The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘Me and Maman are having a tea party for Papa.’

  Natasha whisked away the cake, expressionless, out to the back and shut the door to wrap it, then called Mentine to collect it. Nicole longed for a sign of affection from her friend. Perhaps she thought everything was her fault. After all, Natasha had been the one to warn her about caution before everything had fallen apart and she had ignored her.

  Mentine came out with one of Natasha’s special packages, neatly wrapped with gold ribbon. ‘She said as it was for Papa and I was such a good girl that it’s a gift from her.’

  ‘Merci, Natasha!’ Nicole shouted to the back, but there was no reply and she felt lonelier than ever.

  That evening, Nicole put Mentine to bed and, the minute she was asleep, she ran downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sobbed. The evenings were the worst. People were kind, but she missed him just being there, no effort, no ceremony, just the two of them chatting about the day. She hadn’t visited her secret riddling room since he died, either. Hard to imagine that a time had existed where she was so full of optimism about the future that she thought she was capable of anything. The corner of the basement where she hid the riddling sandbox and upturned bottles seemed utterly pointless and stupid now.

  The battered leather chair he loved still described his shape, but it was fading. Next to the chair, a spindly table held a pile of books he read to her from: Diderot, Rousseau, and the manual that was just an endless list of grape varietals – but it was their favourite. They both loved the sounds of the grapes they’d never heard of. Whole evenings were spent guessing where they came from – Clairette, Muscat d’Alexandrie, Aramon, Auxerrois blanc (easy!), Jacquère.

  She opened his violin case. It was gloomy and dark, but she knew it so well that she didn’t need to see. Yellow velvet, turned mustard with age. A box of resin falling apart, warm wood and scrolled f-holes, brought to life in his hands, filling the room. She held it up to her chin to feel him against her. Nothing.

  When Josette came to announce a caller, she waved her away. The well-meaning scrutiny, sympathy and subsequent forced reassurances from her were worse than anything.

  ‘Sorry, Madame, it’s just Xavier and he says it’s urgent.’

  ‘In that case, send him in, thank you, Josette.’

  His Sunday best was stretched incongruously over his broad chest and his cap was pulled down stoutly on his forehead.

  ‘What are you doing sitting here in the dark all on your own?’

  ‘Sit anywhere, apart from that leather chair.’

  Xavier perched awkwardly, legs apart. Dear Xavier, always her stalwart through the years, and her most trusted overseer at the vineyards.

  ‘I’m no good at pussyfooting around, so I’m coming straight to the point,’ he said.

  ‘It must be important if you’ve chosen me instead of Etienne’s opening time.’

  ‘It is important. I can’t think of another way to put it, but Clicquot Ponsardin and Company has gone to hell.’

  ‘What?’ This was not what Nicole had been expecting to hear.

  ‘The harvest wasn’t brought in, the grapes are still hanging there shrivelled like an old man’s bollocks, Monsieur Olivier and his tasting gang are off sniffing for Moët and the press yard is covered in milkweed. I know this is a delicate time for you, and I’ve left it as long as I can. The weeds and the grapes don’t matter so much, it’s just it’s Christmas and none of us have been paid since the end of September.’

  ‘September! I only know the date because it’s his birthday today, but that’s nearly three months. I’ve left you all to cope without me. You know you could have come to me earlier. I’ve just been so…’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise to me. I knew you wouldn’t mind my saying, though. But… his birthday, today? I’m so sorry. Terrible timing on my part.’

  ‘And you, Xavier, you don’t have to be kind! It will only make me worse. Look, I’m writing you a cheque now. I know what courage it must have taken for you to come and talk to me, and I’m grateful. You must always feel that you can. People are scared to talk to me about anything meaningful, and it feels like living in cotton wool.’

  ‘Just write the bloody cheque and let me get to Etienne’s. I’ll raise a toast to him, don’t you worry, he was a good man. I wish I could do more for you. I’ll cash the cheque tomorrow and if it’s all right with you I can dole it out. I know where the wage slips are down at the press. You look like you could do with a good night’s sleep.’

