The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘Do you not remember signing the document swearing you to secrecy before you entered this room? No one is to take this invention outside of here. Do you understand?’ She looked each one in the eye, held it until they looked away, cowed. ‘Perhaps the document means nothing to you, so I’ll do it the old way. Each one of you is to swear. Swear to me that my secret is safe. You know what is at stake. A handshake will suffice.’

  Antoine came forward first, carefully replacing the bottle in the riddling rack and shaking her hand. ‘I swear,’ he said simply.

  Next, Louis. ‘I solemnly swear on my mother’s grave,’ he said, bowing for extra effect.

  Xavier approached, awkwardly pulling his cap down over his forehead. He couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘I swear, Madame Clicquot.’ His massive hand gripped hers.

  ‘Stay there,’ said Nicole to Emile. ‘I’ll come to you.’

  Emile held a champagne bottle to his ear. ‘I swear,’ he said, keeping the bottle at a diagonal angle. ‘This one is ready.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ asked Nicole.

  ‘I can hear it, feel the tension on the cap.’ He ran his thumb over the top. ‘Ripe as a plum. Ready to go.’

  Etienne pulled his hooked knife out of his pocket, released the sediment onto the floor, then replaced the cap.

  Nicole took the bottle and held it up to the lamp. Clear as a bell, the fine fizz still intact.

  ‘Well done, lad,’ said Antoine. ‘It took me more than ten years to know when it was just right.’

  Down here, as always, everything was just right. She didn’t want to leave, but she knew what she had to do.

  ‘There’s only the four of you, so keep at it. From now on, all champagne is laid down in here on my tables and no one else is to know how it works, so it’s down to you.’

  The light blinded her when she opened the door from the crayere, the chalk cellar, to the street. Mellow sunshine. Perfect harvest weather.

  Perhaps Josette could use one of Natasha’s brown miches. She decided to go back to the square and the boulangerie. The walk and seeing her friend again might calm her.

  The sound of marching drums assailed her ears before she reached it. There, in front of the cathedral, was Thérésa on a soapbox, still in her gauzy empire-line dress, looking radiant, with a crowd of young boys drinking in every word. She was a goddess, snake bangles on both arms. Moët stood next to her, proud. A platoon of soldiers stood in rank to one side and Thérésa addressed the crowd.

  ‘There is no finer thing you can do for your country! You are resourceful in the fields, brave in battle, handsome in uniform. The cream of the countryside ready to fight for your great leader. You will return as heroes.’

  The marching band struck up. The collection of farmhands, labourers, boys from the church choir, shopkeepers, husbands and sons followed them. Thérésa dabbed the corners of her black eyes with a handkerchief and waved. She was encouraging these men to certain death, cannon fodder for Napoléon’s increasingly hopeless ambitions, to cover up her dalliance with the Tsar himself.

  At the head of them was Xavier’s son, Alain. He would be about the same age as Mentine, only just fourteen. Did his parents know? She searched the crowd of silent women, tight-lipped, watching their men file off. Amongst them Alain’s mother, Xavier’s wife. At that moment, it all made sense. A man like Xavier was easily flattered. He spent most nights at Etienne’s drinking. She had seen him flirting with the young field workers, enjoyed being the big man. A perfect target for Thérésa. And there he was in the heart of her cellars, learning everything there was to know about her riddling tables. Now he was sending his son off to war to impress this glamorous goddess. She had found her mole.

  Chapter 22

  Malevolent Madonna

  October 1813

  It was a red sun at midday and a muddy grey haze plunged the countryside into eerie dusk. Nicole tasted the air and checked the clouds. It wasn’t a storm, rather a dry mist. The sun reflected orange on the river, like a daytime sunset, and the air was thick with heat.

  The world was on alert. The French were retreating. Change again. Young French lads were lying frozen solid on Russian soil, picked off by peasants with pitchforks and bludgeoned to death, and for what?

