by Helen Fripp
She finished with the workers and returned to Alexei. He tore a page out of his sketchbook and gave it to her. It was her, in profile, pointing to the vines and saying something. He’d noticed every detail, down to the teardrop earrings she’d forgotten she was wearing, and the loose hair she’d tucked into her bun as she walked away.
‘It’s very well-observed, you don’t miss a thing,’ said Nicole.
‘It helps when dodging bullets,’ he said bitterly.
‘I’m sorry. Here am I worrying about compost and pests and you must have been through hell to get here.’
‘We all have, I’m sure. You’re a widow and I’m…’ He stopped. ‘I’m lucky to be here. There’s no heroism in war – it’s random, luck of the draw. I don’t deserve to be alive and sometimes I wish I’d gone and others had lived in my place.’
‘Don’t say that! What happened?’
He shook his head.
The church clock struck a lazy four in the distance.
‘I have to get back,’ said Nicole. ‘I promised my daughter and I seem to be forever letting her down.’
‘Go on ahead, I’d like to stay here and draw. I can make my own way back – go on, don’t be late. She won’t be yours forever, you won’t know how quickly it goes until she’s gone.’
She didn’t want to leave.
‘All of this is for her. Let me know about the Sauvignon. I can get it delivered.’
‘No need, I’ll come and get it myself. That way, I get personal service.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m here for you.’
‘Oh.’
He had a way of saying ‘oh,’ an eastern inflection shortening the vowel, that stuck in her head.
Chapter 27
Reparation
Mid-April 1814
Since Alexei had arrived, Nicole’s world was more vivid. Funny she’d never noticed the tangle of forget-me-nots so blue against the cobbles, pushing up between the stones in the cathedral square, until this market-day morning. Swifts burst out of the sky from nowhere, whirling on pointed wings, and the planes were singing trees packed with fat little puffs of birds.
Mentine’s warm arm linked hers as they passed the big cathedral and crossed the square, her own fresh spring flower. Her soft blonde hair was so like her aunt’s, eyes the same blue-green as François’, with lips full as orange segments. Her grandmother’s demeanour, her grandfather’s way of walking, Nicole’s figure and perfectly duplicated fingernails – how does nature do that? Everything she loved, rearranged into Mentine, who was, again, her own person.
‘Are you selling more wine, Maman?’
‘Not really, chérie. You might not have noticed, but there’s a war on.’
‘You seem… sort of glowing.’
‘It’s a beautiful spring day.’
‘And you’ve got a big fat cheque from that handsome Russian general. Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s just the same old town gossip; I’ve told you a million times not to listen. Now, which colour are you going to choose for your new dress?’
Mentine cuddled into her and she kissed her head, breathed her in. She smelt clean and her hair was as warm and soft as it was when she was a baby.
Mentine nudged her. ‘Look, it’s him, your general!’
Alexei was right there, under one of the singing trees, sketchbook in hand, dark curls falling over his eyes as he concentrated on the task.
‘Alexei, good morning.’
‘Good morning, both.’
He knew there was two of them, even though he didn’t look up from his sketchbook.
Nicole glanced at the drawing. A tangle of forget-me-nots growing out of the cobbles, flimsy smudges of blue, fragile against the stone.
‘Your Sauvignon’s ready for you,’ she smiled. ‘I even found some of the same chèvre we paired with it for you to take back to the camp.’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to send someone else to collect it. This afternoon?’
His watchful hurt was unmistakable. She searched back through her words for what she might have said to upset him.
‘If you come yourself, I’ll open a bottle of my comet champagne. It will take your mind off things,’ she dared to say.
‘Is it that obvious? I won’t be much company. Really, it’s best if I send someone. Enjoy your outing with your lovely daughter.’
He returned to his drawing.
‘Comet champagne? You never open that for anyone,’ said Mentine as they walked on. ‘He’s old, maybe even as old as you, but handsome.’
‘He’s an important buyer,’ she replied, hiding her disappointment at his words.
Mentine giggled.
‘Don’t forget that the Russians and their allies are occupying our country. Don’t romanticise everything. Come on.’
Nicole ushered her into Claudine’s dress shop. She’d promised her growing daughter a new robe to replace her wardrobe of childish pinafores.
Mentine tried on her new dress, a simple green satin that fitted her perfectly. François made a void beside her. He would have adored this child-woman, shy of her own beauty, but suddenly aware. There was no papa to get angry at the boys, or tell her she was beautiful when she was unsure, or hug her when she felt like a child again. Her own father had always made her feel adored, no matter what. Irises crammed in a vase in the shop window brought back the sharp memory of François filling the house with them after a bout of depression. The despairing lows only served to heighten the fragile highs.
Mentine pirouetted in front of her. ‘I love it!’
‘You actually don’t look bad,’ she teased. ‘In fact, you’re getting rather beautiful. Papa would have been proud of you.’
‘Don’t! I ache when I think of him.’
‘Come on, let’s get it wrapped and we’ll go and show Mémé et Grand-père.’
