The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘But your letter? We lost everything.’

  ‘And grapes stop growing on the vines? Come on, it was just a setback. You of all people surely thought that?’

  ‘I have thought nothing since he died.’

  ‘He put everything he had into those vineyards. He put his life into them and into you. And you’re thinking of signing them over to Moët? We can’t let this happen.’

  ‘There is no we. And no one would listen to a woman running a vineyard. Who would do business with me?’

  ‘You’re not just any woman. You are Nicole Clicquot. There is a tradition in Champagne of entrepreneurial widows. Family business is in the region’s blood. Remember Widow Blanc who ran the depository in Paris? No one argued with her. And Widow Robert who supplies your barrel wines? Fierce! If I was in trouble on a battlefield, I’d choose her to hide behind.’

  ‘They don’t have independent means. They’ve been successful because they had to do it. I don’t. Mentine and I are well provided for by my parents. But it’s work or the workhouse for those women.’

  ‘It’s work or slow death for you. Are you really going to retire quietly into black dresses and veils, or give yourself to a pompous arse who wants you for your name? If they have never worked with you, they can never appreciate you.’

  ‘I’m too tired to do it on my own, Louis. And scared,’ she confessed for the first time.

  ‘Then do it for François. You owe it to him.’

  ‘I paid my debt in tears.’

  ‘Tears are no use to anyone, Babouchette. François lived for those vineyards, and for you and Mentine. Do you think he’d be happy to see you locked up in a big house? His daughter pushed aside in a new marriage, a new man in charge of his lands, or worse, Moët? There’s gold in that ballroom, waiting to buy your champagne.’ He picked a flaming torch from its stand and drew letters in the night sky. ‘Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie. Pretend, just for tonight.’

  ‘I’m getting too used to being called a veuve, a widow. But it does give the company name a certain cachet, at least.’

  She looked at Louis, passion burning in his eyes. She realised he loved their business as much as François had. The glittering ballroom was ablaze, filled with life and possibilities. What was she going to do when Thérésa tired of her and found another plaything, as she surely would? Go back to her lonely study, stare at the old ledgers she had left behind and wait for inspiration? She hadn’t yet concluded her negotiations with Moët. In fact, she’d dragged her feet, despite his many communications with her on the subject since she’d reached Paris.

  ‘Just tonight, to see how it feels,’ she agreed. ‘No promises, but there is still some stock which would go for nothing if I did sell to Moët, and I’d much rather see it appreciated in crystal goblets at a soirée in Paris than rotting in a Moët warehouse.’

  Louis clapped his hands and beamed. ‘That’s the spirit! We can make it work, I promise. Your name will be the talk of the ballrooms of Russia!’

  ‘No promises, I said, but let’s go in then and talk to these painted dolls. Which one do we start with?’

  ‘See the lady with the chestnut hair and the diamond barrette? She is Madame Champs-Ricard, the richest widow in Paris. We’ll start with her. I am sure she’ll be sympathetic to your cause, and everyone here is on the lookout for new blood. Watch me and learn.’

  Nicole linked arms with him and went back in. Veuve Clicquot, a woman in command of this ballroom, herself, and a burgeoning wine empire, with her trusty and charming salesman at her side. François would delight at the sheer fun and daring of it all.

  Chapter 7

  The Parisienne

  December 1805

  Republican date: Nivôse, year XIV

  New Year’s Eve morning. Only one more day until this horrible year was over. Nicole propped herself up on her pillows, fluffy as marshmallows. She pulled the tangle of linen sheets and cashmere blankets to her chin, pushed her feet to a cool part of the bed and swooshed them around on the cold smoothness. The sheets smelt of Thérésa’s perfume and the sun slid through the heavy drapes, dust motes dancing to her mood. Shouts, door slams and pounding little feet at full pelt permeated the house at Thérésa’s vast home at rue de Babylone.

