The French House

by Helen Fripp

  Thank God she’d asked the carriage to wait. She’d made an enemy of the most powerful vintner in Champagne and there was no time to lose.

  It took less than a week to organise everything. Tonight was magic: inky, star-pricked, velvet, with an icy bite that kept them on the move. The stable was in darkness, the horses blinkered, even in the gloom, to stop them from being frightened as Emile fixed the carts to the fastest steeds Nicole could muster. Their hooves were shod in sackcloth as instructed. Good. All in order here.

  She slipped out of the stable side-door. She didn’t need a lantern; she knew every step of the way back to the Bouzy press and cellars.

  In the vineyards, the pale paths stood out against the dark vines. It would be easy to see anyone approach that way. Out in front was the hamlet, a few houses strung along the road. Plenty of places to hide, but the villagers were unlikely to wake. These people were as predictable as the sunset and sunrise, their lives tethered to nature’s rhythms.

  In the cellars, the bottles calmed her nerves. She knew every one of them – had counted and noted them against the bailiff’s reckonings. She had forgotten how much each one of these quiet green chrysalises meant to her, the golden liquid inside as delicate and short-lived as a butterfly when released, but bringing pure delight while it lived. Where would each one end up? The amber ballroom in Moscow? A secret rendezvous between lovers? A wedding party under the trees by the sea, the whip of salt heightening the senses?

  She ran her hands over the smooth glass wall of bottles. Some, like François, would never reach maturity. Some already had a cancer growing inside them, the sediment waiting to spoil the wine.

  Fifty thousand bottles, all to be loaded tonight, under cover of darkness. Antoine, Claudine, Xavier and Natasha were packing trunks as fast and quietly as they could.

  The clock struck one and she hurried over to Xavier.

  ‘We’ll never have it done.’

  ‘Takes as long as it takes,’ he said stubbornly. ‘It’s got to be right. They’ll have the lot off us if it’s not. Those Dutch customs officers are looking for any excuse to take it to the nearest whorehouse to loosen up their fancy women. They’ll pour it down their throats like piss. Go and fuss around someone else before I lose count and fuck the whole lot up for you.’

  He heaved the sacks over the bottles, the nutty smell of coffee filled the air and he slammed the trunk shut.

  She picked up a candle stub to inspect the inscription: Café. Pays d’origine, Reunion.

  Customs would allow coffee through the blockades, even if it was closed to French wines.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame.’

  Nicole stepped aside as a field hand hefted the trunk onto a trolley ready for loading. He looked half-starved, but handled the heavy chest as if it were empty.

  Xavier held up the lantern to help him see. ‘Drop that and I’ll string you up by the balls.’

  The man smiled good-naturedly. ‘I’d rather hold onto them, camarade,’ he said as he carefully lowered the trunk down.

  Nicole turned to Xavier, concerned to see a stranger in their midst. ‘You haven’t introduced your friend?’

  ‘We needed some extra muscle and Monsieur Châtelet might look like a runt, but he’s got more strength in those arms than a bull,’ he said, grinning. ‘You don’t need to worry, I’ve worked the fields with him for years. Talks like a toff, works like a bastard. He’ll have this lot packed and loaded in the time it takes anyone else to take a piss. You asked me to get you a driver you could trust?’ Xavier slapped him on the back. ‘Solid gold.’

  Monsieur Châtelet bowed. ‘At your service. Xavier’s in charge of strategy, I’m merely an operative and if I don’t get this lot done, he’s already informed me of the consequences, so if you’ll excuse me…’ he said with a wry smile.

  She studied him for a moment while he worked to satisfy herself. There was something about Monsieur Châtelet, the way he held himself straight and assured, his fair hair and uncalloused hands. The camarade sounded clipped, not at all like the Rémois accent. His clothes were different, too. They were patched, but the trousers were fine wool. Many fortunes had changed places since the revolution and this man had seen better times, but there was no question that he was a good worker.

  Natasha had stopped packing and was in the corner, studying a parchment, spread out in front of her.