  She scrawled out the cheque, noticing the ledger, open at the place she had last left it, blank for good news, the day François died. Her beautiful, clever husband had loved this business and her, in equal measures. He had made them both into poetry. And now all was turned to ashes. She’d been in such a fog that everything but her sharp grief had been a blur, just a meaningless background to the searing vision of François lifeless in their secret hideaway. Any good memories of him just made it worse. She’d neglected the business and refused all visitors. The only person she’d have liked to have seen was Natasha, but her friend had inexplicably abandoned her in her hour of need, which just completed her overwhelming sense of loss.

  She slammed the ledger shut and handed over the cheque.

  ‘I’ve got something else to say…’ began Xavier.

  ‘Oh really – how long have we known each other?’ said Nicole. ‘Just come right out and say it.’

  ‘Still got the scar where you hit me with that bloody stick. We were four.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is, Xavier.’

  ‘They’re saying he should have been buried at the crossroads.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Monsieur Clicquot. The whole town’s oozing with it, like pus in a sore. They’re all saying he did it to himself because he had a few bad years at the vineyards. I don’t like talk behind people’s back so I’m giving it to you straight.’

  Nicole’s sadness bloomed to fury. ‘My François died of typhoid – and he was better than this whole town of small-minded insects put together. If I ever hear one of them even think any different, I’ll personally throttle them with my own hands.’

  ‘I had a few fights about it myself. Leave it with me. There’s nothing else for them to talk about, that’s all there is to it, but I didn’t want it going on behind your back. Sorry for any upset.’

  He gave her a rough handshake. He nudged his cap up and it was then she noticed bruising around his left eye as he was leaving.

  For the first time in months, she was angry. To be buried at a crossroads was the country people’s way of saying that François had taken his own life and left his little family to take their chances. Small-minded, superstitious, mean gossips that they were, whispering at the bakery, crossing themselves as they passed her. They should keep to their business, and she to hers. She couldn’t stand this dreary place a minute longer and she flew to the drawer to find the letter.

  My darling, dark days. You have an open invitation to Paris. I promised and I never forget a promise. Come and forget and bring your little daughter – my brood will adore her. This is not a formal sympathy card, so you’ll forgive me, but even this cloud has a silver lining and I intend to be it. Come soon.

  With love, Thérésa

  What had Nicole been doing for the last four months? She couldn’t face Christmas without François and the town was too small and full of hurtful gossip. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote two letters – one to Thérésa to gratefully accept, and another to Moët to say she was open to discussions about selling.

  He’d been angling for the Clicquot vineyards ever since she married François and she just couldn’t face the memories any more, least of all run a business, as was clear from Xavier’s necessary approach to her about the wages. She and Clémentine had a small allowance from her parents, which covered all their living expenses, so they could survive. If Moët was running the vineyards, at least the workers would get paid on time. He could afford it, even
though the markets were dead and everyone was talking about an impending war with Russia.

  She hesitated over the letter to Moët. François would have been devastated. But she had to accept that he wasn’t here any more, and every part of the poetry of the vineyards, the cycle of growth, harvest and blend, hurt too much. If she stayed here, it would destroy her – she was living a half-life in the shadows of her marriage.

  And what about Louis? She wasn’t capable of being responsible for him, or anyone else apart from Mentine, she told herself. She’d write and tell him from Paris, or in person when he returned.

  She took care to write her Paris return address on the back of the letter to Moët for further negotiations and left the two letters on the hall table for Josette to post in the morning. Exhausted, she headed upstairs to curl up next to Mentine, warm with sleep, in her bed.

  In Paris, it was Mentine’s turn to abandon her. From the moment she encountered Thérésa’s eight raucous children, she was absorbed into a cycle of teatimes, horse riding, impromptu plays, fights and reconciliations. After only one week, Mentine was as rowdy as the rest, running as fast as any of the boys, and falling asleep most nights in her arms, heavy and still and sweet as a plum.

  After another of these busy days, Mentine immediately fell asleep in her soft feather bed. Tonight, Nicole kissed Mentine’s forehead and left her to prepare for Thérésa’s ball, standing in front of the mirror to tidy herself up. Thérésa had begged her to attend, and she had agreed to please her, but she was a disaster. A skeletal face, dull eyes, dark shadows, lank hair. A ball was the last thing she wanted tonight.

