The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘Your friends? Come. I have waited for death in one of these places. We will walk together.’

  She took him to a hotel a night’s ride away from St Petersburg, saw him installed with a bag of coins, and left. She had a ring on every finger, each one a precious gem.

  ‘I cannot stay, darling. Take better care of the company you keep next time,’ she said, then left.

  Nicole closed her eyes to conceal her relief. Thérésa had left him to himself.

  ‘You’ve suffered more than you tell me, Louis. You are brave.’

  He looked at her, past her eyes and somewhere inside her.

  ‘Just lucky,’ he murmured.

  She poured them both a brandy and stoked the fire. His cheeks were ruddier and fuller. She thanked her lucky comet. It might take time, but he’d make a full recovery.

  ‘All those years in the jail, I thought of you, your shipment mostly ruined, business dead. For all we tried, Babouchette. Nothing but a cell full of cockroaches.’

  Nicole nodded, hard times for all of them. Why had Thérésa not written to her to tell her about all this? Maybe she had and the letter was lost, or perhaps she didn’t want to risk news of her using her contacts to release a French ‘spy’. Thérésa lived and died by her ability to obfuscate and she always ensured she appeared to be on the winning side.

  Louis recovered in the little hostel where Thérésa had left him. The winter was so severe that he had to wait for the spring melt before he could think of leaving. He got to know the family who ran the hostel. The father was German, like him. Thérésa had chosen well – he sympathised with his countryman more than most Russians would have. As he got stronger, he collected eggs and ran repairs, sitting by the range in the evenings, chatting to the bubble of the samovar, paying his way with his hands. He knew he didn’t belong there, but he was afraid to strike out again into the unknown. The few visitors they had were hostile to the French, the bag of coins Thérésa had left him was long gone and he had not a franc to his name.

  ‘You should have sent for money, Louis. I would never have left you stranded…’

  ‘How could I ask you for money when things were going so badly for you? I was no longer your salesman. Besides’ – he sat up straighter – ‘I had a lot of time to think in that jail. I wanted to return to you as an equal.’

  He eventually left the hostel with the spring melt, gingerly striking out on a horse that he would pay his hosts for in better times.

  When he saw the port at Königsberg and a Dutch frigate waiting to sail, he cried for the first time in his adult life. He secured a job as a cook to pay his passage, tasted his first champagne since his arrest at the party with the hundred candles at St Petersburg. He poured himself a thimbleful and sliced a sliver off the foie gras and it tasted like heaven as the ship cut the foam, salt spray on his fingers, speeding home. With the lights of Reims finally in sight, he didn’t have an ounce of strength left in him, and he’d collapsed at the first shelter he could find, in the hut. That night two miracles had happened. The first was the comet, and the second was Nicole arriving at the hut and flinging herself on the ground to watch the stars. In his delirious state, he thought he was dreaming.

  Louis was changed. Faint lines marked his smile, his eyes were flintier. He had lost the childlike way he had about him, lost some of his enthusiasm. He was more serious. She liked the change.

  By April, the comet had disappeared and the time to disappoint Monsieur Moët with Louis’ appearance loomed. He couldn’t hide in Antoine and Claudine’s spare room forever.

  In the fields, the April sun was unusually strong and bud burst came early. She rode out every day to watch the leaves grow acid green once more, sending out curling tendrils to cling to the training ropes, supervised as the plants were trimmed and trained, ensuring all the energy from the thick stems could be transferred to the fruit when the time came.

  Another month passed and the vines grew so fast that if Nicole stood for long enough, she could see them grow under the beating sun: warm but not too strong, caressing the plants and encouraging fruit. She could not remember a year where the conditions were so perfect you could have taken them from one of Chaptal’s Art of Wine Growing pamphlets. She checked her roses, vigorous and free of blight or insects. By June, the comet had brought a good omen at least in this, and Louis was well enough for the dreaded meeting with Monsieur Moët.

