The French House

by Helen Fripp

  ‘Well then. An idea. I have a little boat moored at Tours sur Marne. I’ve been escaping to it when I wish to draw. We can drink it there, cool it in the water and cool off ourselves, too. I think it’s not too far to walk, milaya?’

  Milaya. Natasha used to call her Daniel that.

  The rowing boat was hidden in a little clump of trees in a quiet eddy of the river. He helped her in, held the boat so it wouldn’t rock and tied the champagne to chill in the water.

  The river was like glass, reeds flattened in the current. A sharp scent of water mint filled the air. Nicole lay back and trailed her hand in the water, looking up through the tree-filtered light to the sky.

  Alexei took out his sketchpad and started to draw. She closed her eyes. The river meandered, silver and filled with promise, so different from the day François had shouted his grief at the raging water, not far from this place.

  He opened the champagne and poured them both a glass. She took a sip.

  ‘Draw it for me!’ she laughed.

  He gave her a comet, with a scintillating tail, as she’d seen it crossing the sky the year these grapes ripened.

  She held the glass up to the light – as clear as the sparkling river thanks to her new invention – and chinked with him. Rich, toasty and nutty, notes of caramel and lemon. It was good, the best she’d ever made. She needed to get this to a market which could afford it, which hadn’t been at war forever – Russia, England… A fish jumped and a fly was lost to the world in one quicksilver moment.

  His next picture caught the moment the fish had snatched the fly in intricate detail, a ripple disturbing the glassy surface, the fish curved with the effort of jumping, iridescent patterns on its scales, like oil in the sun.

  They finished the bottle and he kept drawing: a dragonfly, the light distilling through the trees, a mother duck followed by furiously paddling ducklings – she counted six, but he only drew five – and finally, the sun going down. She had forgotten the sun went down. She willed against the end of the golden evening, framed it like a picture in her head to look at later. The damp in the dusky air made her shiver.

  ‘I’ve kept you out too long and I should get back to the camp. Come.’

  He jumped out of the boat across the water and held his hand out for her. She reached for him, but the boat slid away and she screamed at the sudden cold as she hit the shallows.

  He scooped her out, dress dripping, giggling with shock, and he hugged her, freezing, teeth chattering, dizzy. The moon shimmered a path on the river. He lifted her to drier ground, set her still, took off his jacket and put it on her. He turned up the collar against the chill, then slowly fastened each button. The jacket was heavy and warm and smelt of sweat and woodsmoke. The last birds swooped to roost and chattered with the setting sun and his bitter eyes fixed on hers and they didn’t speak for a while.

  ‘Better now, milaya? You’re still shivering.’

  ‘Better.’

  Kiss me, she thought. He didn’t move, but his eyes devoured her.

  ‘I toasted you in another life and, in a different world, I would… You look too beautiful, dripping and cold in the starlight. I have to return, and so should you. It’s not far back for you, I think?’ He held out a folded piece of sketch paper at arm’s length, cupped his hands around hers. ‘Please, don’t open it until you get back. My camp is in the opposite direction to Bouzy. Goodbye.’

  She watched him disappear in confusion and studied the picture he had given her, tempted to open it. Instead she thrust it deep into her pocket and stumbled back, the moon lighting her way.

  Back near the village, she took off his coat and folded it tight so that no one would see her in it – she didn’t need to give the gossips anything else. Thinking back, he’d only sketched five ducklings instead of six. Why, when he noticed everything?

  At her front door, Josette fussed over her wet dress, but she waved her away. The fire was made in the parlour and she drew up François’ old chair and unfolded the picture, frozen despite the heat. It was a boy, about the same age as Mentine, in Russian uniform. Like Alexei, but not him.

  She ran through the last moment she saw him, his arms clamped by his side. He had been stopping himself from putting them around her. He looked so alone, and angry.

