The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘I understand; please don’t worry any more. We have a lot to prove before you can trust us. I’ll wait here with you.’

  A dog barked. Someone coughed. The cathedral clock struck the half-hour. Stars watched and her pulse slowed.

  ‘So you’re the famous veuve. I have toasted you, in a different life.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Veuve Clicquot. Of Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie. It’s written over the door and I’m guessing you wouldn’t be defending it alone with your head bleeding if it wasn’t yours. It’s the kind of commitment I imagine made you famous for your beautiful wines. Before this war made us enemies of the French, drinking your vin mousseux was a sign of immaculate taste. That was a million years ago.’

  ‘My whole life is in those bottles.’

  ‘Is it just you and them against the world?’

  ‘That’s how it feels sometimes.’

  ‘Are you ready to go now? I promise my men will keep it safe…’

  ‘I can’t take that risk. I’ll survive, really.’

  ‘You need to survive beyond just tonight. Where is your beautiful daughter? Yes, Madame, of course I remember you from the café in Paris. Do you have someone who can look after you?’

  ‘I want to stay. I need to think. You should go and get some sleep. And thank you for averting disaster.’

  ‘I’ll wait with you.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  ‘I clearly do. I only left you for a day and look what happened!’

  Laughing and crying at the same time hurt. In her delirium, she couldn’t decide if she was happy or sad. Or, like she’d always told Mentine, both at the same time. She knew what would bring her back to herself.

  ‘Do you want to taste some?’

  ‘Wine? I thought it was only for French lips.’

  ‘My comet wine will give me strength, remind me why I’m sitting out here in the cold with a Russian officer who’s occupying my town while I try to defend what’s mine.’

  She reached inside the door, to the safe where Louis kept his sample wines for passing buyers, one of every vintage. She knew which bottle just by touch: the one on the right-hand side was always the best. She took two clean glasses off the shelf above. She put the lamp in the middle of the table, set out the glasses and poured. A starlit vineyard, hot summer, a fizzing tail mellowing the Pinot grapes, the south-east-facing yard at Avenay-Val-d’Or to absorb just the right number of golden rays. It was enough to forget the soldiers who’d been here just moments ago, the danger she and Xavier had been in.

  He rolled it around the glass, studied the viscosity – the ‘legs’– breathed it through his mouth and nose and raised it to his lips in a surprisingly delicate gesture for the size of his hands.

  ‘Of all the grapes, a Pinot communicates the taste of the terroir the best. It is unmistakably from here,’ he said.

  Nicole chinked glasses with him.

  ‘Cherry, raspberry, caramel.’

  ‘Roses, plum, violets.’

  He took another sip and smiled. ‘Those too. What’s your first name? You’re not my idea of a wine widow. I was expecting a fierce matron, counting her francs on the surface of a barrel in grubby fingerless gloves.’

  ‘If things carry on like this, you won’t be far off the truth, and I won’t be able to afford even the gloves. Nicole.’

  ‘That sounds more like it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Alexei. Well, Nicole, I thank you for your delicious wine, but you really should let me take you home. I have a cart, with blankets…’

  ‘I’m not good at taking orders from anyone. Even kind men who know about wine. I told you, I’m staying put ’til morning, and once I’ve made my mind up…’

  ‘As you wish.’ He took another sip. ‘You have some well-placed south-east vineyards in your considerable collection, Veuve Clicquot?’

  His eyes were dark and bitter, like her favourite chocolate.

  ‘Right again. How do you know so much about wine?’

  ‘Another life. Tell me about the comet. Was it 1811? It passed across our skies too.’

  ‘The vintage of a lifetime. 1811 was a perfect year, for wine at least. I can taste the cool night sky when I first saw it in this wine. It was beautiful. Your men have guzzled at least half of it.’

  She took in the braid on his coat, his straight teeth and glossy hair. There was a war-weary air to his demeanour, but he was clearly high-ranking, and she had seen him ride at the Tsar’s side on the Champs-Élysées.

