around the table and along the walls to Nicole. He took her hands.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  She patted his young face. ‘How did you know it was me?’

  ‘From the moment you put the key in the lock, Madame, the way it turned, the sound of your footsteps.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong, Emile, thank you for asking,’ said Nicole.

  ‘You are angry,’ he said.

  ‘Not at you. Now, how are things going?’

  Emile went back to the table and picked up a bottle.

  Antoine spoke quietly, without looking up from his task. ‘The sediment that took us months to move to the neck and expel now takes weeks, and with no loss of liquid! Now that the 1811 year of the comet vintage have been through the full process of fermentation and riddling, we have a once-in-a-lifetime batch, ready to go. It’s a remarkable invention, Nicole.’

  ‘Shame there’s no demand for the extra thousands of bottles,’ said Nicole darkly.

  ‘It gets one over on Moët and that’s good enough for me and my men,’ said Xavier. ‘Wait ’til I tell the lads down at Etienne’s bar. Moët’s men will have to eat what they said about you. They’ll have faces like smacked arses…’