  Thérésa appeared in the reflection. ‘Look at you! For goodness’ sake, you’re not in Reims now. Come with me.’

  She swept her to a flower-filled boudoir, gilt mirrors lining every available space, a dressing table scattered with a jumble of hairbrushes, combs, jewellery, powders and perfumes. Invitations and notes from admirers filled the mantelpiece and spilled carelessly onto the floor.

  ‘Let me, please, darling.’

  Thérésa unhooked her dowdy black dress in front of the mirror and slid it off her shoulders. Her slip was next, and then she was naked. Nicole felt a kind of pride to be bared to her friend, and found herself smiling at Thérésa as she spun her round to face her.

  ‘There’s a butterfly inside that chrysalis,’ Thérésa murmured as she leaned in, cupping Nicole’s breasts and drawing her close. An electric charge ran across her skin where Thérésa touched her. She smelt of cotton and tasted of salt as her tongue explored her mouth, until a knock on the door sent them reeling apart.

  What just happened? Is this how women behave in Paris? She wasn’t sure, but it made anything seem possible. It was the first moment in four months she hadn’t thought of François.

  The maid came in and bobbed a curtsey and discreetly averted her eyes as Nicole slipped behind the screen to cover herself.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Thérésa, cool as a cucumber.

  ‘General Roussillon is here to see you, Madame. He made a special request…’

  ‘Get him a glass of brandy and put him in a corner. I’ll see to him later.’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  Nicole’s lips felt bruised.

  Thérésa bustled over to the armoire, pulled out a blue-grey dress and held it up to her, their moment forgotten. ‘Perfect. The colour of your eyes, like a soft winter morning. Put it on, but don’t look yet.’

  Nicole closed her eyes and submitted to her powders and rouges. Thérésa slicked on the lipstick with her finger, tenderly pressing her lips, then used the same for her own.

  ‘Red suits you.’ She twisted her hair, pinned it, stood back and clapped. ‘Now look.’

  A beautiful, luscious woman with glittering eyes was reflected back at her. Her lips looked like she’d eaten a punnet of blackberries and the dress was a winter sky. She swung her hips and the silk rippled. They giggled.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nicole whispered.

  Thérésa kissed her shoulder. ‘You’re a businesswoman. Use all of your assets.’

  ‘I’m not a businesswoman any more, just a widow, no longer Madame, but Veuve Clicquot. François is dead and my duty is to withdraw into grateful silence, or marry again splendidly,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Finally you’re beginning to see sense. A nice man to take your mind off things, instead of moping about like a tired old washerwoman. I have the perfect person!’

  ‘I won’t marry again. I’ll endure the party, but only for your sake.’

  ‘Darling, I know you’ll change your mind. Lonely women always do. But let me tell you something. I know you genuinely loved your husband. Very quaint, by the way. But you’ll recover, and when you do start to look elsewhere, you mustn’t hook yourself to someone who can dictate your every move. You have produced a child, you have married. Society will happily accept you as a woman of means in your own right now. Just think how lucky you are. You think I am calculating, a manipulator? I see it in you, too. I saw it that day in Reims, at the party, the way you held court with those men.’

  Nicole shook her head.

  ‘I know that old reprobate Moët is desperate to get his grubby hands on your prize vineyards. Don’t let him. We all survived the revolution. For what? For men to be free and women to be shut in their houses? I know that isn’t what you want.’

  ‘I don’t know what I want any more.’ She thought of the pile of correspondence with Moët. He would sign tomorrow and take the whole wine business and land off her hands for triple what it was worth if she agreed. But she kept stalling, not quite able to make the final cut.

  ‘I saved my neck from the guillotine by being an observer of people. It makes people eminently malleable if you know all about them. But let’s have no more being serious tonight! You can think tomorrow – you can be anything here. No one will judge. These people are survivors, and they have been through a bloody revolution to be here, each in their own way.’

  Thérésa steered Nicole out of the boudoir. Footmen bowed as she passed, following her with their eyes.