  Chapter 28

  A Glamorous Moon

  May 1814

  The bakery kitchen smelt of yeast and cinnamon, the marble surfaces scrubbed until they gleamed, deliciously cool against the heat of the day. Natasha swirled the steaming water in the copper bowl and mouthed an oath. She beckoned to Nicole.

  ‘Now, come, hold your face over the whirlpool and close your eyes.’

  The steam formed warm beads on Nicole’s face and she remembered Alexei wrapping his jacket around her, fastening the buttons against the cold.

  ‘Stand back and let me see,’ said Natasha. ‘Here, take this.’ She handed Nicole a starched tea towel, fresh with rose water and lemon, and turned back to study the shapes in the steam. ‘A fish jumping, an artist, a wooden rowing boat…’ whispered Natasha.

  She swirled the great pot again, frowned and took the kettle off the hob, pouring in more water. A plume of steam misted upwards.

  ‘Quick, breathe over the pot again.’

  Nicole winced against the heat.

  ‘Don’t move yet,’ instructed Natasha.

  ‘What can you see now?’ asked Nicole.

  ‘Stand back,’ said Natasha, making shapes in the steam and pushing it up, up until the whole kitchen was filled with it. ‘More luck from the east.’ Natasha bit her lip in concentration. ‘A ship on the sea, very cold. Love, but not as you expect.’ The steam swirled and curled back down from the ceiling. ‘Luck and danger, in equal measure.’ She took the bowl off the hob again and flung open the windows. The steam began to disperse. ‘That’s enough of that, it’s nonsense anyway.’

  ‘You always say that, but you still do it,’ said Nicole suspiciously.

  ‘It’s the only way I can get you to see sense.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How long have you been in love with General Marin?’

  ‘Natasha, I’m not!’

  ‘Be careful. Madame Olivier says she saw you in a boat with him at Tours, ’til late in the evening.’

  ‘Is there nothing that woman doesn’t see! I thought she was my friend.’

  ‘She’s also the biggest mouth in Champagne. A juicy piece of gossip like that is irresistible, friend or not. I told her to keep it to herself and I believe she will, this time, but don’t give her anything else.’

  ‘So you didn’t see all those things in the steam?’

  Natasha narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean love?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I don’t need steam for that. I know you better than you think.’

  ‘What does it matter? He won’t do me wrong.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know when my wine is ready? I just know.’

  ‘But don’t expect too much. That’s what the steam tells me. Love doesn’t always come to you how you would wish it. Just let it be what it is.’ Natasha hugged her. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this and that’s as much as anyone can predict, though people aren’t always what they seem. Take care and be discreet, Babouchette, this town has more eyes and ears in its stones than you imagine.’

  Along the lanes back to her Bouzy house, foxgloves, buttercups and cow parsley tangled together and the May blossom weighed the branches in white and pink sprays. She imagined the soldiers returning back from the front to this and thanked God for the end of the war for now, with Napoléon safely exiled to Elba.

  In the fields, a few of her most loyal workers were back, out digging trenches, creating rows, according to the region’s planter à la route methods, nice and ordered. Never mind the flowers, there weren’t enough workers to get it all finished in time. She lashed Pinot to speed up and when she arrived at the press yard, Emile came running and took the ho
rse’s reins.

  ‘There’s a package for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Emile. It’s a hot day, so make sure he gets plenty of water.’

  She patted Pinot and Emile led him to the stable, hugging his soft nuzzle.

  The package on the desk had Alexei’s handwriting on it. Nicole tore it open and folded out a cape in the same cloth as the jacket he had lent her, the one she still had in her room, next to her bed. She unpinned a note from the collar and took it to the window to read.

  I gave you my jacket to keep you warm, milaya, but it’s military issue and I must return it as soon as this war is finally over. I will be passing by your cellars in Reims this evening. Perhaps you could keep my cape and swap me back my jacket. I can meet you there at 8 p.m. Send your boy to the camp with a reply.

