The French House by Helen Fripp (english readers TXT) 📗

but I didn’t know how to do it and I was cruel and I am deeply sorry.

Moët’s offer on the face of it is a better one than mine. He is solid and stable. I am prone to mood swings and excess and you should know this. The last week has shown you what I am. Sometimes I am deeply afraid of my own happiness. But I also have the capacity to love so deeply and I have never loved anyone like I love you. I love your wit, the way your boots are too big for your tiny body, the way you flit around in them like there’s never enough time, the way you taste the land and all its colours, the way your hair is highlighted red in the sun, the shadow of you in your muslin slip. So marry me. We’ll run a vineyard, taste the land together.

And then she understood. All she wanted to do was forgive him completely and just love him. She knew instinctively that life with François would be full of bumps and twists, but between them a taste so sweet, so intense, she could never forgive herself for going through life without experiencing it.

She wrote back, Yes, yes, yes! and put it in the place beneath the straw.

The yes was the easy part, but now everything was a mess. She had accepted Monsieur Moët out of spite. She went to Papa’s dark, panelled office and sat in the high-backed chair, sitting up as tall as she could. On the other side of his ordered leathered desk, he looked forbidding and official, seeming to represent everything she wanted to fight. Nevertheless, she begged him to help her, told him she would marry François and he knew her well enough to know she would not be persuaded otherwise.

Papa was severely vexed that she had played such a girlish game with her eminent suitor and she berated herself for her bad judgement in the matter, but only in the moments she could stop thinking about François.

The next day, exactly one month after Moët’s proposal, and a glorious lifetime with François, Papa took her to his own vineyard at Rilly to meet old Philippe Clicquot, François’ father, to make final arrangements for her marriage.

The day was glorious, and the vine leaves were autumn russet and gold. As they strolled to the vines, Nicole made the assessments which were almost second nature to her now after spending so much time with François in the vineyards – orientation, incline, the surrounding vineyards, the shape of the leaves to indicate the varietal, tick, tick, tick.

Papa bent to check the last roses of the season, planted at the end of each row to indicate infestations and counted on his fingers. ‘The roses are clean… my prediction is, harvest on the fifteenth of September next year and it’ll be a bumper crop.’ He held out his hand. ‘Bet on it?’

‘It’s not fair to make bets I know I’ll win. It’s obviously going to be the first of October and it will be the best ever. This crop will belong to François and me, and it will be our first Clicquot vintage.’

‘I hope that’s not the only thing you’ll make. I want to see my grandchildren enjoying these vines before I die. You’ve made a mess of everything with Monsieur Moët, but I do believe François will make you happy.’

‘Stop it!’ She blushed. ‘But we do want children. A bohemian boy like François who’ll play gypsy violin and a little girl we’ll teach to blend the best vintages on the Montagne. I wish Maman would understand.’

‘Your mother does want you to be happy, Babouchette. She just thinks Monsieur Moët is a better prospect for you. We’ll bring her round. If François can charm my little girl into marrying him, he shouldn’t have any problem with your mother. Monsieur Moët is Mayor of Reims, though, and she’s got stars in her eyes.’

‘She’s not the one marrying him and I’d make a terrible mayor’s wife.’

Papa looked at his watch. ‘Maman will be here soon. I told her to meet us here to discuss your marriage. Why on earth did you send that letter to Moët in the first place? You’re supposed to be the canny one of my girls and now he’s told your mother it constitutes an official agreement. I’ve always helped you out of your scrapes, but I’m not sure how I’m going to extricate you from this one honourably.’

Why was Natasha always right? Caution, she’d said.

‘Who cares about Monsieur Moët’s version of honour when all he thinks about is money? He just wants his imagined version of me, not the real one.’

‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to take on the real Nicole,’ he teased. ‘Especially the one that’s made such a hash of things. But it won’t be as easy as you think. Monsieur Moët is creative in revenge, and he’s a great politician. Cross him and his retaliation will be subtle and untraceable.’

‘He’s just used to everyone saying yes. He’s not that clever and I refuse to be afraid.’

‘You’ve never been scared of anyone and that is why you are always in trouble,’ he said proudly. ‘But this is a small town, ma petite, we all need to live together, and like it or not, he is a powerful opponent.’ He handed her an old enamel tape measure. ‘On with you, and make sure you keep it taut.’

Nicole unwound the slippery silk tape and paced along a row of vines to the edge of the vineyard until her father was out of sight.

‘Ready!’ she called.

‘Hold it there, keep it nice and tight and make sure you check the figure twice!’

She trapped the tape under her thumb and committed the measurement to memory – 204 pieds du Roi, king’s feet. Since the revolution, they were supposed to use metres and kilometres, but all the country people still measured à l’ancienne, the old way.

‘Hold it there a second!’ shouted Papa.

Nicole