  ‘If you want to prove to me how peaceful your invasion is and that you are in control of your thugs, the Russian army should pay me for it, fair and square.

  ‘I would happily buy a case from my own pocket.’

  ‘That would not do. I would like the Russians to acknowledge their actions against me, officially.’

  He raised an eyebrow, amused but, she hoped, willing. ‘I do have a certain amount of compensatory funds I can draw upon. But why should it be directed to you? Every cellar within twenty kilometres of here has been looted, and not just by Russians.’

  ‘Because my wines are the most valuable and every vintner within twenty kilometres of here would like to see me fail. So far, I have refused to oblige.’

  ‘You’ve made it very obvious you can fight! How much would you say is fair, Veuve Clicquot?’

  ‘I doubt you can afford it. The war has made paupers of us all.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Five francs a bottle.’

  ‘You’ll negotiate, of course.’

  ‘I never negotiate. I have workers to pay and mouths to feed.’

  ‘There will have to be some paperwork, but as a gesture of goodwill for Russian–French trade relations, I will see what I can do for at least some of the losses you have suffered, if you promise to go home now.’

  ‘I’m staying with my bottles. But thank you.’

  Chapter 26

  Luck from the East

  April 1814

  Natasha’s face swam into focus. Nicole sat up; where the hell? Oh, in her town house in the rue de la Vache. The room she’d lain awake in the night after François died. Too many memories. She had to leave straight away.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Natasha gently.

  ‘I can’t stay here. It’s haunted and I have to get back to the cellars.’

  ‘The cellars are fine, guarded by your new Russian friend. He had to ask me where you lived. You refused to tell him, apparently,’ she said, shaking her head proudly. ‘You’re not leaving; get back into bed. I’ll cast a spell to scare off any ghosts.’ Natasha sketched a figure of eight, turned around slowly three times and addressed the curtains. ‘What’s that, you won’t leave until she’s back in bed? You heard him, Nicole, get in and the ghost will leave you alone.’

  Nicole stared at her.

  ‘Seriously. I’m making light because I don’t want to scare you, but he means it.’

  Nicole got back in, just in case. Anyway, her legs had turned to jelly and her head was aching like it was clamped in a vice.

  ‘That’s better, my dear.’

  ‘Did they get the bakery?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare cross a volshebnitsa, a Russian enchantress. They’re a superstitious lot, peasants, most of them.’

  ‘I could have done with you there last night.’

  ‘You have your own way of being enchanting, even when you don’t realise it. Could you manage a religieuse? It’s hard to come by the ingredients in these times, but I had a little chocolate hidden away for a special occasion and you coming back to Reims is it. I made them this morning.’

  Natasha offered her the cake and Nicole broke a little off to be polite, though the pain turned it to ashes in her mouth.

  ‘Mentine’s growing up,’ Natasha observed.

  ‘Too quickly.’

  ‘You are lucky. She’s a beautiful girl, inside and out, a blonde version of François.’

  He would have been a better fa
ther than she was a mother. She’d promised Mentine she would say good night and she’d failed her again. She’d failed the cellars too. She was spread so thin, she felt transparent.

  Natasha opened the curtains, flung open the windows and the sun streamed in, the most beautiful spring day. A sudden gust of wind blew apple blossom into the room, which whirled around for a moment before it fluttered to the floor, like snow.

  ‘East wind. Apple blossom,’ said Natasha, narrowing her eyes. ‘A good omen.’ She scooped up the blossom and made confetti over Nicole’s head. ‘You could use some luck, and here it is from the east.’

  ‘You always say you make your own luck.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Mentine knocked and came in, hastily kissed Natasha, then threw herself on the bed. She waved an envelope at them. ‘They are so-o-o handsome!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Russian soldiers. A whole battalion was outside the house and one came to the door to deliver this. Look, it says Nicole Clicquot on the front! How did he know your name? Maman, the whole town is on fire with stories of how you stood up to looters, with only your boots to save you. A quick kick in the—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ But she couldn’t help smiling at her daughter’s delight in her victory.