Out in the sunlit square, the shops showed off the few wares the war allowed, horses clattered, children played and the world didn’t care. Nicole looked for Alexei but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She felt wrung out as she hurried back to her parents’ house. A big delivery was waiting to leave the press at Bouzy, so she guiltily kissed Mentine goodbye and was glad to rush off. Work was the only thing that took her mind off François, and now Alexei.
When she got to the press yard, Xavier’s broad outline was missing from the press office. After his bruised and battered appearance in the vineyard last week, she had sent him home to recover, and Louis wasn’t due in until the afternoon. The whole place was dead. When Emile’s friendly face emerged from the cellar door, she could have hugged him.
His eyes flickered. ‘Madame Clicquot!’
He always knew it was her, just from her footsteps.
‘Good morning, my lovely boy. Where is everyone?’
He scuffed up a few stones with his boot.
‘What’s happened now?’
‘Monsieur Moët is offering double wages again. With the war, there’s such a shortage of able-bodied men and workers are needed for bottling. Everyone’s suffering and they need money…’
‘Even the orphanage lads?’
Emile nodded. Times were hard. She’d had to put them on half wages and they’d already brought the harvest in and rejected Moët’s offer once, so who could blame them?
‘They do know about the delivery to be loaded today for Paris?’
‘They said next week, when the Moët work is finished.’
No shipment meant no wages. The vicious circle spiralled downwards in front of her eyes.
‘He didn’t want me. But I wouldn’t have gone if he had,’ said Emile. ‘That’s better, you’re smiling.’
She was smiling. What an extraordinary lad; she was lucky to have him on her side.
‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ she said, patting his arm.
‘You have a visitor. He asked me all about the press, so I showed him round, I hope you don’t mind. He said he was a friend.’
�
�Who is it? Did he give you a name?’
She held his hand to guide him to the office.
‘Yes, General Marin. He speaks good French, but he’s Russian… Is something wrong?’
‘Not at all.’
Alexei was standing in the cellar doorway, head bent forward, nearly touching the top, watching them.
‘I decided those Prussian thugs can’t be trusted with my precious Sauvignon, so I came myself after all. Emile here knows every inch of this place and has been a great host. Moët’s missing out on your best man, but who can blame him for loyalty to such a lovely boss?’
Her delighted smile felt foolish. He beamed back.
‘So, will you lead me to it?’
‘Is it the case from the Aÿ vineyard?’ said Emile.
‘Yes, but I don’t want you carrying it up the cellar steps. If you fall…’
‘Just tell me where it is, and I can fetch it,’ offered Alexei. ‘And I can also help with the loading of the shipment. You faced down ten armed Cossacks and even then you didn’t look as defeated as when Emile told you about your men deserting you,’ said Alexei. ‘They’d be court-martialled for it on my watch.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s worse than a few drunks with rusty muskets. It’s five thousand bottles, hundreds of cellar stairs. A day’s hard labour for five experienced cellarmen, almost impossible for one soldier, with the best will in the world. But thank you.’
‘In that case, I’ll get you ten men. It’s the least they can do after what happened at the Place des Droits de l’Homme. It’s partly because of them that your man Xavier isn’t here, so we owe you. Don’t protest! Let someone help you for once. Even you need it every now and then. Can I send Emile with a letter to the camp?’
Emile saluted. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘You’ll find your way?’ said Nicole.
‘Of course, I live near there and I walk here every day. Easy.’
‘Then I’ll gladly accept. But please, after that, any debt to me is entirely settled.’
She hated owing anyone, even Alexei. However, she silently thanked Moët for his malice. Her order fulfilled and a whole day with Alexei at the press yard was irresistible.
Emile set off and Alexei helped get the carts into the yard, then she showed him down into the cellar. She would have to select the wine and load the crates with him. His men could do the rest.
‘So, this is your dominion,’ he said as they reached the bottles to be loaded. ‘It’s a bit dark and claustrophobic down here for someone who loves her freedom so much, isn’t it?’
‘It’s where all the magic happens. Each bottle has its own life to lead.’
‘Each one special, with its own personality?’
‘Exactly! No two are ever the same, if you understand how to taste them.’
‘Do you mind?’ Alexei gestured to the cellars, stretching off into the darkness.
‘Please,’ said Nicole.
Alexei strolled around, surveying the stacks of bottles, the bottles in the sand ready for riddling, the reds, the whites, the champagne. While he did so, her mind was racing on the task ahead, picturing in her head the order of the loading, which batches should go, which still needed time, the despatch notes and instructions to the drivers.
When she looked up, he was there, scrutinising her, as if trying to work something out about her.
‘Sorry, I was miles away. There’s so much to get done,’ she smiled.
‘Of course, you never stop, I can see that. There’s so much work in all this. I’ve never seen such an ordered cellar,’ said Alexei. ‘You put your heart and soul into it all. Do you know how much this town talks about you? You’ve defied them all with your obsession. Why do you spend all your time worrying about early frosts and workers’ wages and pest control when you could be living an easy life? By all accounts, you come from a rich family, with everything provided, but you won’t take a sou, insist on embarrassing your family and working your fingers to the bone on all of this. I’m impressed, Veuve Clicquot, but why?’
