by Helen Fripp
Josette fluttered in and out every now and then with fresh baked bread, Louis’ favourite Neuchatel cheese and summer strawberries, which they shared as they talked.
Every morning when she woke, he was there watching her, hastily picking up Don Quixote as she opened her eyes.
By Friday she felt stronger and the doctor took the dressing off her forehead under Louis’ watchful eye. Out of the window, Xavier was setting off to the vineyards. The sun was already up over the horizon, late to be going out into the fields, and the cellar door was wide open.
‘Where are all the workers, what’s happening out there? Who’s overseeing it all?’
‘I was there at sunrise, with Xavier. The sun and rain and soil are all doing their job without you. It’s the best I’ve ever seen it. Perfect.’
‘Why is no one here? The remaining bottles need riddling, I can’t afford to lose even one more. I’m going back to work today, so you might as well tell me everything.’
Louis put down his book and sighed.
‘There is nothing to salvage, Nicole, and it’s impossible to even enter the cellar. One of the girls got halfway down the steps and fainted. Luckily, she wasn’t hurt, but I’ve banned all cellar work. It’s just too dangerous.’
‘How long?’
‘Impossible to say. Weeks, Babouchette. Maybe months.’
Josette came in with fresh croissants and coffee and a bowl of glossy blackberries.
‘First of the year, Madame,’ she said as she arranged the tray, plumping up her pillows.
Nicole breathed in the blackberries and her head whirled with jumbled memories. Stained fingers, musty sweet stuff, her sister’s white dress smudged with purple fingerprints. The bloom of blood on a white sheet, the reproach of a sour berry.
‘Babouchette?’
Louis’ stare was sharp, so blue.
Josette fiddled with the fire. Her dress was torn. When was the last time she had paid her wages? Nicole couldn’t remember.
‘Josette, bring me my dress and my field overcoat, please. Don’t look at Louis for orders, I’m much better, so just do as I say. I promise to go slowly, but I’m back to work today with immediate effect.’
‘I was quite getting used to having you there, to myself, incapable of giving out orders,’ said Louis.
Josette helped her dress and insisted on supporting her as far as the front door. Outside in the courtyard, she was vexed at how unsteady she was on her feet on the uneven cobbles, but when she arrived at the vineyard, the leaf she brushed was sun-warmed, the grapes sticky and pungent. Another week at the most and they would be ready. She could start anew. All the indications were that this crop was a once-in-a-lifetime best. Even better, the comet was back, fizzing above the horizon, watching over her and her vines. But she realised the yard was empty of people. The vineyards too.
‘Emile!’ She called her stable boy. He’d tell her what was happening, even if Louis wouldn’t.
‘He’s at home, recovering, Babouchette. I didn’t tell you until you were strong enough, but he was blinded. Glass in his eyes.’
She crossed herself. ‘Jesus have mercy.’
Emile Jumel, the horse boy who ran errands to Paris and back for her. Rosy cheeks, a bum-fluff moustache, Marie’s pride and joy. She tried to remember the colour of his eyes and couldn’t.
‘I’ll visit them later. Would you send Xavier to withdraw five hundred francs from my personal account today?’
‘Are you sure? It’s a tragedy, but the losses you’ve already made…’
‘Please, just do it.’
‘Yes, Madame. I see you have made a complete recovery.’
Nicole smiled, but the despair nearly choked her. There would be nothing left.
‘Enough soft-soap, Louis. I need to know everything, starting with why the press and fields are deserted at such a crucial time?’
‘This may be 1811, and we’ve been through a revolution, but superstitions haven’t changed. They say you’re bad luck.’
‘You mean Moët’s poster campaign in the square?’ she asked, sick to her stomach.
Louis nodded. ‘I wish to God it was better news. That bastard was never going to go quietly.’
