by Helen Fripp
‘I wish I could come with you.’ It was almost hopeless, but they had to try.
‘Keep your head high. Your ambitions are too big for that little town and they’ll savour your defeat.’
‘I’ll watch her,’ said Natasha fiercely, emerging from below deck. ‘I have been a stranger there all my life. I can teach her to be immune.’
It was a treacherous trip, but if anyone could get at least some of her shipment to Russia, it was Louis. And she could see that look in his eye. Where she saw danger, he saw the open road, new fellows to hail, adventure, prospects to charm. Whoever married him would have a hard time pinning him down.
The journey back to Reims was a nightmare of torturous nights full of regret, staring at the starless sky. What was she thinking? Louis could die helping her. The captain’s housekeeper’s words came back to her. Anyone French was in danger, even in Amsterdam, never mind on the trade routes through Prussia and into Russia.
By the time she arrived back, she was exhausted. She avoided her town residence and went straight to her house in Bouzy, where her maid Josette was waiting with a bowl of onion soup and a sympathetic smile. She couldn’t face the town, not yet. They would see the failure in her eyes and there was no way she was giving them that. She fell into her bed, Josette fussing around her, stoking up the fire, begging her to rest. A few nights among the vines would restore her, give her enough time to gather courage to face down the gossips until she could make another plan.
Outside her window, the vines lit up against the night sky, stretching as far as she could see. Despite her absence, the vineyards were as they should be. Xavier and her loyal workers always made sure of that, but it was never quite as neat or ordered as when she was supervising everything. Still no buds – they wouldn’t appear until May – but the first full moon in March was the time to bottle new champagne, when they transferred the wine blends from barrels to their bottles and the warmer weather would help with the second fermentation to produce, they hoped, the liveliest bubbles. Her first priority must be to gather the committee to assess the next blend.
Three days later, the tasting committee gathered in her press. She was grateful that Monsieur Olivier had agreed to an urgent meeting. It was a busy time for them and her business wasn’t exactly a priority.
‘When are the others arriving?’ asked Nicole.
Monsieur Olivier was reluctant to meet her eye. ‘It will just be myself, Monsieur Var and Monsieur Faubert today. The others aren’t available.’
The committee always came as one. This was a rebuff, but she had to press on. She could make the blends alone if she had to, but it was bad politics not to involve them.
‘No good. Reject,’ pronounced Monsieur Olivier when he tasted her best Pinot Noir.
The scaled-down committee nodded in agreement.
‘Are you sure?’ protested Nicole. ‘Last year was just right for these. They’re from my prime spot on the Côtes des Bar. It would make a wonderful blend.’
‘You’re losing your touch, Madame Clicquot, I cannot agree,’ said Monsieur Olivier. ‘Gentlemen?’
‘Just a little too acid,’ said Monsieur Var, spitting.
‘A couple more weeks on the vine and it would have been perfect, but sadly…’ added Monsieur Faubert with a delicate cough.
Nicole took another sip. They were wrong, but she moved on to the next. And the next. Each one was rejected.
Monsieur Olivier patted her hand. ‘Standards must be maintained. My humble advice is to wait until next year. Patience is the greatest virtue in the wine business. Undue haste and risk-taking just don’t pay off, I’m sure you understand that now. We must all stand together to maintain the reputation of the Champagne region, put aside individual profit for the greater good. I sincerely hope you have better luck with this year’s crop, Madame Clicquot.’
The men shook her hand and left so quickly she didn’t even have time to ask after their wives. When they passed Xavier on the way out, he spat at their feet.
‘Xavier, what was that for?’ asked Nicole.
‘I suppose they rejected all your blends?’ he asked, glowering.
‘How did you know?’