  Alexei

  A glamorous moon hung swollen in the translucent dusk as she made her way to the cellars on the Place des Droits de l’Homme, and Alexei was already waiting outside when she arrived. She took the big key from her belt to open it – all the workers would have left for the day.

  He smiled. ‘You’re wearing it. Here.’ He turned up the collar of her cape against the cold and she lit a lamp to go inside, locking the door behind them.

  ‘I have your jacket, it’s heavy!’ Nicole handed it to him.

  He shrugged it on. ‘Heavier than you imagine, but it’s all I’ve known these past few years.’ He nodded down the steep cellar stairs. ‘How many kilometres do you have down there?’

  ‘The cellars go on forever, to nearly twenty-nine kilometres. I know every inch.’

  ‘Of course you do. Will you show me?’

  ‘That would take all night!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Be careful on the steps, all the torches have been put out. Fuel is scarce and everyone’s gone home.’

  In the cellars, the air was cool, a velvet-dark cocoon. She held up the lamp.

  ‘This is the first rack I ever saw, the day the revolution came to Reims.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was a tomboy and foolishly picked a fight with the big boys. Xavier pushed me down here all those years ago to hide from them in the chaos. I thought it was like a fairy grotto.’

  ‘Nothing much has changed, then. The world up there is changing, too fast,’ said Alexei.

  They walked on in silence, through the labyrinth of cellars. Kilometres of wine, carts, chimneys, she didn’t want it to end. She stopped at the place, reached behind the rack of vin de Sillery and brushed off the dust.

  FC♥BNP scratched into the wall.

  He touched her arm. ‘You have Mentine.’

  ‘She is a joy. Amazing how you try so hard to impose yourself, but they go their own way whatever you do. Come down here.’

  They walked and walked, each corridor with its own story. He listened, intently, asked endless questions. The hours passed until they were about halfway through, on the home trajectory. Impossible to tell if it was day or night down here, but morning couldn’t be far off.

  ‘You’ve heard so much about me. How about you? Tell me your story. I know nothing about you, apart from the fact that you’re a general and you’re Russian and you know everything there is to know about wine… and that you have a scar you don’t want to talk about.’

  ‘I prefer to be lost in your world for tonight. I will tell you one day, I promise, but for now this is your place and your story and you make me forget. I don’t sleep, most of the time. It makes me a great soldier but a miserable human being. Can we just keep walking?’

  They continued, just the two of them in the peace and dark. She didn’t want it to be morning. Since the day François had died, she had felt so alone. Not tonight, with Alexei.

  ‘Here. This was a highlight, the best harvest ever, 1811. My year of the comet wines. The racks have been rebuilt since I was last here. Your men guzzled some of it when they raided me.’

  ‘I’ve done my best to make up for that, at least I hope I have… I’m intrigued about something. There were thousands of bottles of champagne in the shipment we helped load and not one of them was cloudy or spoiled as far as I could tell. How do you do that?’

  She smiled again at his endless knowledge. Of course he had noticed her clear champagne; he missed nothing.

  ‘Top-secret information, even from you.’

  ‘Not even tonight, when it’s just us?’

  ‘Only four people in the world know.’

  ‘Classified information is my speciality.’ He saluted. ‘All intelligence stops here.’

  She studied him for a few moments, not sure she was ready to share her most precious advantage. He was nothing to do with the business, or Reims, or anyone she knew in this little town. He had done nothing but help her and, like her, he was endlessly fascinated by the charm of winemaking. He wasn’t immoral, like Thérésa, or weak, like Xavier. And most of all, she was overwhelmed with a feeling she wanted to share everything with this man who had appeared in her life as mysteriously and portentously as the comet. Thérésa had given her a shard of ice in her heart, but this man was different. If he’d wanted to, he could have forced his way in weeks ago and she would have been powerless to stop him.

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, decided, fumbling for the key. She knew it by touch – the second largest on the key ring. She unclipped it and gave it to him, then led him to the riddling-room door. He put the key in the lock, but the door opened of its own accord.