‘I’ll pay the workers more.’ But she ran the figures in front of her eyes and she knew it was hopeless. She hadn’t lost her ability to visualise her account books, at least. The red column expanded and hurt her head. The debts were mounting. It would be impossible to pay more and, anyway, there was plenty of work elsewhere in a harvest like this. Why would they work for a woman with a bad name and a string of disasters behind her? Moët had won. For now. ‘At least I have you back,’ she said.
‘Absolutely.’ He knelt and inspected the rose bush at the end of the row for infestations, unable to meet her eye. ‘I’m out of savings and I need to earn a living again, with a baby on the way.’
He looked at her sheepishly. Nicole’s mind was racing in confusion. Had she missed something when she was drifting in and out of consciousness?
‘A baby?’
‘You remember I told you about the family in the Russian hostel where Thérésa deposited me? The daughter was kind and she kept my bed warm at night. I was foolish, but I couldn’t leave her like that. We married in the wooden church in the village. Her parents wept and I promised I’d cherish her. I’m all she has now. I’m collecting her from the inn at Rethel tonight to bring her home. She’s learning French, trying her hardest.’
‘You’ve hidden it from me all this time?’
‘I hid it through selfishness, Babouchette. Forgive me.’
It was her turn to check the rose to hide her disappointment. She had got her Louis back, only to have him snatched away again. They had never said anything to each other, but the look in his eyes at her bedside, the little attentions to everything he knew she loved. She’d got used to having him to herself and it was only now that she knew she was losing something she didn’t realise she had wanted. Foolish of her to imagine she would be lucky enough to ever love again. Her place was here, at the vineyard, with François’ shadow beside her. She resolved never to show him her regret.
She stood up, brushed her hands off and said briskly, ‘You did the right thing.’
‘Not by you, though. I wanted to pretend. That week watching over you will have to last me a lifetime.’
‘Don’t even speak of it, Louis, it’s impossible,’ she said, blinking away a threatening tear and striding towards the press. ‘If you have mouths to feed, you’d better get to work. Your first child will be born in the year of the best harvest we’ll see in our lifetime. The year of the comet. We’ll never forget it.’
She knew what she had to do next. There could be no wine without workers, and she had a business to run.
Chapter 19
The Taste of the Terroir
September 1811
Etienne’s bar was always packed at harvest time, with men hunched over their pastis and beers after a day in the fields. Strangers wolf-whistled. Familiar faces avoided Nicole’s eye, or sulked at the audacity of her entering their refuge.
Etienne came to the rescue, bustling out from behind the bar, wiping his face on his apron and kissing a welcome.
‘I have a bottle of your Bouzy behind the counter. Will you join me?’
‘Thank you, that would be nice.’
Her barouche was waiting outside, a safety precaution in case her plan went awry. It was never going to be easy walking into a bar full of men, and she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to do this, but she had to act.
A hush descended as she pulled herself up onto the bar stool. Etienne passed the wine across the counter. She sipped and rolled it around her tongue: a red-brick vineyard wall and rainy summer.
‘Villers-Allerand, north-facing slope, 1808. Pinot Noir. Hail in May, hot summer, then rain at harvest time. The harvest was small, but these were our best grapes.’
Etienne ran his thumb across the label and squinted. ‘Very good, but it
’s your own,’ he said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out another, a white this time, and a clean glass. A couple of field hands next to her turned to look, elbows on the counter. Etienne showed them the label, concealing it from her.
Nicole breathed it in and swilled it around her mouth, spat into the bowl Etienne held out and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Almond, brioche, a touch of metal. Vintage Ruinart Côte des Blancs, his little vineyard right in the centre, the one he likes to patrol with the Mayor.’ A few appreciative sniggers bubbled up. ‘1805…’
The year that wouldn’t go away, the year François died. An easy harvest to remember.
Etienne discreetly studied the tasting ticket tied to the bottle. His eyes widened as he showed it to the small crowd that was gathering. ‘Spot on, Madame Clicquot.’
‘Bring out a sparkling next – your best. Half a glass for me, and the rest for the gentlemen at the bar. Open another if it doesn’t go far enough.’