  ‘Only three hours until we leave,’ said Nicole, irritated that Natasha was not packing bottles. She needed everyone, even Natasha, to help or they’d never have it done.

  Natasha didn’t look up. ‘You want me to pack with the rest? Not now, I’m checking the stars for our journey. We should wait a day,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘Impossible. There’s only one Dutch sea captain in the whole of Amsterdam prepared to take us, and the corsair sails in three weeks. Not accounting for the two days overland to Charleville-Meziéres, the barge trip alone would usually take three and a half weeks. We’ll have to sail day and night as it is.’

  ‘Always in a rush, Babouchette. You will ignore my advice, as always, but there will be trouble.’

  Natasha took out a bag of red powder and made a circle around the chart in the mud.

  ‘That should help, but no promises,’ said Natasha.

  ‘If it makes you feel safer – but I have planned it to the last detail.’

  ‘We think we have control over our fates; it is easier like that,’ said Natasha.

  The clock struck the half-hour. Time could seem interminable in the early hours of the morning, but not this night. The hours shrank, sucked all the time they needed. Nicole stepped outside again to check for Moët’s spies. This shipment could make her reputation, fly in the face of all the detractors in this town. If it failed, she would be a laughing stock, Philippe Clicquot would lose his investment and Moët would be forcing her to sell again – this time for the pittance he had threatened.

  She dared herself down towards the vineyards, the darkness thickening as she left the comfort of the building. The stars were gone now, obscured by clouds. A figure loomed, or was it an animal? She picked up a shovel and carried on. She tightened her grip.

  ‘You weren’t really thinking of using that thing, were you?’ Soft lips brushed her cheek, a quick tongue entangled hers.

  ‘Thérésa!’ Everything about her was unexpected and Nicole was confused, delighted and angry all at once.

  ‘Put that thing down, you’re making me nervous.’

  Nicole ushered her back to the press, watching out for prying eyes.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, we’re not in the Bastille. I made sure no one saw me.’

  ‘When I wrote to you, I never expected you to come all the way here,’ whispered Nicole.

  Thérésa kissed her again. ‘You’re fizzing with your secret mission.’

  ‘It’s nerves,’ Nicole laughed. ‘I’m leaving tonight, I can’t delay, even though you’ve come all this way.’

  ‘Paris has been a bore without you around, but there may be a teensy bit of self-interest at play. You remember the general with the killer’s eyes?’

  ‘General Roussillon?’

  ‘What a good memory you have. There are so many, they meld into one for me. He’s a powerful man and I might have allowed him to assume too much. Love turned bitter is a dangerous thing.’

  Nicole nodded, thinking of Moët.

  ‘Darling, I’ve come all this way from Paris to see you and I asked the carriage not to change horses so that I got here in time. I’m here to join your little adventure. Won’t that be fun? Just the two of us.’

  A male voice protested, ‘Nicole, who is this? We agreed. No one else.’

  ‘Thérésa, meet Philippe Clicquot, François’ father, and my new business partner.’

  Thank God a distraction had arrived. Thérésa would never endure life on the road with its hardships and privations. Nicole couldn’t allow anything or anyone to stand in her way and she needed time to think.

  Thérésa
scorched him with her brightest smile and held out her hand. ‘Enchantée. I see now where Nicole’s handsome husband inherited his looks.’

  Philippe didn’t take the hand. He was already nervous about the scheme, and he found it hard to cope with unexpected developments in any circumstances, never mind these.

  ‘Could I have a word with you in private, my dear,’ said Philippe, glancing apologetically at Thérésa. He hated to cause offence.

  Pulling Nicole to one side, he unfolded a letter, grim-faced. It was from Moët.

  Monsieur Clicquot,

  The necessity for this letter greatly saddens me. We have been business associates for many years and I have always respected your integrity. Our ancient tradition of winemaking has until now been an honourable business between gentlemen and I consider your recent collaboration with Nicole Clicquot a gross transgression of our ancient codes and, as her father-in-law, entirely contrary to her best interests.

  Her business and lands were mine in all but the final signature on the contract. Should you refuse to support my claim, I fully intend to do everything in my power to put a stop to your venture and save Madame Clicquot – a new widow, not in her right mind – from further public embarrassment.