  ‘Louis! What are you doing here at this hour?’

  ‘Early start,’ he said, eyeing Alexei. They must have walked all night. ‘And you are?’

  Alexei held out his hand. ‘General Marin. Good morning.’

  ‘Of course, our biggest buyer. Madame Clicquot here is doing my job for me, it seems,’ said Louis, closing the door behind him. ‘Shall I use the key to lock up?’

  ‘No need, I was just showing General Marin around.’

  ‘But not in here, surely?’

  ‘Yes, in here. He’s interested, and don’t worry, I trust him, though he might not look so trustworthy in that Russian coat.’

  ‘Don’t on my account. I was just curious,’ Alexei murmured.

  She frowned at Louis, who was simply staring at Alexei. Why was he being so rude?

  ‘I think you’re needed at the press yard for the bottle delivery?’

  ‘Yes, Madame Clicquot. Of course, straight away.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  He left, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘I think I may be stepping on someone’s toes,’ said Alexei.

  ‘I make the decisions,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll remember not to cross you!’ He opened the door. ‘After you, Madame Clicquot.’

  ‘Wait here, close your eyes.’

  Nicole rushed around the room lighting all the lamps and turning them on to full blaze; the place always gave her a rush of excitement. The tables came into focus, row upon row of clear gold.

  ‘You can open them now.’

  He surveyed the tables, ran his hand over the upturned bottles. ‘This is your secret? This is how you achieve consistent clarity in your champagnes?’

  He walked up and down, admiring the ordered rows of the riddling tables as she explained how it worked.

  ‘It’s like all the best military campaigns. Unbelievably simple, gives you a massive advantage over the enemy, but no one’s ever thought of it until now. This is going to make you a fortune, as long as you continue to fend off the Russian hordes.’

  ‘At least one of the horde is welcome. If I could get it to Russia, it would be worth its weight in gold.’

  ‘No one’s buying because of the war?’

  ‘It’s impossible, French exports are totally banned. Louis, who you just met, was imprisoned as a French spy on his last trip there and I can’t risk my staff, or the cargo being confiscated or dumped if it doesn’t make it through.’

  ‘Let me help you. I have some influence with the Tsar and when
we eventually return, the whole country’s going to be in the mood for celebrating.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘That’s brought some colour to your face.’

  She kissed him then, saw the glamorous moon in her mind’s eye and the steam rise and curl in Natasha’s kitchen and then she saw tears in his eyes. He pushed her away.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’ she faltered.

  ‘I am the one who should be sorry. Who is sorry…’

  ‘You don’t need to say another word. I’m so used to running things my own way, I thought…’

  ‘Leave it there, so I keep my resolve for both our sakes.’ He held her in front of him. ‘Let me look at you, really look at you. Down here is another life. One where just you and I exist, and everything we dream of is possible. Outside, it’s impossible.’

  A moment passed and she saw the other life in his eyes.

  ‘There’s a penknife in the pocket of your jacket – give it to me,’ she said.

  She scratched something onto the wall.

  AM + B-NC.

  He took the knife from her and drew a comet underneath.

  ‘Thank you for the night walk in your world. I’ll never forget it,’ he said.

  ‘There’s more to my world than this.’

  They held hands until they emerged, blinking against the morning light.

  Madame Olivier was on her way to the bakery, basket in hand.

  ‘Ah, the Russian general and the French vintner at the cellar door! Good morning to you both, my dears, bonne journée!’

  She hurried on by before Nicole could reply.

  ‘I must go now, milaya. I’ll create more problems for you if I stay. I’ll write you a note and we’ll meet again.’

  The post was full of bills the next day, and the next, but she was busy as always, à pied early and collapsing into bed late, putting in a full day of work and spending her evenings with Mentine. No matter how busy she was, however, she couldn’t stop herself hoping for the note he’d promised, or allowing herself to imagine a future together between Reims and St Petersburg, her wine empire stretching its tendrils across Russia like new vines.