Most refused it and crossed themselves, but a few accepted and raised their glasses in a toast. The men solemnly tasted the champagne and whispered their tasting notes to one another. It was a serious business, tasting champagne. One glass was worth more than they earned in a week.
The comet was fizzing outside, like the cordons of bubbles in her glass. She swirled a mouthful.
‘The Pinot is from the Aube. The Meunier from the Vallée gives quite a youthful exuberance and the Chardonnay provides the creamy backbone. The Chardonnay can only be from the Clos du Mesnil. Which means, cher Etienne, that I’m disappointed in you.’
‘I’ve just served you my finest champagne,’ he said.
‘Exactly. I’m more than disappointed that you consider your finest champagne to be from that second-rate vintner Moët. However, I must admit that his 1802 vintage was very good.’
This turned a few more heads, and some grudgingly appreciative glances.
‘Correct again, to the last grape,’ declared Etienne.
She was a pariah, but who could resist the gossip? She had the attention of the entire bar room now.
‘There is no taste, no grape, no wine that I couldn’t pinpoint almost to the vine in this region. I grew up here, I taste and feel it. I hear things too. You think I’m a pitiable, widowed woman, playing at making wine in memory of my husband. Perhaps that’s true, in part. But I know my vines, understand the press, the alchemy of the blend and I know you all understand that, too. You grew up here, like me, and it’s in our blood.
‘I make the best champagne and wines in Reims and I want to persuade you to come with me. You all know I have had setbacks. Who hasn’t? I know it’s the talk of the town. I can’t pay you what Moët and the others are promising for this harvest, but every man and woman who harvests my vines this year will be rewarded, I guarantee it. See it as an investment in your future.’
‘It’s a set-up with Etienne!’ shouted a man from the shadows at the back. ‘She’s desperate. What kind of brazen woman would come in here, trying to recruit for a failing business, especially with her background?’
Nicole couldn’t make out who it was in the gloom of the bar.
‘You are correct, Monsieur. I am desperate. This could be the best harvest any of us will see in our lifetime and I don’t intend to let it pass me by. I am also offering everyone here an opportunity they won’t regret. You have all seen the comet?’
Some murmured and nodded, some crossed themselves.
‘Unusual things do happen. Take the comet as a sign that the world can turn upside down. A great, unbidden star with a tail can hang in our skies for months on end with no explanation, bringing with it the best harvest we have ever known. A widow with a nose for business and the best blend can help make you wealthy and provide for your families in return for loyalty.’
The man stepped out of the shadows. Moët’s foreman. No doubt here to recruit too.
‘Are you really going to turn down double wages on a promise from a woman with a failing business? Are you really going to go back to your wives and tell them what you’re doing for a woman with a reputation, that they won’t have a share in the rare bounty of this harvest? How do you know she didn’t arrange this with Etienne in advance?’
This wouldn’t be the first time she’d been doubted, or the last. She steeled herself to face him – she’d come up against his sort before. The only way to deal with him was to prove it directly to him.
‘Go behind Etienne’s bar and choose a wine for yourself and I will prove it to you. My only criterion is that it’s from Champagne.’
‘You want me to help you continue this charade? No. Men, I have my sign-up sheet here for tomorrow’s harvest. Sign up and get back to your drinks. We came here to escape from the nags and dreamers.’
A few men shuffled over, embarrassed, to sign up with Fournier.
‘Best night I’ve had in here in years,’ one man shouted. ‘Come on, if you’re so sure, choose a wine. See what she comes up with. A night with the comet.’
‘Put your money where your mouth is, Fournier. Choose a wine.’
Nicole scrutinised Fournier. Red face, cruel eyes. This man was not well-liked. Moët mistreated his workers, she heard, and Fournier was his enforcer.
‘I’ll make a bet with you,’ said Nicole. ‘Choose three wines. If I get them all, leave me to sign up whoever is willing tonight. Agree that you will not turn them away if they change their minds by tomorrow morning, or at least if their wives have changed their minds for them.’