  She hurried to the cellar to prepare, smoothing down her dress, the best one she had, far too big for her after all these years of hard work. Work that she was determined would not be lost to Moët under any circumstances. Thérésa had acted to the best of her abilities to gain whatever she needed at Nicole’s expense, but two could play at her game and Nicole had the advantage of surprise.

  She lined up the bottles and the cellar door creaked open.

  ‘Monsieur Moët! You came!’

  ‘As you see,’ he said stiffly. ‘You said you needed my help.’

  ‘Thérésa persuaded me to be realistic.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t manage alone any more. If your offer still stands, I would like to join you in… a business deal. I don’t like your methods, but I see now it’s impossible without you.’

  ‘Then Thérésa is a more remarkable woman than I thought, but we’ve been here many times before. Until you’ve signed…’

  ‘Let me show you a secret.’

  She knew he wouldn’t resist. At the back of the cellar, she held up the light and Moët gasped. Ten neat bottles of champagne. Ten yellow labels, Veuve Clicquot, Cuvée de la Comète, the family’s anchor symbol outlined beneath the script, with the addition of a comet burned onto the cork. She was proud of the new concept of a printed label, in addition to the distinguishing mark on the cork. Moët eyed them suspiciously. He hated any break with tradition and no doubt he would think her labels disgustingly commercial.

  ‘Look, I have thousands more like this,’ she said, handing him a bottle. ‘Every one is the same. Not one of them will spoil. Each one uniformly free of sediment, with a mousse so lively I sourced a new bottle supplier for safety,’ she said.

  He didn’t take his eye off the bottle. ‘How did you do this?’

  ‘This must be our secret, Jean-Rémy. I cannot realise the markets without you.’

  He crossed his heart impatiently. ‘Of course, our secret.’

  She showed him a vine, wooden, but not dead. ‘This is my secret.’

  He took it, felt for buds, held it up to the candle and scraped the bark to check for green underneath. ‘What the hell is this dry stick?’

  ‘It’s a special grape varietal. The family has been developing it for centuries. It’s from Rome originally and has been grafted to make the perfect grape for Reims soil. It guarantees no sediment, the clearest wine, the best fizz, every time.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘You would think so, but here is the living proof, right in front of your eyes.’

  He looked at the dead wood contemptuously.

  ‘You know the Clicquot grand cru yard on the Grande Montagne, the one at Verzenay?’

  ‘Middle, east slope, one of the best. Of course I know it,’ said Moët enviously.

  ‘That is where we planted the new Clicquot varietal.’

  ‘I know those vineyards well, they’re all Pinot Noir.’

  ‘They look like Pinot grapes, but they’re not. We call them the Clicquot-Ponsardin grapes. François’ father Philippe gave us twenty to plant on our wedding day. All these years later, this is the result. It’s a kind of miracle.’

  Moët looked at her sideways. ‘What does it have to do with me?’

  ‘Between us, we own enough of the best land to revolutionise production. I can give you twenty of these roots. It will take time, but we’ll leave a legacy for future generations.’

  ‘How could I refuse an adventure – and profit – with a beautiful woman?’

  ‘The east slope, your vineyard, next to mine. The soil there is perfect for them. It must be our secret.’

  ‘There is no one else I would rather keep one with.’

  Outside, the strange sky glowered as she waved go
odbye to Jean-Rémy, clutching his sack of Pinot Noir vines, fully believing this was the great Veuve Clicquot trade secret Thérésa was dangling in front of him. Her riddling innovation was safe for now. The vines were her finest ones, she comforted herself, even if the mythical Clicquot-Ponsardin vines didn’t exist. And if her exploding bottles were Monsieur Moët’s doing – although Louis was right, she’d never prove it – he deserved this, and more.

  That part was relatively easy. Next, she needed to manoeuvre with a more dangerous opponent, Thérésa Tallien, before her former friend could get to Moët with the real truth of the matter. She’d learnt a lot from observing Thérésa’s intrigues over the years, seen how a mixture of desire, heartlessness and betrayal could get you everywhere. Nicole intended to play with Thérésa by her own rules from now on.