‘That running sore, Moët, put them up to it. The whole town’s buzzing with it, like wasps round jam. You’re a disaster. You’ve lost everything. Pissed Philippe Clicquot’s investment against a wall, consorted with a high-class prostitute from Paris whilst making a mad dash for the coast with a fortune in champagne. He says it’s no surprise, with madness in the family.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The rumours are back again, fertilised by Moët’s own brand of stinking manure. They mean François. They say you’re like him. You take too many risks and when the going gets tough you fold. There’s not a man within a hundred miles of you who’ll do business with you. He’s made sure of that.’
Chapter 12
The Arrogance of Women
July 1806
Another stifling day, with the water troughs as dry as Nicole’s heart and the grapes withering on the vines. The news of the failed shipment spread like wildfire. What better way to pass the long summer evenings than discussing the failure of the arrogant Veuve Clicquot? At least her beautiful little Mentine was home from Paris and she was her world, but even that was difficult, trying to protect her from the gossip in this little town.
She scraped her fingers across the rough trough to feel something. Her world was getting smaller. The window of opportunity had been narrow and she had failed spectacularly. The blockades could last for months, years even. French exports, particularly anything as wonderfully French as champagne, were vilified and blocked. Her best trading countries – the Holy Roman Empire, along with Britain and Russia – had formed the Third Coalition, cutting her off, and she was trapped in the tiny world of Reims, in a sea of hostility and humiliation. And she hadn’t heard a word from Louis since the day they’d said goodbye on the docks. What had she been thinking, sending him back to Russia?
She steeled herself as she crossed the square in front of the cathedral. The gargoyles shimmered in the heat, mocking her. Maybe she was going mad.
The wholesome smell of baking caught in her throat as she hastily smudged away a tear. Madame Olivier was gossiping at the counter with Natasha and her heart sank. She needed to speak to Natasha alone.
‘Still stuck at Amsterdam?’ Madame Olivier asked Natasha.
Natasha acknowledged Nicole with a glance and gave Madame Oliver a purse-lipped nod in reply.
Madame Olivier pressed on, oblivious to Nicole’s presence. ‘She’ll ruin poor Philippe Clicquot with her wild schemes, that one, as if he hasn’t suffered enough. I can’t believe she dragged you into it too, when you’ve worked so hard to build your reputation alone in this town…’
The wine taster’s wife was an enthusiastic gossip, with far too much time on her hands. How dare she! Nicole opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha stayed her discreetly with a raise of her hand, and let Madame Olivier continue.
‘And Monsieur Bohne, left in poverty, consorting with an aristocrat on the run from the authorities. It’s all right for her. She won’t starve, her parents will make sure of that. She’ll have to learn. Leave it to the men. Monsieur Moët tried his best to help, I believe? How could she have possibly refused his kind offers, a woman in her position?’
‘Perhaps you could ask her yourself.’ Natasha nodded in Nicole’s direction.
Madame Olivier swung round. ‘My dear. Here’s me gossiping as always and you’re right there.’
‘Indeed I am. Monsieur Moët is not the saint you imagine, you know.’
‘Oh?’
Nicole could see that the chance of some unique knowledge of the Veuve Clicquot situation clearly grabbed Madame Olivier’s attention. She forced herself to suppress the need to tear her down a strip or two for her unkindness.
Despite the town gossip’s pinched lips and gimlet eyes, there was something needy and vulnerable
about her, and Nicole had heard the rumours about her controlling husband. A germ of an idea began to form.
‘The truth is, he tried to stop me in the most underhand way,’ said Nicole, mustering up as much of a tone of friendliness as she could. ‘And me, a widow, just trying to continue my late husband’s legacy. François lived for those vines. He almost loved them into life. Unfortunately, Monsieur Moët respects my business enough to want to try to stop me. I can’t believe this town doesn’t see right through him. I understand he had the temerity to override some of your husband’s blending decisions recently, n’est-ce pas? He’s powerful enough already, isn’t he?’
‘Really? What happened?’ Madame Olivier was completely hooked.