‘Come on, Fournier,’ a man heckled. ‘Too scared to take a woman’s bet?’
Fournier stomped behind the bar, shooing Etienne away. After rummaging around, he placed a small glass of red on the counter.
Nicole tasted it. Her mind came up blank. The taste was full of sun, too full.
‘This one’s not from the region, Monsieur Fournier. It’s from the south, somewhere hot.’ She pushed the glass to him. ‘I said it must be from Champagne.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Madame.’ Fournier triumphantly held up the bottle. ‘Blondel. Vallée. No one wants to work for a swindler, Veuve Clicquot.’
‘I know that wine. It’s not the one I tasted,’ said Nicole.
‘Ah woman, thy name is vanity. I’ll put it kindly. At best, you’re mistaken. More likely, you’re lying.’
‘Who volunteers to taste from that bottle and this glass and tell me if it’s the same wine? I’ll need three people,’ said Nicole.
Fournier was rattled. ‘Will she ever stop and let us carry on with our drinks? This is a man’s place. We’ve humoured you enough, chérie, now go home to your debts. They always said there was madness in the family. Takes one to marry one.’
Three men stepped forward and one spoke.
‘We’ll taste it. Fair’s fair.’ He was one of her own, a picker. ‘Give her a chance. And no need for that kind of talk, if you don’t mind me saying, Monsieur Fournier. François Clicquot was a good man and a fair employer, as is his wife.’
Men throughout the room crossed themselves, raised a glass to the sky and toasted him.
Thank you, François.
Etienne poured water for each man to clear their palates. Each one declared that the two wines were not the same. Etienne returned, studied the wine collection. He held his hands above the counter.
‘I haven’t touched a thing. Look.’
In a dark corner, tucked away, were several dusty wine bottles. One of them had fingerprints in the dust, newly made, with the cork halfway out. It had been opened and hastily stoppered.
The picker pulled it out.
‘Bandol, Domain de L’Estagnol, Provence. Somewhere hot, like she says. Pretty low, Fournier, to cheat a woman.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
Whispers rippled around the room. The three wine tasters were the first to approach her.
‘Where do I sign?’
Nicole picked up her ledger off the bar. ‘Sign here
. Six a.m. sharp tomorrow.’
They signed.
‘You won’t regret it, I promise.’
One by one, men came to sign. Not all, but enough for a good harvest if they were prepared to work long hours.
Outside, the evening was chilly. Nicole could taste the slick wet flagstones, grit and damp dust in the air. Mixed with the taste of Bandol, still lingering on her tongue, it tasted of relief. The comet was still there, tail fizzing. Good. This would be her best harvest. It had to be.
She stepped quickly into the waiting carriage, glad to be speedily whisked away. Fournier’s words would not leave her. Back to an empty house with only debts to greet her. Madness in the family. How dare he! She would be so successful that no one would ever question her, or Mentine’s legitimacy as a good catch. And she would never need another man, not a husband, a business partner or a father. Her life was entirely her own.
Chapter 20
A Widow’s Genius
September 1811
The world looked better through a bottle. Nicole held it up to the light, distorting the vines and turning everything bottle-green.
Emile sat next to her in her little courtyard office, adjacent to the presses and overlooking the vineyards. He still had gauze over his eyes, his fresh face scarred. She passed him the bottle. He weighed it in his hands and smiled.
‘Heavy, much better, Madame.’
Nicole didn’t smile back, not when he was still in pain. His mother had done him proud, against all the odds, and now this. She took the bottle back from him and remembered the yeasty smell of the explosions, the metallic taste of blood.
She patted his arm. ‘Good, I’ll agree to these ones. Thank you, Emile.’
‘Is it a good harvest day, Madame?’
Nicole took his arm and led him outside. ‘The workers are already out.’
‘I can hear them!’
‘It’s perfect. You know how the early-morning mist can cling to the vines yet the sky above is blue and crystal clear? It’s one of those mornings.’