  A million miles away from Reims and their talk of burying François at a crossroads. The dust hung heavy in its suspension of light, then disappeared in the gloom. She shook herself. Today was a good day. François was the second thought she had had on waking, not the first. She had got through Christmas in a riotous, pungent bouquet of Thérésa’s parties, soirées, card evenings and theatricals. The vanilla taste of waxy candlelight, the tang of cheated suitors, a top note of scandal and debauchery. A heady elixir to treat her grief. She was Thérésa’s doll. Hers to dress up, take around, show off and play with whenever she felt like it. No decisions, no responsibility. All she had to do was effervesce to Thérésa’s bidding and everyone was delighted.

  She didn’t love Thérésa like she loved François, nor how she loved her sister or friends. She knew that her friendship with her was unique, that the way they kissed and kept each other warm at night transgressed what society would call right or normal, but somehow with her, it didn’t matter. In fact, it made her see how anything was possible, how the narrow confines of society could be smashed, in any way she wished. To Nicole, that was captivating.

  These were her conclusions in her rational moments, but whatever she thought was, in reality, useless. Thérésa was irresistible, heady, intoxicating. If Thérésa chose to seduce you, it was impossible to resist her, soul and beautiful body. Their nights together had a dreamlike, illicit quality that suited her grief and allowed her to abnegate all responsibility.

  ‘Maman!’ Mentine burst through the door, trailing a brood of little ones diminishing in height, and in varying states of dishevelment. ‘Can I go riding? Monsieur Bohne is here and he said he’d take me with him to the Tuileries. I’m going to wear my new muff and blue dress and all the ladies will see me and think how fashionable I am and the officers will turn their heads and I’ll be grown up and the talk of the town and the belle of the ball like Thérésa and the whole of Paris will remember the name of Clémentine Clicquot.’

  Nicole was not the only one in love with Thérésa.

  ‘Stop. You’re going so fast you’re making me dizzy! Come and kiss your maman. Of course you can go.’

  Mentine jumped onto her bed, followed by two more of Thérésa’s girls. Their silky hair and perfect foreheads were exquisite, and her stomach lurched. All her happiest moments were tinged with sadness, wishing François could be there to feel it with her.

  ‘Right, now shoo. All of you. Go and get ready and tell Louis I’ll be down before he goes.’

  She was dreading the meeting. He was not going to like what she had to say, but she owed it to him to tell him straight.

  Louis’ smile warmed the room.

  ‘You’ve been difficult to get hold of, Veuve Clicquot.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Louis, it’s just I’ve been so caught up in Thérésa’s social life. There never seems to be a moment for anything else.’

  ‘So I gather. I’m starting to hear your name in some of the most elevated company,’ he said darkly.

  ‘Don’t tease me. I’m just Thérésa’s escort for a while. I like it. It helps me forget.’

  ‘Don’t forget too much, sauvage.’

  ‘Let me be, Louis, just for a while.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like what I hear, the way people talk about you, in connection with her. She’s a one-off, a curiosity, a beautiful, walking scandal from another world, immune to society. But that’s not you, it’s not what you are. The vineyards are crying out for you. When are you going back to real life?’

  ‘Don’t be such an old prude, Louis. You’re as bad as all those small-town gossips I left behind.’

  His hurt look made her angry for the guilt, gave her the steel she needed.

  ‘I’m not going back – e
ver. I know we had fun at the ball, selling up my champagne to those old widows. But I have a new life now.’ The last whirling weeks had convinced her that she could make a new life here.

  ‘But that’s what I came to tell you. You remember Madame Champs-Ricard, the night of Thérésa’s ball? She’s buying! She thought you were charming – you’re quite a curiosity in wine sales. She’s cancelled her order with Moët and placed it with us. Ten thousand bottles! It’s the best start to a new year we could wish for. How can you run the press from here, Nicole?’

  The mention of Moët’s name gave her a stab of conscience. She still hadn’t finally concluded with him, but she had promised him a trip to Reims to sign as soon as she could face going back.