‘At first, it was my husband’s life, it’s what brought us together. Now, it’s my life. Nothing else, apart from Mentine, matters. I still miss him every day. He was like the vines, a cycle of nature. Sometimes he withered and sometimes he bloomed. In my heart of hearts, I knew he would leave me too soon.’
She hadn’t meant to give so much away, but there was an honesty and directness about Alexei that made her want to tell him everything. It was a relief to let her guard down with this relative stranger.
He didn’t let her down with the usual platitudes, but just blinked in sympathy. A lamp fizzed.
‘I’ll get started,’ he said.
He shrugged off his jacket and pushed up his sleeves. A crude scar sliced the inside of his arm, the white vulnerable skin.
‘How did you get that?’
He yanked his sleeve down.
‘I deserve worse than this scratch. The blade that cut me killed someone very dear to me. I wish I had died instead.’
‘Who?’ she said gently.
His eyes clouded, but he didn’t reply.
‘Some scars just won’t go away, will they?’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I pried.’
‘Don’t be.’
Hooves clattered on the press yard cobbles and they ran up the stairs to meet them. Ten strapping men jumped down from their mounts and stood to attention. Nicole scowled. The characters who’d tried to attack her cellars were standing there in her yard, sober and lined up in front of her as if nothing had happened, Emile riding with the soldier who had smacked her head against the wall. He helped Emile down from his horse solicitously.
‘You brought them here?’ was all she could say to Alexei.
‘We owe you; it had to be them. They’ll behave, don’t you worry about that.’
‘You can tie your horses over there in the stables,’ Nicole instructed.
‘Then report back here for duty,’ said Alexei. ‘You’ll do exactly – exactly – as instructed by Madame Clicquot. For this afternoon, she is your general, in my place, and there is to be no subordination. You will address her as General and obey her as you would on the battlefield, without question.’
Even with her own workers, there was rarely such unqualified respect and willingness. Someone always knew better, or rolled their eyes, or had put their back out, or needed to leave early to help with the milking. It was like conducting an orchestra, running the press on a daily basis – a mixture of encouragement, instruction, cajoling, diplomacy and, above all, absolute knowledge of every single aspect of the operation to gain the respect of her workers and keep it all going in harmony.
Today all she had to do was say the word and it was done with unquestioning efficiency.
‘I could get used to this,’ laughed Nicole to Alexei.
‘It’s a match made in heaven. You’re clearly used to giving orders, and they’re trained to follow them.’
It was Alexei they were obeying though. He had a way with them, joining their ranks every now and then, then pulling back and overseeing the whole thing. Each man was rotated with scrupulous fairness, so that each took turns at the most back-breaking tasks, like heaving the crates up the hundreds of stairs and passing them up the ladders as the loads got taller on the carts.
As the sharp morning sun mellowed to afternoon, Nicole inspected the crates, calculating. She could count the bottles just by running her eye along them, she’d done it so many times. Two thousand five hundred and the same to go again. She called a break for lunch and Josette brought out the little they had and laid it out on the press table. Some cheese, a few stale baguettes and preserved fruit. They waited for the word from Alexei, then tore at it hungrily. Just men, desperate and hungry, somebody’s son or husband or brother, land workers like most of the men who were on her books. Wouldn’t they have done the same to the cellars if they were in Russia and the tables were turned? She prayed they all made it home to whoever was waiting for them. Did Alexei ha
ve someone waiting?
There weren’t enough coffee cups to go around, so she took a sip and gave him hers. He took a sip and passed it back, the coffee warm and bitter, like him. They smiled to each other at the little moment of causal intimacy, until they realised men were exchanging lewd glances at the spectacle.
‘Let’s get back to work; we need to get this lot off. You have a business to coax back to life for your husband and his little family,’ said Alexei, his gaze hardening.
Another few hours and the men were done. The carts clattered off towards her Paris buyers, driven by two of the soldiers. She waved them off, wishing her bottles a happy future in ballrooms, at soirées, at, please God, celebrations of peace at last from the war.
‘You know you move your lips when you talk to your bottles?’
‘It doesn’t count unless I do.’
He waved them goodbye, too, and she laughed happily, feeling carefree for the first time she could remember in a long while.
The men were dismissed after Emile had fed and watered the horses. It was the last of the hay, but at least she could afford to buy some more when the money was sent back from Paris. A few more months bought; no point in thinking any further.
Alexei picked up his jacket. ‘Crisis averted, General. I really must get back to the garrison. Am I released?’
‘Wait. I promised you something.’
She fetched a bottle of the Cuvée de la Comète and added it to the crate of Sauvignon.
‘The first one to be opened since we laid it down.’
He picked it up, ran his thumb over the crude charred comet on the cork. The late afternoon was hot and still.
‘Open it now,’ he smiled.
‘It won’t be cold enough,’ she protested.