‘You think a woman isn’t capable? That only her husband should meddle in wine? I bet you know just as much as he does. You grew up in this town, we all did. It’s in our blood. You must have tasted hundreds of wines, discussed the ins and outs with your husband over the years? He doesn’t have the inclination this year to attend my tastings. Perhaps you and some of the other wives would lend a hand?’
‘I’m sure my husband would never condone such a—’
‘The husbands need never know. English tea parties are very fashionable at the moment and you can tell them that’s what you are attending. We’d have more leisure to talk about what really happened on my trip to Amsterdam. There were some frantic moments, I can tell you!’
‘Marvellous idea,’ said Natasha. ‘Let the men pretend they’re in charge!’
There was a glimmer of admiration in Madame Olivier’s stare. ‘Yes, it’s always better to let them think that. It makes them so much easier to manage. In that case, I will accept, my dear.’
‘I will send an invitation with Emile. If you could prepare the ground with some of the others…’
‘You can count on me, Madame Clicquot.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry that you heard me gossiping. My mouth just opens and out it comes, with no thought. Please don’t take it to heart.’
‘I understand. A bientôt.’
Madame Olivier left.
‘How could you have let her continue?’ said Nicole, but she didn’t mind. Maybe bumping into Madame Olivier was what she had needed.
Natasha squeezed out from behind the counter and hugged her. ‘It worked out for the best, didn’t it? Hearing her gave you a little spirit. It’s been a while since I saw that spark in your eye. Don’t cry. Things will get better, I promise. I’ve seen it.’ Natasha delved into her pocket and sketched a figure of eight around her head, salt skittering on the floor. ‘Now, let me guess, two religieuses? I hear Mentine is back from Paris for the holidays. You’ll accept a gift to help you celebrate?’
Nicole hurried home clutching the cakes. Her first foray out to face the town and a minor triumph. Her heart was still beating when she shut the door of the house on rue de la Vache, a letter from Louis she had collected from the post office trembling in her hand. She opened it, tucked her hair back and smoothed it out, smiling at the careless splodges of candle wax.
My dear Nicole,
I made it and so did your champagne! I am safely in St Petersburg, but I found much to worry about as I crossed Saxony and Prussia. All the talk is war, spreading as far as the grand square I see out of my window. It’s a beautiful morning and the idea seems unbelievable. We’ll see.
Despite the beauty of my view, it’s you I see as I write. You’re smoothing the paper and tutting at the spilt candle wax. Don’t frown! I won’t go short of candles, so don’t fret about the waste, or about me. I have friends here, including one that will surprise you. Thérésa! Or La Tallien, as she is affectionately called here.
She’s my ticket to every fashionable happening in this town. And this is a very fashionable town. Acres of tulle, a mine’s worth of diamonds and gold. Even the men swathe themselves in chinoiserie. I’m very dull in my wolfskin coat and boots, which I like to think makes me exotic in Reims. Thérésa has persuaded me on a shopping trip tomorrow…
What? Was there no one she couldn’t bewitch? Louis, on a shopping trip, such cosy domesticity?
…but don’t worry, her superficial charms don’t penetrate my thick skin. It’s you I’m here for. The Empress Elizabeth is pregnant with her first child and I predict a tide of champagne to celebrate the birth.
That’s the good news. There is bad, too. The place is buzzing with Napoléon, his next move, his unstoppable desires on the world and on Russia. That makes being French here tricky. My German origins help me, and Thérésa is strangely immune to any danger.
Now business. Thanks to your charming friend’s connections, we were invited to a state banquet at the Great Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, a paradise away from St Petersburg. Thérésa was of course thoroughly bored by the whole thing. She only had her eye on the prize and, within half an hour, we were introduced to the Tsar and Tsarina.
She explained how Napoléon preferred Moët, but anyone of real taste in France preferred a glass of the Veuve. Created by a petite young woman, blonde ardente with shrewd grey eyes who talks to her bottles as if they were her children. The finest champagne on earth. The Queen of Champagne.
My advice to you is to save every single bottle you can from those I left stored in Amsterdam – do not compromise on quality…
As if I ever would, Louis Bohne!