  There couldn’t be a more sumptuous Madonna than Thérésa, and the harvest feast of St Rémi was observed as usual. Revolution or no, Champagne couldn’t risk any harm to their vines and everyone knew that St Rémi was watching for neglect; harvests had not been good after the revolution, apart from the glorious year of the comet. Thérésa sat next to Nicole in the Clicquot family pew, away from prying ears, but in full view of the congregation – and Thérésa never resisted an opportunity for drama.

  Her solemnity was impressive, her hair demurely covered, silky strands carefully arranged to rebel beneath expensive lace. The cool cathedral air turned her skin to marble and a half-smile of adoration played around her lips as she joined the townspeople in prayer for their vines.

  There was not a man in the congregation whose eyes didn’t devour her, or a woman who didn’t wish they could be her. She was their mother, their sister, their lover, their saviour, in one ethereal package. Nicole had no doubt that as they mouthed prayers to St Rémi for a good harvest in the soaring space, Thérésa was their idea of paradise.

  There was only one man in the congregation who was not gazing adoringly at Thérésa. Every time Nicole looked up from prayer, Jean-Rémy was staring right at her, desperate to catch her eye. Nicole forced herself to smile back, and she had no doubt that Madame Olivier was observing closely, readying herself for the juicy gossip in the church hall afterwards.

  Thérésa leant close. She smelt fresh as a meadow, musky as a cat.

  ‘You are more wicked than I ever imagined you capable of. Poor Jean-Rémy is bursting with excitement! Careful he doesn’t go spreading it all over town.’

  Nicole watched dispassionately as the first grapes of the harvest were placed on the altar and whispered back. ‘Has he written to Napoléon on your behalf?’

  ‘Of course he has. I’ve delivered him the only thing he couldn’t buy. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Nicole shook her head and lied. ‘All forgotten.’

  ‘Just business. I knew you would understand. Friends?’

  ‘Friends.’ She took Thérésa’s hand and put it on her cheek. ‘You will keep your side of the bargain and not tell him about my riddling tables?’

  A line of vintners in red robes processed solemnly down the aisle. She would be richer than all of them.

  ‘Of course not. I would never have done it anyway. You didn’t actually believe I would, did you?’

  ‘You can do anything you like to anyone and still make them love you for it.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it any more.’ Thérésa cupped her hands together to pray and lowered her eyes. ‘I have never seen Jean-Rémy so happy. If you had any sense, you really would join forces with him, but I know how stubborn you are. Well, I can’t advise you any more.’

  At the press later that day, Louis slammed the door of the office behind him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?

  ‘Flirting with that man in front of the whole town this morning at church.’

  ‘It’s none of your business. Go back to your wife.’

  ‘I have your best interests at heart, Babouchette. I’m warning you. Natasha noticed it too.’

  ‘You have no right to come in here, lecturing me. You make your choices, and I make mine.’

  ‘Thérésa is involved, I know she is. You’re playing with fire and you won’t win.’

  ‘I’m busy, the harvest is still coming in and there aren’t enough men. Please concentrate on that rather than some imagined misdemeanour. The daylight’s running out and the feast of St Rémi has at least motivated the workers that are here. We need to make the most of it.’

  ‘Be careful, please.’

  ‘Stop worrying about me.’

  Louis left. Acid regret filled the space where he stood.

  In the evening, she visited her parents at their grand mansion. She hurried past Etienne’s bar, then past Thérésa’s house, just a few doors away from where her parents lived. The big, welcoming windows of her childhood home lit up the evening with hundreds of candles burning on the chandeliers.

  Her parents were worried Mentine would not be safe at boarding school in Paris. Rumours gripped the whole country that as the French troops retreated, the Russian army would follow. Everyone was afraid they would follow them right back into the French capital and attack the rest of the country from there, a terrifying thought in the quiet streets of Reims. Nicole listened, but she had other, more immediate things on her mind. She had only come to have an excuse to pass Etienne’s bar.

  She left early, to get back to Bouzy, she told her parents, but she had some business first. Gesturing for the coachman to wait, she hurried to the bar, still in full swing, celebrating the feast of St Rémi.