  ‘That’s just it, I can’t stomach it. I’m happy here, Mentine’s happy. Why would I want to go back to that little town?

  ‘That’s not you talking, it’s her.’

  ‘You can work with Moët. He’ll be delighted with the order. It will make the business easier to sell as a going concern, and you with it, my top salesman.’

  Louis flushed. ‘That’s how you see me. Something to sell as part of your business?’

  ‘No! It’s just I have nothing left to give. I just want to forget, Louis…’

  Thérésa swept into the room. ‘Darling, what have you done to him? He looks like he’s seen a ghost.’

  Thérésa held out her hand to Louis. He kissed it, reluctantly.

  ‘You can’t hog her forever, I’m afraid. She’s very much in demand. Nicole, darling, you must get yourself ready for our little gathering. What is that hairstyle? I’ll have my hairdresser come to your room in half an hour, then you’ll be ready to scintillate Paris, my little country firefly. Louis, isn’t it wonderful to see a spark in those grey eyes?’

  ‘Quite the Parisienne,’ said Louis.

  Nicole allowed herself to be ushered away by Thérésa, ignoring Louis’ glowering. No need for any more discussion. She was decided. Moët’s offer was good. She would sell to him and live here in Paris with Mentine, and put all the memories of her and François’ life well and truly behind her.

  When evening came, she was too weary for another soirée, but Thérésa begged and they arrived fashionably late to find a roaring party in full swing.

  Shouts and laughter drew Nicole through the house into the gardens, where a commotion was fizzing through the crowd like champagne bubbles. She joined them, looking, followed their eyes to the balcony.

  ‘Jump. We can catch you!’ shouted a young soldier.

  A young man was holding court, two floors up, eyes wild with liquor and the party. He staggered. ‘Alright I’ll do it. Promise to catch?’

  ‘Stop being a mummy’s boy and trust to fate. Step into the void. Death or glory!’ the soldier shouted back.

  ‘Make the net! And tell my mother I love her if I don’t make it!’

  The crowd sighed and giggled at the filial sentiment.

  The soldier issued orders to his fellows, who lined up to face each other, linking hands.

  The man leapt, arms spread like a bird. ‘I can fly!’

  The crowd drew a collective breath as he fell. Nicole screwed her eyes tight shut, waiting for the nauseating thud. Applause erupted and she opened her eyes to see him caught in the human cradle and neatly deposited on his feet.

  ‘Bravo!’

  Thérésa was next to her, shouting and clapping, perfume clinging to her transparent dress. ‘Encore! Encore!’

  The man bowed.

  Nicole was elated and angry at them all at the same time. How could they play so fast and loose with life?

  Another man appeared on the balcony, auburn hair in a careless shock, silvered by the moonlight.

  ‘For the Clicquot vineyards!’ someone shouted. Nicole froze.

  ‘Darling, it’s your little business partner, Laurent… Léo… no, Louis, that’s it. For you. Blow him a kiss. Delightful!’ squealed Thérésa. ‘You’ve got them all in the palm of your hand.’

  ‘Yes, or no?’ Louis’ eyes fixed on her as he cried out. The crowd’s eyes followed his gaze. Gradually, they found her, with Thérésa’s help, pointing coquettishly at her friend.

  Nicole shook her head, horrified.

  ‘Say you’ll keep them and I take the stairs to the ground and devote my services to you forever,’ Louis shouted.

  A woman next to her sighed. Others fluttered their fans at the sheer romance.

  ‘Save him. Keep the vineyards,’ lisped a beautiful young thing in a white dress.

  ‘Let him jump. Take his chances,’ roared a soldier from the line-up. ‘I’ll make sure we miss. Give your vineyards to me and we’ll make beautiful wine together.’

  This brought a barrage of laughter.

  Her eyes locked with Louis’. His arms were stretched out, like Jesus on the cross, and he took a step nearer to the edge.

  ‘I’d give my own life for you and the vines. If I jump, you’re on your own forever,’ Louis declared. He was drunk as a lord.