  She invited Moët to the press at Bouzy for one of his beloved ‘inspections’ of his future property. God only knew what he’d do when he saw Louis had returned and their contract was null and void, but at least it would be on her own territory, surrounded by her own workers.

  She heard the carriage draw up on the gravel, the gruff orders to the stable boys to water the horses and the brisk march to the office door.

  ‘You need to get that gate fixed, it gives the wrong impression,’ he ordered as he stepped inside. When he saw Louis, he didn’t miss a beat. ‘Monsieur Louis Bohne!’

  The men shook hands.

  ‘The very same,’ replied Louis as Moët slapped him on the back and drew him in for a manly embrace.

  ‘You old rogue, you’re back and looking hale and hearty. Collaborating with Russians has done you the power of good.’

  ‘If you think collaborating with Russians involves lying half-starved, forgotten and filthy in a godforsaken hellhole, then yes, it’s been a blast.’

  ‘Madame Clicquot, no doubt you have invited me here to spring the return of your star salesman upon me with no prior warning to ensure it’s as delightful a surprise as it has turned out to be. Wonderful.’ He beamed, taking a seat at her desk. The man certainly had nerve.

  ‘So, just to be straight, this means…’ Nicole began.

  Monsieur Moët held up his hand. ‘Spare me the explanation. The situation is very clear. Our little agreement is rendered null and void with the miraculous return of the prodigal Monsieur Bohne. I’m very pleased for you.’ He turned to Louis. ‘You’ll take over the reins alongside Madame Clicquot and I’m very happy she is in safe hands. I wanted to do everything I could to help and now there is no need, with a competent man at her side.’

  ‘Since we’re getting down to business so quickly, there is another aspect to your agreement with Madame Clicquot. Your threat of spreading rumours about my dearest friend and Nicole’s late husband is just about as low as it gets. It saddens me to think a man of your standing would target his widow so cruelly. I hope this is an end to the matter and that you’ll act honourably.’

  Moët stood up to leave. ‘My dear Monsieur Bohne, you insult me! I merely tried to do everything in my power to stop her getting further into debt and disrepute.’

  ‘We appreciate your touching concern, but do I have your word?’

  Louis held out his hand and Moët shook it.

  ‘I will tell nothing but the honest truth, my dear friend,’ he said, opening the door to leave. He turned to face them. ‘By the way, whatever did happen to all that stock you left with? You damn nearly bankrupted her with your disappearance. Goodbye, Nicole. I also noticed that the fence on the vineyard on the east slope is breached. I suggest you mend it before the wild animals get in.’

  As soon as they heard the carriage wheels, they stared at each other in shock and Nicole could breathe.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’

  ‘He took it far too well,’ Louis replied.

  ‘Look outside, it’s just perfect. It’s going to be the best harvest in a generation. Whatever he’s got up his sleeve, he can’t change that,’ said Nicole.

  The news of Louis’ return was the talk of the town. At Natasha’s boulangerie, Nicole delighted in the gossip. Louis escaped from Siberia but his prick dropped off in the cold, Xavier stage-whispered to Etienne whilst biting into a large chocolate éclair. Thérésa seduced the Tsar to get him released from a filthy Moscow jail, disguised as a Sultana from India. India, said the butcher’s youngest daughter, in awe. Louis bribed a hundred Cossac
k guards with Veuve Clicquot’s best champagne to get himself released from the salt mines, then he walked all the way back to Reims, was the story from a battalion of soldiers with a penchant for Natasha’s millefeuille.

  The summer flew past in a haze of sunshine; every day was spent tending her vines, checking the workers, planning the harvest with Louis. It was wonderful to have him at her side, helping with the running of things, a trusted sounding board for the multitude of decisions she needed to make on a daily basis. Nicole had been in the business for long enough now to know she had never seen a year like it, and she left nothing to chance. It would be a vintage year and her luck would change. It was just a matter of staying power. She was under no illusion that Moët had backed down quite so easily, but the only way she could think of fighting the unknown was to be as successful as possible.

