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

of the many dignitaries invited by the Ponsardin and Clicquot families. Nicole had her own way with her choice of husband, but the wedding was her mother’s.

Such a fuss, hidden away in the cellar so that her mother could bring in Priest Lescelles from the cathedral. He was hiding like a criminal now that the cathedral was the Temple of Reason. He no longer spat fire and brimstone at his congregation, but there was plenty of opportunity to glower about heathens heading for eternal damnation after the revolution. The heart had been ripped out of the church, but the hidden priest was her mother’s coup. Not just anyone could sneak him out of hiding for a wedding. It took time and resources – and the Clicquots and the Ponsardins had both – she and François would never have to worry about money. This was the coming together of two great families of Reims and her mother wasn’t going to let anyone forget it.

None of it mattered today. Nicole was glad they were getting married in a cellar rather than the cathedral. They had met and courted in the vineyards amongst the skylarks. Spent months watching the leaves turn from acid green to yellow and red, the grapes grow mellow, the poppies in the cornfields turn from crimson to drooping purple. They had helped turn the presses, overseen the blend, watched the fermentation once, then twice. Despaired at blown corks, spoiled champagne and late-spring hailstorms, rejoiced at carts of green bottles heading for the ports, danced to the accordion at the harvest feast of St Rémi.

Who would have thought that she, the smallest and plainest of her cohort, would marry for love?

Love or otherwise, it didn’t matter to her mother. The Clicquots were a prominent family, worthy of the Ponsardins, according to Maman’s measures, which were harsh.

François’ father was obsessed with his vast, lucrative textile business, as was Papa. They spent many happy evenings comparing notes, and everything was just right.

That Papa was delighted was the icing on the cake. Nicole would have married François whatever anyone thought, but she and Papa had a special bond and everyone told her they were alike. She hoped so. Papa was shrewd, dynamic and a leader of men.

Priest Lescelles arranged the gleaming offertory vessels and opened his Bible on the makeshift altar. He had anointed the kings of France in Reims Cathedral with the sacred Sainte Ampoule. Now he was hidden in a cellar. Fortunes rise and fall in a heartbeat. Nothing could ever stay the same. Traditions of hundreds, maybe thousands, of years had been overturned the day of the revolution. Life was uncertain. Natasha had always warned her of that. But today was her day and she was marrying François and it was perfect.

She walked steadily up the aisle, thanking herself for the sturdy boots hidden under her dress, grateful Maman hadn’t noticed she’d swapped them for her silk slippers. If she did now, then tant pis, too late. Claudine had made her dress from layers of sheer ivory muslin in the empire style she loved, fitted low across her shoulders, and she felt as light and seductive as a glass of champagne. François was waiting for her at the altar, and he would take it off her tonight. She felt that everything she had done in her life so far was propelling her to this moment, like a sunlit current in the river that would always have found its way to the sea.

Trestle tables with white tablecloths were laid out in the vineyard at Verzenay for the wedding breakfast. The vines were in full flower and the air was filled with the scent of lemon and vanilla and summer. Bunting fluttered in the vines, wine bottles glinted in the sun, silver salvers were piled high with delicacies, and conversation brimmed above the lark song.

‘Look,’ said François.

Natasha had insisted the cake should be a secret until now, and he took her to see it. There were five tiers, and around each cake were crimson grapes hanging from icing vines.

‘Did you tell her about the bright red grapes you showed me?’ she asked, surprised.

‘No, and you destroyed the last of the evidence when you spat them out! Just a coincidence?’

‘It never is with Natasha.’

If it was one of Natasha’s signs or spells, it made Nicole feel uncomfortable. She picked up François’ violin to distract herself. ‘Play for us?’

An extra row of tables was set out for the vineyard workers. Xavier was already drunk, whirling Natasha, protesting, to the strains of the violin.

Afternoon turned to evening, a big yellow moon rose, moths flung themselves at the candelabras and the accordion had everyone jumping to its bellows. When the night dew clung to the black shawls of the seated widows, making them shiver, the crowd began to disperse.

François wrapped a warm cloak around her bare shoulders. ‘Time to go, Madame Clicquot.’

He handed her up into the barouche and put a black velvet blanket over her knees. She felt like a diamond in a box.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

They waved goodbye to the wedding crowd and old Widow Joubert caught her bouquet and cackled, much to the disappointment of Nicole’s unmarried school friends. Her sister Clémentine beamed her beautiful smile, Xavier gave them a lurid thumbs up, Natasha traced a figure of eight around them with an amulet, Maman dabbed her tears, and Papa waved enthusiastically, blowing kisses. Monsieur Moët had already left.

Alone at last. Nicole tucked herself into François’ arm and watched the moon blur as the carriage jolted.

He turned off the main track, and Nicole counted ten vineyards before they came to a shepherd’s hut.

‘Is this it?’ she laughed as he spun her down.

‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered.

He led her forward and she opened her eyes. Lanterns dotted the walls, throwing prisms of light all around. The floor was covered in Russian rugs and in the corner was a big silver urn, etched with patterns that looked like Natasha’s salt bag. In the middle,