  ‘Stop it, please, you’ll break your neck!’ shouted Nicole.

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ he said, staggering closer to the edge.

  ‘I can’t promise, Louis, Come down!’

  He launched himself. The line-up wasn’t ready and they scrambled to catch him. Someone screamed in horror. She held her breath, rigid with fear.

  Louis landed, safe. She didn’t wait for his look of triumph. How dare he make a fool of her?

  She ran, through the gaudy crowd, swiping at angry tears. They were laughing at her. Someone put out a foot and tripped her and she bruised her knees on the floor. She tottered up again and stumbled on. A man caught her arm and drew her too close. She slapped his face to screams of laughter. ‘Take a joke, country girl!’

  Outside, she stopped to catch her breath. The sky was full of stars and she longed for the silence of the Reims night, the smell of dew on the soil at first light.

  ‘I immediately saw my error on the way down, but it was too late. It certainly sobered me up.’ Louis fell into step with her, struggling to keep up.

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘Those are not your people, Nicole.’

  ‘You can’t hold me to ransom. Just leave me to live my life.’

  ‘I’ve decided. The moment they put me on my feet. I’m hitting the road again. You can reach me if you need me, but you won’t sell me along with your barrels and vines.’

  ‘You do what you need to and I’ll look after myself.’

  ‘They see you as a rich widow, ripe for the taking. Nothing else. Be careful.’

  Louis turned on his heel and was gone. The loneliness was crushing.

  Nicole kept walking, all the way back to Thérésa’s mansion on rue de Babylone, Thérésa’s choice of tight satin slippers slicing her feet.

  A large glass of bourbon helped her sleep, a habit she’d got into here. Blissful unconsciousness descended. All night, she dreamt of falling. She woke with a pounding head to a knock on her door.

  ‘Messenger for you, Madame.’

  ‘Tell him to leave a note.’

  ‘He says it’s urgent. He has to tell you in person.’

  Nicole threw on a robe.

  A young boy was cowering in the hallway, eyes wide at the opulence of the gilded mansion.

  ‘I’ve memorised it, Madame Clicquot.’ He cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling to recall the words, which were delivered in an expressionless monotone. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing up there poncing around with a lot of aristos? You are needed here. The guild has voted you to lead the St Vincent day parade for the village of Bouzy on the twenty-second of January – the first woman ever to have the honour, not that you deserve it. You have abandoned us, but we want to honour your husband and he thought so highly of you, we hope you accept and return as fast as a Parisian nag can manage it. Give young Emile here a gold coin for his trouble. He can’t read and neither can I, so say what you need to him. He has a good memory for
words, which is why I sent him.’

  The boy doubled over in relief when he finished.

  ‘You forgot to tell me who the message is from,’ laughed Nicole. ‘Let me guess. Xavier?’

  The boy beamed. ‘How did you know?’

  Nicole tapped her nose. ‘You must be hungry. I’ll show you to the kitchens and you can eat something.’

  ‘No time, begging your pardon, my mother packed me bread and cheese. My cart is waiting outside, it’s on a delivery and I have to go on the rounds, then travel back with him today. Ten thousand bottles on it, all to one address – Madame Champs-Ricard, the richest widow in Paris! They’re yours, Madame. Clicquot on every cork. Louis organised the order with Xavier. He said that you sold it together at a ball. Nice work, Madame. Never seen that much go to one place.’

  ‘Who’s your mother?’

  ‘Marie Jumel, Madame.’

  Marie, a prostitute Nicole had seen a lifetime ago, hawking her emaciated self round the square on the day of the revolution. Marie was now one of her most loyal employees, thanks to Nicole’s trust in a ‘fallen’ woman who was simply trying to feed her children.

  ‘You send my best regards to your mother. And take this for your trouble.’ She handed him two gold coins, which he bit, sucked his breath at the authentic yield to his teeth, then shoved deep into his pocket.