  Entering the ballroom, they strolled through the gathering, Thérésa making a stir as she fluttered past clusters of guests, strutting men in uniform, sneering women in empire-line dresses, the braver ones sporting Thérésa’s coiffure à la victime. A quartet played in the corner and the chandeliers threw prisms in the candlelight. Nicole’s sharp eyes picked out the quality of the crystal, caught the ‘M’ for Moët on the champagne corks before they were popped.

  ‘General Roussillon, my favourite soldier!’ Thérésa pecked him on the cheek.

  ‘Meet my dear friend Nicole Clicquot. She’s just up from the country, so you make sure not to tease her.’

  And she was gone, leaving the General following her smooth back and raven hair until she disappeared into the crowd. Nicole flew daggers into that perfect back. How dare Thérésa burden her with the title of paysanne, country peasant?

  ‘From the country? Whereabouts?’ the General muttered, still more interested in Thérésa.

  ‘Reims. Where the cathedral of kings is.’ She gulped her champagne, doubting everything about the evening.

  ‘Don’t drink that muck, it’ll make you ill,’ she heard a voice with a German lilt behind her say.

  Nicole swung round. Long boots, damask waistcoat and a fat cigar.

  ‘Louis!’

  ‘La sauvage.’

  The General melted back into the crowd as Nicole hugged her friend tight.

  ‘You’re safe! I heard about the dangerous situation in Russia and wrote several times to call you home, but we… I never heard a word back from you.’

  ‘I never got it, communications are terrible and the situation is dire. The talk is of a French invasion now that Napoléon’s made it as far as Moravia, so all French in Russia are seen as spies. Four months on horseback across the forests and steppes, then ship and barge. I would have come straight to Reims, but Thérésa told me she had lured you her
e.’

  ‘Louis… did you hear about…?’

  ‘I wrote straight away. You didn’t receive my letter either?’

  She shook her head, aware of curious eyes on them. ‘I knew you would contact me if you could, but it wouldn’t be the first time one of your Russian letters went astray. Everything’s been such a blur. I still have letters I can’t bear to open.’

  ‘He loved you more than most men could in a hundred lifetimes. Are you managing?’

  ‘I keep busy.’

  ‘You are always busy, Madame Clicquot.’

  ‘Veuve Clicquot now,’ she replied, getting used to her new title of widow.

  He kissed her cheek; both blinked back tears. ‘Dance with me.’

  They wove through the crowds, and stepped onto the dance floor, her widow’s dress forgotten in a heap in Thérésa’s boudoir. No one cared who they were as the chandeliers glittered and the candles cried slow wax tears. The revolution had taken indiscriminately, and everyone in this room had suffered.

  The room spun and silk dresses blurred, Louis’ arms tight around her. He whirled her through the tall doors into a freezing garden. François. The last night they had spent together they had danced like this.

  Louis touched her hair. ‘I’ve never seen it like this.’

  She held his gaze, and wished that things were different… but she had to tell him about her negotiations with Moët. She owed him that much.

  ‘I’m thinking of giving up the vineyards. I’ve offered them to Jean-Rémy and we’re discussing terms.’

  ‘You can’t! Not yet! You just need time. You haven’t concluded the deal?’

  ‘Not yet, but the vineyards were François’ dream, not mine. I just don’t have the heart any more, Mentine is suffering and I don’t need to do it for the money.’

  ‘François would never have allowed it. It would break his heart! I won’t allow it,’ he said sternly.

  ‘I’ve already begun the negotiations, Louis.’

  ‘François would haunt me if I didn’t stop you. I know the last letter I wrote was full of doom and gloom, but I had only just arrived and it’s true, things aren’t what they were. The country is suffering from the war, just as we are. But after introductions from my network of contacts, it’s clear there is still a vast echelon of rich with the means to buy, and they are crazy for French champagne. The fact that it’s in short supply just makes it even more sought after. This ball is nothing compared to the luxuries of Moscow and St Petersburg. Don’t forget that they still have an aristocracy there and their wealth is beyond imagining – there is no other representative who knows them like I do. Things will change, the war won’t last forever. We can’t give up. If you work your magic at the vineyards with your beautiful blends, you can leave the rest to me.’