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

fiercely as she did her darling Mentine. François looked on from the terrace, waving a letter. She picked a piece of lavender, remembered the day Moët had proposed, and luxuriated in her choices.

‘Let’s go and see what Papa is doing.’ They set off, holding hands. ‘You can ask him all about our trip to Russia.’

‘Are we going now?’

‘Not now, but soon, Mentine. Can you remember how old you are?’

‘Five.’

‘That makes it seven years since he promised me, on our wedding night. In Russia we’ll tuck you up in furs and take you on sleigh rides, show you the palaces and towers topped with blue and gold onions.’

‘You can’t get blue and gold onions, silly!’

‘You can in Russia.’

François put Mentine on his knee, ruffling her strawberry curls and passed the letter to Nicole, with a trembling hand.

Moscow is a disaster. It’s rotten to the core, and bad faith is the order of the day. There are at least three people to bribe for every sale and no profits to be made whatsoever in this glittering hellhole. No wonder the palaces are made of gold and amber; all the money is kept for a privileged few. The excess of luxury means that brokers like me, after all costs are deducted, gain nothing. Foreign companies are seen as nanny goats ready for milking. Even if I do secure orders, it is unlikely we will ever get paid. I am sorry, my friend, to write such bad news, especially in a year where the harvest promises no hope for the coming years.

Louis

Nicole slumped on the chair next to François. Sending Louis to Russia had been a mistake. Napoléon’s advance across Europe was voracious. Britain and Russia were now allies against the French, and Louis would be caught up in it all. Their sunlit garden was a long way away, but the endless war wouldn’t leave them alone.

‘He must stay and keep trying. If anyone can do it, he can. He’s defied the odds a million times and the only alternative is to sell everything up to Moët. You know he’d pay over the odds for anything we’d sell him, he’s so desperate to push us out of the business,’ said François, his angular face pale and delicate as glass, even in the hot sun.

She would recall Louis immediately, without telling François. Their friend, the man who could charm his way out of any sticky situation, was clearly in danger and she refused to risk his life. England and Russia, their biggest markets, would do anything to thwart France and in particular the trade of one of its proudest exports: champagne. The very thing that was their lifeblood was becoming a casualty of war. She worried François was becoming one, too.

They had packed Louis off with such hope, riding a wave of stellar sales in Prussia and Austria.

‘Forget London,’ François had urged, his blue-green eyes glittering, ‘and those pasty-faced English. There’s a fortune for us in Russia. The palaces are dripping with gold.’

Louis had ridden off wearing his wolfskin coat and a rogue’s grin, with seventy-five thousand bottles of their finest vintages, pretty much all the stock they had.

‘Papa. Are there really blue and gold onions in Russia?’ Clémentine asked excitedly.

‘Of course! And orange potatoes and pink peas. Go and find Josette for your lunch. I need to talk to Maman.’ He waved. ‘I love you, je t’aime!’

‘Moi aussi, Papa.’

‘Never forget it!’

But Mentine was already skipping to the door.

‘We’re not going to Russia, I’m sorry,’ said François.

‘What for?’

‘I promised to take you. I promised to look after you. You should have taken Moët’s offer. Those English are eating out of the palm of his hand and Napoléon will be guzzling Moët’s champagne at his ball tonight.’

Nicole shook her head. ‘Would Moët have made me laugh? Would he have taken me swimming in the lake, or let me have a hand in his precious vineyards? Don’t consign me to hell with him. I wanted you then, and I want you now.’

He looked at her in despair. ‘The vineyards are hell now, Babouchette. There’s nothing we can do. The grapes are withered like raisins before we’ve even had a chance to pick them. Louis took all we had with him and half the champagne stock was cloudy when it arrived. It was a gamble and you can’t gamble with nature. It’s beaten us. I should never have sent everything.’

Cloudy champagne. Every producer’s curse, caused by sediment. It took months of labour to turn bottles in the sand in an attempt to coax out the sediment caused by the yeast, which was essential to the taste and second fermentation, but which left their beautiful creations bleu, cloudy. Thousands of bottles and thousands of hours of labour. They’d tried everything, including releasing the sediment by transversage, pouring the clear wine from one bottle to the other once the sediment was released, but at the expense of the all-important fizz. She shuddered at the memory of the time she’d bought a ‘clarifier’ product from the barrel-supplier, and almost killed one of her top tasters with the poisonous stuff. In that, their business was no different to anyone else’s, but the person who could solve the sediment conundrum with no loss of fizz would be rich, that much was certain.

His spine protruded through his thin jacket. François’ moods swung with the highs and lows of the business and now, he was dangerously low.

It was then that Nicole made a pact with herself, just as binding as the one she made the day of the revolution when she promised to build her own wealth and to use her power for good. This second one was for François. She didn’t know how, or when, but she would solve the sediment conundrum. It would make them rich and successful, but most of all, the advantage over their competitors would be such that François would never need to worry about their business again.

‘We’ll weather one bad harvest,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Of course we will. It’s