  It was months since she’d been into the centre of Reims. Mentine was spending most of the summer with her boarding-school pals, so she didn’t need to be in the city to be near her daughter’s friends. Josette had run all the errands in town and she couldn’t bear to leave her vineyards, so she’d based herself at her little house in Bouzy for the whole summer to be close to the sweetening grapes. No need for all those big rooms filled with François’ ghost, never mind the running costs of the grand house on the rue de la Vache.

  Despite all that, she couldn’t miss the church service in the cathedral where all the vintners and workers gathered together to pray to the harvest saint. By the calculations of the Réseau Matu, the harvest would be ready in about a week’s time and she would be foolish if she missed the rites in advance of the harvest. Even if it was superstition, who was she to argue with hundreds of years of tradition and risk a last-minute disaster?

  At the mews near the cathedral, she jumped down off Pinot, handed the reins to the stable boy, and pressed a coin in his hand. It was as though she’d burnt his hand as he winced away from her.

  ‘No thanks, Madame,’ said the stable boy, unable to look her in the eye. The coin chinked onto the floor.

  ‘Don’t be silly, take it. You work hard and I can spare it.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s bad luck,’ he said, ashamed. He grabbed Pinot’s reins and busied himself with the tackle.

  She left the coin and hurried down the rue du Marché to the cathedral square. A large notice caught her eye on Joan of Arc’s plinth.

  Births and deaths, 1805

  Criminal activity: Doctor Aristide Moreau

  Detained for Falsification of Cause-of-Death Certification

  Convictions obtained for falsification:

  And the first name on the list:

  François Clicquot

  The list went on, but she couldn’t read.

  A crowd of vintners and workers was gathered outside the cathedral, silently watching. The place was deathly quiet apart from one set of footsteps ringing around the square.

  A pair of strong arms encircled her.

  ‘Look at me, Babouchette, not them.’

  She focused. Natasha.

  ‘Ignore them, they don’t matter,’ she beseeched. ‘I’ll take you home. Where is Pinot?’

  ‘The mews. The stable boy wouldn’t take my money. Thank God Mentine can’t see this.’

  ‘They’re peasants. They don’t know any better. Come, Nicole. Hold your head up and get out of this square and let them go and pray their lies to their God. You don’t need any of them.’

  Natasha linked her arm, somehow got her up on Pinot, cursing the stable boy. Nicole spurred her old horse so fast he was rasping with exhaustion by the time they reached Bouzy. Natasha followed, but she was left far behind on the vineyard road.

  Safe in her sunlit house in Bouzy, she allowed herself to think. Don’t break, she told herself. Don’t give him anything he wants.

  The only way to beat this was to keep going. Her failure would only prove to the town that their superstitions were correct. ‘Let the wine speak for you,’ she whispered. It was something François had always said when he was teaching her at tastings. He told her it was like poetry and could tell the story of the land. That night, she dreamt of him in his good times. Moët’s actions had brought her that at least. The next morning, she was resolved. To work.

  Crossing the press yard, she held her head high, greeting workers, exchanging brisk pleasantries about their families and the day’s work ahead as normal, whilst enduring sideways glances of sympathy or suspicion. This will pass, just another little setback, like a hailstorm or a difficult harvest, she told herself as she slammed the office door behind her.

  Her hand shook with fury at Moët as she held her quill above the ledgers and buried herself in them. The figures were safe, neat, indisputable, unlike life or François or the chaotic vines, so vulnerable to disease, the weather, pests and whatever God chose to throw at them. And whatever regrets she might have had about the precious pawned necklace, it would protect her financially for a while longer.

  That evening, after all the workers had left, she went alone into the cellars. The silence cocooned her and as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, the bottles gleamed reassuringly back at her. Every one of them was redemption. Every one the result of her management, her taste, her labours. Every one testament to François and her marriage and love for him and the vines. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, just her and the bottles and silence, but when she emerged, the moon was high and bright. She trudged across the yard to sleep, and dreamt of the moment that François died a thousand times over.

