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

woman’s place is to produce strong sons and beautiful daughters for our great republic. You’re too delicate for field work, Madame Clicquot. Leave it to your husband. Enchanté.’

He sauntered off, surrounded by the committee, who were now his enthusiastic acolytes.

If you ever return, you will be drinking my champagne and thanking me for it, Nicole projected to his back.

‘Don’t mind him,’ a dark-haired woman who had been listening from behind the committee whispered in her ear. ‘A general has to be a complete arse if he’s going to win. It goes with the territory. Believe me, I know men better than anyone. I’m trying to avoid that one over there.’ She pointed to a red-faced soldier. ‘Mind if I join you? Just keep talking.’ She slumped into a chair and fanned herself. She was barefoot, a ring on every toe, with very short hair and a thin red ribbon around her neck. She held out her hand. ‘Thérésa Tallien.’

Nicole took it and introduced herself, captivated.

Thérésa Tallien – the legend! Her short hair and red ribbon was called coiffure à la victime. A close shave with the guillotine indicated good breeding in Paris and the fashion was to flaunt it. Everyone knew about Napoléon’s wife, Joséphine Bonaparte, and her friend Thérésa. Queens of the Paris salons. Thérésa had scandalously divorced her second husband, and had at least eight children by about three different men. In 1794, Thérésa and Joséphine had been jailed in a filthy cell at La Petite Force for seventeen days, waiting for the guillotine. The story went that her lover, Jean-Lambert Tallien, stabbed Robespierre to death with a Spanish dagger, a gift from Thérésa. Jean-Lambert was now a national hero for the overthrow of the guillotine’s biggest advocate. Since then, Thérésa was known as ‘Notre Dame de Thermidor’, but even murder was not enough to snare this exotic butterfly. She bored of Tallien and divorced him, setting herself free to roam around with Joséphine and Napoléon in outrageous fashions, with rings on her toes. Nicole stayed put, fascinated.

‘Do you, darling?’ Thérésa asked.

‘Do I what?’

‘Deal in men, of course. What else? Don’t think I didn’t spot you, holding those poor men in your spell.’

Nicole laughed. ‘Wine’s my trade. These men are from the tasting committee. They begrudgingly allow me to talk to them about business.’

‘Nonsense, you have them all enthralled.’

Her Spanish accent rolled the words like hot coals and she had the straightest, whitest row of teeth. She pointed to Napoléon with a long fingernail. ‘He favours Moët’s champagne. Never stops talking about the fine bubbles, the taste of France. Joséphine and I must have polished off crates of it just between the two of us. It really is the only drink a lady should consider. Which is why I drink whisky.’

Nicole spat her wine out laughing.

François appeared at her side. ‘Spitting!’ he said proudly. ‘Not content with instructing the wine committee, I hear you have pressed your superior knowledge on our illustrious leader. I hope your harsh words won’t ruin us.’

Thérésa gave him an intense stare. ‘Who’s this you’ve been hiding all evening? Do you know each other, because if not, I suggest you make sure you do.’

‘My husband, François.’ She introduced her new friend to him.

‘Oh, you’ve bagged him already. Well done, my dear, your impeccable taste clearly stretches beyond the vineyards. In that case, I’ll leave him to you.’

‘If I didn’t have to spend so much time cleaning up after my wife’s loose tongue, I’m sure I’d find the time to get to know you better, Madame Tallien.’

‘Next time I need someone to put Joséphine’s husband in his place, I’ll know where to send him. Nicole seems very keen on this wine business of yours, but I fear Napoléon has been a bit of an irritation to her plans.’

‘And mine,’ said François. ‘All our most lucrative markets abroad are closed to us.’

‘Then I will have to make up for my friend’s bad manners. I’ll introduce you, mes amours. There are crates of champagne sloshing around at every salon I go to in Paris. A vivacious country girl and a handsome husband, making their own champagne. They’ll adore you. I’ll send for you as soon as I can arrange it. That’s a promise.’

‘The Paris markets are the dream for us. We do have some contacts, but an introduction from you would be wonderful,’ smiled Nicole, slightly mesmerised by this beguiling woman. With a recommendation from the notorious, glittering Madame Tallien, their troubles could be over.

‘I break my marriage vows every now and then, any sensible girl should, but I never break a promise to friends. Now, I suggest you take your wife to the dance floor before she’s stolen away from under your nose.’

The room whirled as they danced. The prospect of introductions from the queen of Paris society would be a godsend, if they could find anything in the cellars to sell. The new hope buoyed up François, who was in wild spirits.

When Nicole was too dizzy to dance any more, they stepped outside for some air. A big orange harvest moon hung in the sky and the stars were bright and clear.

‘Let’s spend the night in the hut, my firefly. We can share my horse and Josette can watch Clémentine.’

Yes, thought Nicole. With Paris secured, why not forget their cares for a while with a night at their secret hideaway?

The horse galloped through the dusky vineyards, the moon lighting their way until they arrived at the shepherd’s hut. The room was prepared as it had been on their wedding night. All the lanterns were lit and the bed piled up with furs, the samovar bubbling and a fire in the grate.

‘You planned this!’

‘Our anniversary. Did you forget again, Babouchette? Too busy with your head in those ledgers.’

The gifts he’d given her before the ball made sense now – how could she have forgotten?

‘Shut up and kiss me.’ She closed her eyes.

‘It’s cold.’ He turned away. ‘I’ll make us a hot toddy.’

She took the glasses, disappointed.