  Etienne opened the back door, just at the time they had agreed.

  ‘Did you give him the note?’ asked Nicole.

  ‘Don’t worry, I did as you said. He didn’t want to show anyone your letter of congratulations – best worker of the year, you say? He looked pretty happy about it, but he wouldn’t show anyone what it said.’

  ‘You know Xavier, he just likes to get on with it and he wouldn’t want to tell the lads he was being praised by a woman.’ And he’s totally out of his depth. ‘Thank you for your help though. My carriage is waiting, so I’d better go. Good night.’

  The town-hall clock struck nine as she waited in the shadows. Xavier wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t follow the instructions she had written. The pink ribbon she had saved from Thérésa’s note was stuffed in his top pocket. She was pleased with that authentic touch. The evening was chilly now and he pulled his best tweed jacket tight around him, jerked down his cap over his eyes, headed for the side door of Thérésa’s house and rapped on it.

  When there was no answer, he rapped again, staggering slightly.

  ‘It’s me,’ he whispered up at the window. ‘Xavier!’

  No reply.

  ‘Thérésa!’

  The timing was perfect: Thérésa was back in Paris, smoothing things over with Napoléon, thanks to Moët’s help.

  ‘Lovely evening, Xavier,’ said Nicole, stepping out of the shadows.

  His face fell when he saw her.

  ‘I know everything. She’s dangerous, you know, and using you.’

  ‘She asked me to help with the garden.’

  ‘At this time?’

  He looked stricken.

  ‘I wrote the note with the pink ribbon. You think she’d risk any proof in writing to you?’

  She paused to let the information sink in, almost feeling sorry for her old friend.

  ‘You told her about my riddling tables. What were you thinking? I thought we had an agreement.’

  ‘I never…’

  ‘What would your wife say about this?’

  He hung his head. ‘I’m a relief to her after all those fops and posers in Paris.’

  ‘That’s exactly who she’s with now. We have known each other all our lives, haven’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘She’s using you. It’s impossible for a woman like her to really love any man.’ Or woman, she thought ruefully. ‘The great Thérés
a Tallien would drop you like a stone if there was any whiff of scandal and she laughs at men foolish enough to fall for her. It was my trade secret she wanted from you, that’s all. Have you seen her since you told her?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Think about it. Your wife would be devastated.’

  ‘You can’t tell her. Not with our son away at war. It would break her.’

  ‘Then stay away from Thérésa.’

  He hunched over.

  ‘We’ve been friends forever. You were my stalwart. I have paid your wages all your life, promised a share of the profits, but you would throw it all away for her?’

  She could tell by the way he looked at her that he would do it all again if Thérésa gave him one ounce of encouragement.

  ‘If you ever meet her again – and if you do, I’ll find out – I’ll tell your wife, you’ll lose your job with me and you will never work in Champagne again.’

  ‘You can’t threaten me,’ he hissed.

  ‘I just have and you don’t frighten me. Let’s speak as equals. Give it time, Xavier, it will pass. The harvest is in. The vines are black and lifeless, but next year they’ll spring to life again. Everything will seem different. Your wife and son need you. Make up for betraying your wife and putting my entire livelihood – and yours – at risk. I have a way you can make amends.’

  ‘Spit it out, then.’

  ‘Stay with me, Xavier. I understand, you are only human, and she is from another world. I will keep my promise to you about a share in the profits and I’ll keep scandal away from you and your wife, but you have to promise me to forget her.’

  She explained her plan. He agreed to carry it out to the letter. It was risky, but she was a vintner and everything she did carried risk.

  He strode off into the darkness and she walked back to her carriage, exhausted. Even Xavier was prepared to betray her, after all they’d been through together. Moët was right about that much, this business was not for the faint-hearted. The more successful she became, the more enemies she seemed to make. And with so much at stake, she was forced to strategise like a general and double-cross people she’d counted as friends and allies until now. It was a lonely feeling, but she was actually quite good at it when it came to it and it gave her a satisfying sense of powerfulness.