  ‘Well, is it true?’

  ‘Not entirely, though I did manage to escape from a sticky situation.’

  ‘You hurt your head, Maman?’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just make sure you don’t ever go out alone while they’re here. Stay with me and grand-mère and grand-père.’

  ‘But I’m so bored and there are all these new people in town and everything’s happening outside and I’m stuck in here. Josette doesn’t understand that I don’t want to play tea parties and kids’ games any more, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.’ Mentine thrust the envelope at her. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  Inside was a cheque. Nicole double-checked. Six hundred francs. Enough to cover every last bottle that had disappeared from her cellars.

  She opened the note.

  I hope you will take this as proof that Russians can be trusted. The amount will also cover my own personal crate of Comet Pinot. Your cellars are safe now, so you can sleep inside for the next few days; it’s cold out there at night.

  When you are recovered, perhaps you could give your biggest buyer a tour of the vineyards?

  Sincerely, Alexei

  ‘What is it, Maman? A love letter?’ Mentine teased.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s payment from the Russian army for everything they’ve looted from the cellars. Quite right too.’

  ‘I told you, luck from the east,’ smiled Natasha.

  ‘Dull,’ scowled Mentine.

  Nicole endured three more nights in that room, but as soon as she was recovered from the blow to her head, she arranged to move to the press house at Bouzy. There was nowhere else she wanted to be. It was spring, the vines were sprouting acid green leaves, the field hands were out planting, and last year’s blends were ready for bottling. Stocks needed building up again and there was no time to waste.

  April was usually the time they’d ship the mature wines, packing off her precious babies ready for their next adventure, with Louis at the helm. Not this year. Nothing was going anywhere. Trade was eternally dead, shipping ports still closed to French exports. It was difficult to see how things could continue, but every time she looked out of the window and saw the vines growing afresh, hope sprang up again. Another year or two, and then perhaps things would be back to normal. Until then, hard work, and a little glimmer of hope with Alexei’s promised tour. At least he was buying.

  The press yard was covered in milkweed. The place ran without her, but it was looking neglected. She would stay here until she saw off hundreds of carts loaded with bottles again, if it took years. She bent down and tugged at the weeds. Might as well start somewhere.

  ‘Haven’t you got someone who can do that for you?’

  A perfect French accent, almost.

  ‘Ah, my biggest buyer. You’re ready for your tour?’

  ‘I’ve thought of nothing else since I tasted that Pinot.’

  ‘Once you’ve tasted the terroir, you never forget it.’

  ‘Is this where you sleep, out here?’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Which way for the tour?’

  ‘Follow me. We’ll start with the low-lying vineyards close by, then I’ll show you the grand cru sites, and on to the slopes where we grow the Pinot. We’ll walk, rather than take horses; you see much more that way.’

  The air was charged, larks hovered and vine tendrils wound their fingers around the training poles, a firm foundation for the grapes to grow. Tight buds waited to bloom on the roses and ladybirds busied themselves, keeping them free of pests. There was something about being with Alexei that made sun shine brighter than she could remember in a long time.

  As they walked together in easy silence, Nicole found herself drawn to studying him when he was distracted by a varietal or planting method. He was broad-shouldered, with thick black curls and his dark, pitted skin gave him a rugged air, at odds with his neat officer’s uniform. He was authoritative and confident, but his glittering black eyes had a kind of hurt behind them which Nicole couldn’t fathom.

  ‘We have 390 hectares in total and we are lucky, the majority are grands crus or premier crus,’ Nicole told him.

  ‘And the best vineyards are on the east side, with shallow soil?’

  ‘You still haven’t told me how you know so much about wine.’

  ‘I find the deeper the knowledge, the greater the pleasure. I enjoy learning about wine, and you.’

  Something inside her leapt at his words.

  ‘They’re not really my vineyards, they own me. I’m completely dependent on their whim. There are bad years and good years and I have absolutely no control, I can only react with the knowledge I’ve gained. It’s a collective knowledge, gathered over centuries by thousands of people who’ve worked the land, and I intend to contribute as much as I can while I’m alive.’