  Chapter 18

  Beginnings

  September 1811

  When she heard the explosions, Nicole thought she was still having nightmares. But no, she was awake, and the light streaming through the drapes brought the relief of morning. Was it the boom of thunder, perhaps? She looked outside. Clear blue skies. Where the hell was it coming from? Underground? Please God, no.

  ‘Josette!’ she called. Her maid came running. ‘Find Louis, wherever he is!’

  Nicole flung a shawl around her aching shoulders and ran to the press. Workers scattered out of the cellars, holding handkerchiefs, rags, whatever they could, over their faces, coughing and spluttering. They couldn’t have read the notices in town yet if they were still with her.

  Xavier came running. ‘It’s the whole 1810 batch, a river of wasted champagne. Glass everywhere. It’s all ruined.’

  ‘Those bottles? The ones we ordered from Moët’s supplier?’

  He nodded. Nicole pushed through the workers staggering out of the cellars.

  ‘Don’t! It’s lethal in there!’ shouted Xavier.

  She flew as far down the steps as she dared. Candles were too dangerous in this volatile place, so she waited for her eyes to adjust. Fumes choked her and the bottles were still blowing, spewing yellow liquid, glass knifing through the air.

  All she could do was watch, stupefied, a scene straight from hell. At least ten thousand bottles ruined.

  ‘Disaster after disaster. When will she learn?’

  Nicole’s eyes snapped open. Two women fussed around her. Blue sky, gravel, milkweed. She was laid out near the cellar door.

  ‘Shh, she’s come round.’

  Nicole tried to sit up.

  ‘Don’t try to move, Babouchette.’

  Thank God, Louis had come.

  She closed her eyes to shut out the searing pain.

  ‘Someone run for a doctor and get me something to staunch the blood,’ he yelled.

  He cradled her head and pressed on the wound, flung a blood-soaked cloth to the ground, and Josette handed him another. Her voice was a croak when she tried to speak and her fingers came away from her forehead smeared in blood.

  ‘You fell, right to the bottom of the steps. What were you thinking? Were you going to be a heroine and single-handedly save every one of your bottles? You could have been killed in there,’ he said gently, his anger subsiding. ‘Now, let’s get you inside.’

  Xavier helped him lift her and, gingerl
y, they got her into her house.

  ‘By the window,’ she managed to croak. ‘I want to see the press and the vines.’

  She drifted in and out of consciousness, losing track of the days. Often when she woke, Louis was there, a bottle of burgundy by his side and Don Quixote on his lap. She had given him the book five years ago and he still hadn’t finished it. He pretended to be reading when she opened her eyes.

  ‘Bring me a mirror, will you, Louis?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’d like to see. How long have I been here?’

  Louis knelt by her bed. ‘This is the first time you have spoken in three days. How do you feel?’

  ‘The bottles that exploded were the ones from Moët’s suppliers,’ she whispered.

  Louis darkened. ‘Don’t add that to your worries. It’s happened to every vintner in Champagne at some point in the careers. Moët’s a slippery, greedy bastard, but it would have been difficult for even him to arrange for an explosion. The mistake you made was to go into the cellars while they were still volatile. You need to rest.’

  ‘Help me up. I need to see the damage to my cellars.’

  She hauled herself up and the room swirled. It seemed she wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘The doctor said at least a week. I’ll run things until you’re better. Mentine is being well cared for with her friends, so you have nothing to worry about. Just trust me.’

  ‘With my life,’ she said, sinking into her pillow.

  ‘I’ll sit here with you and tell you some stories if you promise to stay where you are.’

  Smiling hurt. ‘I’m listening.’

  Day turned to night as the sun crossed the sky, beating down on the vineyards, turning the grapes sweet. Larks hovered just above the vines, amongst them poppies blazed and wilted and through the open window, birdsong punctuated Louis’ stories. He told her about François before she knew him. The smallest incident was a tall tale, from a Norwegian innkeeper with a France-shaped wart on his nose, to a mouse who danced to François’ violin at a customer’s mansion in Schleswig-Holstein.