  Cordially,

  Jean-Rémy Moët

  ‘What is your position?’ said Nicole, furious at Moët for upsetting Philippe.

  ‘Let’s not waste any more time on it now, and don’t you dare worry about me in all this. You have my complete faith.’

  The letter shook in Philippe’s hands. His nerves were not his greatest asset, but she had enough for them both.

  ‘Thank you for your confidence, Philippe. Once this shipment is delivered and paid for, we won’t need Moët. And we both know who we’re doing this for,’ she added softly.

  ‘Of course I trust you implicitly, but surely the more people who know, the more chance we will be discovered, my dear? I do worry about you,’ he fussed.

  Thérésa, who was adept at eavesdropping from the most unlikely distances, glided over to Philippe before Nicole could reply. She flashed him one of her winning smiles.

  ‘Don’t forget that I escaped the Bastille without a hair being harmed on my head. Paris society is a viper’s nest and I know very well how to deal with a man like Moët. Please don’t give it one second moment of concern, Monsieur Clicquot. I will be an asset,’ she purred.

  As the clock struck three, the cart was ready and loaded, exactly on schedule, and Thérésa was now somehow part of the travelling crew, despite everyone’s misgivings. Nicole, Thérésa and Natasha loaded their own possessions into the cab and jumped up behind Monsieur Châtelet, who whispered in the ears of the excited horses to calm them.

  Two hours later, as the sun rose over the sleepy village of Isles-sur-Suippe, Nicole breathed again. They wouldn’t be recognised this far away from the Montagne de Reims and the open road stretched, flat and straight, as far as her eyes could see.

  Chapter 9

  Changing Places

  February 1806

  ‘Only three different kinds of tartes,’ Natasha tutted as they pulled past the boulangerie in Rethel.

  Thérésa and Valentin Châtelet smirked. Monsieur Châtelet had refused to get involved in directions, laugh at the escape they’d just made, marvel at the sunrise or generally be a part of their adventure. He just waited impassively for instruction, or spent his time with the horses. Except every time Thérésa spoke, when his indifferent expression softened.

  Bloody fool, thought Nicole, steeling herself against a jealous stab in her stomach. The melting glare of her attention never lasted long.

  At Saulces-Monclin, Natasha nearly wept at the beautiful creations in the patisserie window and Nicole conceded to a short stop for her. She bought a delicate macaron à la fleur d’oranger and a pert Saint-Honoré and took apart the flavours, remembering the creations she and Daniel had made in their youth.

  ‘If my mother stays alive long enough for me to reach her, this is what I’ll make her,’ sighed Natasha.

  The landscape was flat as a Russian honey-cake and they passed farm workers, field hands and squires who stopped and waved as they rushed by. After their midnight flit, the day was uneventful. Her band of travellers turned heads as they passed through the towns and villages, though they did their best to look inconspicuous. A milk-skinned beauty with a Spanish accent, a dramatic Russian woman with a penchant for macaroons searching for portents in the sky, a young widow in an ungodly hurry with a cargo of coffee, and a field hand who didn’t look like a field hand.

  They thrashed the exhausted horses, not stopping until they were safely in Francheville. The horses were blowing and sweating when Monsieur Châtelet pulled up the wagon at the hotel a few kilometres outside of Charleville-Mezieres, where the barge would be waiting for them the next morning. Stiff and dusty, Nicole gave the hotelier a gold coin to have the wagon locked into the barn and Valentin Châtelet agreed to sleep there to keep guard.

  Even leaving the wagon for a couple of hours as Valentin joined them for dinner made Nicole uneasy. Her whole future depended on what was in that barn. She ordered a bottle of heavy Francheville burgundy to soothe her nerves.

  Places have their own character, their own feel and smell, and she could taste it now in this wine, a top note of the vanilla sun on the Meuse Canal, a reminder of the next leg of their journey.

  Valentin drank most of the bottle himself, so she ordered another. She didn’t mind. Perhaps the wine would loosen his tongue.

