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

was a shareholder in François’ fledgling business.

François poured a glass of their sweetest champagne.

Louis took an exaggerated slurp. ‘A triumph of terroir and skills passed down for hundreds of years, from Dom Perignon and beyond.’

‘Is this the puff you give your clients? It’s more like going to the circus than buying a fine wine,’ laughed Nicole.

It got so late that Josette made the fire twice, but still the tales flowed. Louis could barely sit still and told his stories pacing the room. He loved the open road, he said, the parties and the kitchen gossip.

François was on sparkling form and she took Natasha’s advice to heart. Enjoy today.

The next morning, she woke before dawn. François was gone again. Her heart somersaulted at the note on the pillow.

Vine roots never die. They turn black in winter, but spring brings tender leaves to risk icy winds and thunderstorms and soak up the May sun. They see the sun rise, draw the mist to themselves in the early morning, take their food from the pale land, listen to the lark rise and fall in the summer. They catch the moon on their leaves, see stars leap, leaving trails of shattered light. I can taste each vineyard and so can you. We were meant to be together, but happiness has turned to dust for now.

I don’t ask forgiveness, but trust I will be back.

François

Slipping the note under her pillow with shaking hands, Nicole choked back the tears, and her fear. Stay strong for him, and for our baby, she told herself. He always comes back. But she couldn’t just do nothing. The dawn turned vermilion, the same as their wedding morning, and with it a familiar determination. She dressed quickly, slipped out while the house was still asleep, and jumped on Pinot, her favourite colt, tying cloth on his hooves so no one would hear.

When she reached the Montagne, the vines were suspended in a cloud, above them a minted, clear sky. Further on, cold wind disturbed the surface of the pale lake where they had swum countless times. She pulled her cloak around her. Another mile downstream was where she prayed she’d find him.

Owls hooted and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Royalist rebels were known to terrorise the French countryside with their uprisings, and they communicated using owl calls. Innocent people, even women, were mistaken for republicans and were beaten in revenge. France was not a safe place to bring a child into. François was right about that.

She spurred on through the dawn light. The further she galloped, the wider the river, until she heard its roar. As she rounded the bend, there he was, boots in the furious torrent, the river so wide and fast here that its roar was shattering.

She edged closer, soothed her horse to be still so as not to startle him.

‘François, I’m here,’ she whispered.

He bellowed at the river, arms outstretched, shirt flying open in the wind.

‘François!’ she yelled.

He roared to the river and it roared back. One step forward and it would sweep him whirling down the raging tide.

Pinot understood. He didn’t make a sound when she lashed him to a tree and rushed to François at the edge of the torrent. She barely felt the shock of cold as she waded in to reach him. The river pulled at her as she grabbed his shoulders and fell back with him, away from the current, using all her strength. She had him flat on dry ground before he could resist, snaring him with legs and arms outstretched. He rolled onto his back and pulled her to him.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered.

An eternity passed. He opened his eyes and focused on her, bewildered as a drunk.

‘I knew where to find you, it’s me, and I understand.’

He blinked. ‘Talk to me.’

She counted to ten, then back down again.

‘Louder.’

She named the grapes she knew, listed her school friends, the sums she could remember, anything, clinging to him, too afraid to move, the wet grass freezing them both as she screwed up her eyes and willed her François back to himself.

Heavy footsteps snapped her eyes open. Louis had come.

‘How did you know?’

‘This is how it is with him, I’ve known him all my life, it’s best to let him be,’ he said quietly. ‘Take my hand.’

He helped her up and put his jacket round her shoulders. François was soaked and shivering and Louis showed them both into the waiting carriage, promising to walk back later for Pinot.

Louis knew what to do. The three of them spent long days around François’ bed, playing cards, telling stories, staring into the fire. They took turns to keep watch and, after a week, François began to join in with the stories. When it was Nicole’s turn and Louis was busy, François and she made plans for their baby. Their child would learn to ride as naturally as walking, memorise a poem every week and if they had a girl, she would be everything and anything she wanted to be, with curls like François’ and grey eyes like Nicole’s.

When it was time for Louis to leave for his next sales trip, Nicole kissed him.

‘I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for us. Ever,’ she smiled.

‘It’s the worst I’ve seen him,’ he said as he loaded the cart with crates of wine to travel to Paris. ‘He must love you very much.’

Chapter 5

Firefly

August 1805

Republican date: Thermidor, year XIII

Clémentine ran, skirting the sunlit roses, sousing the air with sharp lavender as she skimmed the silver bushes. Jelly-legged with giggles, she staggered and collapsed in a heap of muslin and curls. Nicole caught her, scooped her up and spun her around, laughing at the sky.

She buried her face in her daughter’s hair, breathing in the childish smell. Her blonde curls were so like her sister’s. Two Clémentines in her life, sister and daughter, carbon copies of each other. Her little daughter was a delight, and she never imagined she could love anyone as completely and