  She thought of her riddling tables, still her secret for now, to gain a competitive advantage. But if and when the secret was out, it would revolutionise the production of vins mousseux across the world.

  By the time they reached Verzenay, the sun was high in the sky and it was unusually warm for this early in the year. As arranged, the table and chairs were set up under the old chestnut tree, a crisp white tablecloth and a bottle of her best Sauvignon, paired with chévre, goat’s cheese, the ideal partner.

  ‘The least I could do for the first major buyer this spring. The war has killed trade, especially to Russia. I never imagined Russia would actually come to me.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  They took their seats, and Nicole was glad she’d left her hair loose and worn her favourite dress on this spring day. She liked how the pale blue-grey silk picked out her eyes and she hoped that Alexei would notice, too. It occurred to her that it was the first time she could remember that she, not Josette, had decided what she’d wear that day. She threw her riding habit on the back of the chair to feel the balmy air on her shoulders and smiled.

  ‘Don’t be. I’m totally mercenary. If you like this Sauvignon, you might be inclined to another crate. As things stand, you’re my only market.’

  Condensation on the bottle created hundreds of droplets of sunlight. Cut grass, lemon and gooseberries complemented the tang of the goat’s cheese on her tongue. Candles of pink blossom weighed the branches and the birds celebrated the end of the war.

  Alexei took a sip. ‘And I intend to be a good market. Talk me through this one.’ When he smiled, the look of hurt disappeared momentarily.

  ‘It’s a fine balance. These vines bud late but ripen early, so we plant them away from the other vines, right here in this vineyard. When they’re ready, we pick them early in the morning to keep them fresh.’

  She scooped up some chalky earth from arou
nd a vine, freshly composted with fumure.

  ‘Smell this. Can’t you taste it in the wine?’

  ‘I can, it’s fresh and mineral. Does everyone here taste of this earth?’

  At this moment, it was exactly how she felt she’d taste.

  ‘This one’s from last year. Sauvignon doesn’t benefit from ageing, it’s best drunk young, but there’s still finesse and perfume to be enjoyed. The name comes from sauvage and blanc. Wild and white.’

  He looked at her through the bottle. ‘Zest and flint, a perfect combination. I suppose your prices are astronomical and not even a comet to justify it?’

  ‘Of course, but worth it.’

  Alexei held up a little sketchbook and pencil. ‘Do you mind? It’s a beautiful view and not an army tent in sight. It’s like there was never a time before this war.’

  ‘Of course. I will leave you to it. Xavier, my foreman, is over there and I need to talk to him. I don’t like the way they’re wasting that precious fumure, spreading it too far from the roots; they won’t get the benefit.’

  ‘How can you see from here?’

  ‘When it comes to my vineyards, I see everything.’

  She felt him watching as she walked away, so she twirled a strand of her hair back into her bun.

  ‘Who’s the poser in the gold brocade? Is he here to requisition the vineyards?’ Xavier asked, his face still painfully bruised and scabbed.

  ‘Our biggest buyer.’

  ‘You’re getting them to buy? How do you do it? Only a few days ago, I was beating the ball-sacks off with sticks and now you’ve got them eating out of your hand. He can’t take his filthy eyes off you.’

  She grinned. ‘He’s just interested in viticulture and watching how things work.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Stop it, Xavier, please. He’s a genuine buyer and we need him. Now, the fumure…’

  A new-minted sun, an appreciative buyer with money to spend, the workers out in the field again, gradually returning from war and desperate to bury their hands in the soil of their homeland. Perhaps Natasha was right. Luck from the east. Rumours were flying about the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy; two revolutions in one lifetime was enough for anyone, but Nicole would welcome her own revolution in fortune. Ironic that today, anyway, the Russian enemy was her friend, but her own town and the most powerful among them – Moët – was set against her success. They would prefer her to marry Moët than to sell to Alexei.