…and ship them immediately to St Petersburg. Leave the rest to your faithful servant.
Nicole imagined him taking another sip of burgundy, warmed by his success, pulling his wolfskin coat around him, with that grin that charmed society hosts across Europe.
She picked up a bottle of Bouzy from the mantelpiece and hugged it. The cool glass against her hot cheek felt wonderful. Enough.
This news leaves me only to say, I make progress with the Don Quixote book you gave me and think of my patronne every time I pick it up.
Your Louis
‘Maman!’
Mentine burst into her office, and careered towards her. She stopped short.
‘You’re not sad again?’
‘Come here, ma petite. Did you know that you can cry with sadness and happiness? These tears are happiness. I have good news from Russia. Papa would have been proud.’
‘You mean they’ll buy all your golden champagne and drink it in their onion buildings?’ she exclaimed, bright with excitement.
‘Who told you about golden champagne?’
‘Thérésa. When she wasn’t all dressed up and going out to a ball, she came to the nursery and told us stories. Our favourite was about a handsome man and a beautiful woman who could taste the land and the sky and make it into magic champagne. It made me think of you and Papa. Now you are sad!’
‘No, I’m happy again now. That’s a lovely story. Look here, I bought us a treat from Natasha.’
Nicole unwrapped Natasha’s religieuses and Mentine ate quietly.
‘I much prefer Thérésa’s stories to Mireille’s.’
‘Who’s Mireille?’
‘Mireille Olivier. I play with her in the square. Her grandpa is Monsieur Olivier, the wine taster.’
‘What stories does Mireille tell?’
‘Oh, boring ones. It’s better when she shuts up and I beat her at hopscotch.’ Mentine looked away.
‘That runs in the family. The Clicquots have always been good at hopscotch. People tell all sorts of stories that aren’t true. Tell me what Mireille says, and we can play a game. True or false.’
‘Papa was weak-minded.’
Her heart careened with grief and anger, but she was careful not to show it.
‘False. He was the most poetic, kindest, cleverest man in Reims. Next.’
‘You should stay inside and wear pretty dresses and stop meddling.’
‘False. Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you should stop doing anything you want to. Some girls like to stay in and wear pretty dresses. I don’t. I want to do lots more things. Sometimes you have to be brave. Sometim
es people don’t like other people doing things that are unusual. But that should never, ever stop you. Next.’
‘You dig the soil with your own hands, like a peasant.’
‘She got one right! True. There’s nothing like the feel of the soil in your hands, knowing it will grow the grapes that make the golden champagne. It’s magic. You can’t make champagne without knowing every single thing you need to do to make it good. You can tell her that. Her grandpa would agree.’
‘I will,’ said Mentine in a small voice.
‘Let’s not talk about Mireille any more. She does sound a bit boring. You have a bit of cream on your forehead. How could such a tiny amount of cream end up in so many places?’
They giggled.
Conniving, small-minded, pious, gossiping, two-faced snakes the lot of them. Nicole was going to Amsterdam to save whatever Louis couldn’t take the first time round and send it overland to him and his Tsar and Tsarina. She’d scrap the rest and start again.
Chapter 13
Praying for a Miracle
August 1806
The moon was in her favour, bright and crisp. The stables smelt of hay and sweat. Nicole took off her riding glove to feel the bay’s soft muzzle, then slipped on the harness, buckles jangling in the darkness, the horse stamping at the imposition.
‘I’m not doing it,’ said Xavier, folding his arms tight.
Nicole led the horse out and thrust the reins at him. ‘Then I’ll have to do it myself. Hold these.’
She lifted the carriage shafts, her arms barely reaching between the two, and heaved. The cart didn’t budge.
‘I’m going, so you might as well help me.’
‘You look like an ant trying to shift a rock. Here.’
He gave her back the reins and she dropped the shafts. Xavier had it fixed up in seconds. She jumped up.