  ‘Do you have family?’ she asked.

  He didn’t look up from his dinner. ‘No.’

  Thérésa flashed her eyes at him. ‘Come now, a good-looking man like you with those melting brown eyes? I find that hard to believe. No golden-haired wife watching the gate for your return? No poor deceived girls in a string of dull villages hoping you’re gazing at the same moon? You can’t tease us any longer. We have weeks together ahead of us and you have kept yourself an absolute mystery. It’s not fair!’

  ‘Life isn’t fair, Madame Tallien.’ He glowered.

  ‘Leave him to his secrets if he won’t share,’ said Nicole. ‘We’ll make our own entertainment.’

  She ordered him a cognac. He rolled it around in the glass and savoured it, closed his eyes and breathed it in.

  ‘This is good,’ he said, raising his glass.

  She rolled the brandy in her own glass. ‘Grande Champagne cognac from Bordeaux. Not the kind of thing a field hand would ordinarily drink.’

  ‘Bringing secrets into the light helps the shadows fade,’ said Natasha.

  Valentin poured himself another glass.

  ‘I had a wife. And children. But now I don’t. Is that enough information for your little soirée?’

  ‘If that’s all you wish to give,’ said Natasha.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I had a husband, once, but no children,’ Natasha offered. ‘I caught his blood in my skirt.’

  Valentin drained his glass. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘The revolution?’ Thérésa enquired.

  He nodded.

  ‘Many dear friends died on the scaffold. Their only crime was their birth,’ Thérésa sympathised.

  ‘You survived pretty well,’ he said bitterly. ‘Everyone knows your story.’

  ‘They know the story I wish to portray,’ replied Thérésa. ‘We all survive as best we can.’

  ‘I’m sorry, the revolution has made actors of us. We have swapped places with our former selves, taken on new personas to protect us,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘I’m afraid yours isn’t very convincing, Monsieur Châtelet. As a field hand you stand out like a sore thumb,’ said Nicole with a warm smile. ‘If it helps, your story will never go further than this table.’

  He swallowed, and seemed to prepare himself to speak. ‘My daughter was blonde, with green eyes. She kept spiders, loved horses, and me. They sliced off her head.’

  Nicole thought of her sweet, per
fect Mentine and her heart grieved for this suffering soul.

  ‘I was in the Bastille,’ said Thérésa gently. ‘The people who no longer exist are still in my heart. They filled it to the top. I won’t love again.’

  ‘My wife, daughter and son all died on the scaffold in front of my eyes. My life is over, but I don’t have the courage to die. There’s nothing more to tell.’ He stood and bowed to Nicole. ‘Your cargo’s safe with me. My story will have at least assured you that I’ll guard it with my life, which matters nothing to me. Good night.’

  Thérésa followed him.

  By the time she crept back to the room, the church clock had already struck four in the morning. Exactly five hours, thought Nicole.

  Thérésa smelt of hay and night air. Her hand followed her body’s contours under the thin sheet and set Nicole on fire, then just as quickly abandoned her for her own bed.

  The thought of her and Châtelet together tortured her. But no one owned Thérésa, least of all her. Like a blazing sunset, or a shooting star, you just had to be glad that you were there to witness it occasionally.

  She slowed her breathing and forced herself to focus on the arrangements for the next leg of the journey, going over in her mind every detail of the planned mission until she drifted off into a fitful sleep, haunted by visions of Châtelet’s family at the guillotine.

  Early the next morning, Nicole was relieved to see Monsieur Châtelet ready and waiting, the wagon secured, horses calm. She estimated another hour to Charleville, where the barge was arranged for 6 a.m. An hour to load, and they’d be safely sailing along the Meuse, the waterway that would carry them all the way to Amsterdam. A journey of two and a half weeks, please God.

  The sun was shining, the horses were speeding along at a fine clip, last night’s cloud had lifted and for the moment they were all intent on their mission. Grief came in waves and Valentin Châtelet’s story brought everything back too vividly. The receding of the wave might give even more power to the next, but while it receded, you had to make the most of it. Today at least brought calm waters for all of them.