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

taken indiscriminately, and everyone in this room had suffered.

The room spun and silk dresses blurred, Louis’ arms tight around her. He whirled her through the tall doors into a freezing garden. François. The last night they had spent together they had danced like this.

Louis touched her hair. ‘I’ve never seen it like this.’

She held his gaze, and wished that things were different… but she had to tell him about her negotiations with Moët. She owed him that much.

‘I’m thinking of giving up the vineyards. I’ve offered them to Jean-Rémy and we’re discussing terms.’

‘You can’t! Not yet! You just need time. You haven’t concluded the deal?’

‘Not yet, but the vineyards were François’ dream, not mine. I just don’t have the heart any more, Mentine is suffering and I don’t need to do it for the money.’

‘François would never have allowed it. It would break his heart! I won’t allow it,’ he said sternly.

‘I’ve already begun the negotiations, Louis.’

‘François would haunt me if I didn’t stop you. I know the last letter I wrote was full of doom and gloom, but I had only just arrived and it’s true, things aren’t what they were. The country is suffering from the war, just as we are. But after introductions from my network of contacts, it’s clear there is still a vast echelon of rich with the means to buy, and they are crazy for French champagne. The fact that it’s in short supply just makes it even more sought after. This ball is nothing compared to the luxuries of Moscow and St Petersburg. Don’t forget that they still have an aristocracy there and their wealth is beyond imagining – there is no other representative who knows them like I do. Things will change, the war won’t last forever. We can’t give up. If you work your magic at the vineyards with your beautiful blends, you can leave the rest to me.’

‘But your letter? We lost everything.’

‘And grapes stop growing on the vines? Come on, it was just a setback. You of all people surely thought that?’

‘I have thought nothing since he died.’

‘He put everything he had into those vineyards. He put his life into them and into you. And you’re thinking of signing them over to Moët? We can’t let this happen.’

‘There is no we. And no one would listen to a woman running a vineyard. Who would do business with me?’

‘You’re not just any woman. You are Nicole Clicquot. There is a tradition in Champagne of entrepreneurial widows. Family business is in the region’s blood. Remember Widow Blanc who ran the depository in Paris? No one argued with her. And Widow Robert who supplies your barrel wines? Fierce! If I was in trouble on a battlefield, I’d choose her to hide behind.’

‘They don’t have independent means. They’ve been successful because they had to do it. I don’t. Mentine and I are well provided for by my parents. But it’s work or the workhouse for those women.’

‘It’s work or slow death for you. Are you really going to retire quietly into black dresses and veils, or give yourself to a pompous arse who wants you for your name? If they have never worked with you, they can never appreciate you.’

‘I’m too tired to do it on my own, Louis. And scared,’ she confessed for the first time.

‘Then do it for François. You owe it to him.’

‘I paid my debt in tears.’

‘Tears are no use to anyone, Babouchette. François lived for those vineyards, and for you and Mentine. Do you think he’d be happy to see you locked up in a big house? His daughter pushed aside in a new marriage, a new man in charge of his lands, or worse, Moët? There’s gold in that ballroom, waiting to buy your champagne.’ He picked a flaming torch from its stand and drew letters in the night sky. ‘Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie. Pretend, just for tonight.’

‘I’m getting too used to being called a veuve, a widow. But it does give the company name a certain cachet, at least.’

She looked at Louis, passion burning in his eyes. She realised he loved their business as much as François had. The glittering ballroom was ablaze, filled with life and possibilities. What was she going to do when Thérésa tired of her and found another plaything, as she surely would? Go back to her lonely study, stare at the old ledgers she had left behind and wait for inspiration? She hadn’t yet concluded her negotiations with Moët. In fact, she’d dragged her feet, despite his many communications with her on the subject since she’d reached Paris.

‘Just tonight, to see how it feels,’ she agreed. ‘No promises, but there is still some stock which would go for nothing if I did sell to Moët, and I’d much rather see it appreciated in crystal goblets at a soirée in Paris than rotting in a Moët warehouse.’

Louis clapped his hands and beamed. ‘That’s the spirit! We can make it work, I promise. Your name will be the talk of the ballrooms of Russia!’

‘No promises, I said, but let’s go in then and talk to these painted dolls. Which one do we start with?’

‘See the lady with the chestnut hair and the diamond barrette? She is Madame Champs-Ricard, the richest widow in Paris. We’ll start with her. I am sure she’ll be sympathetic to your cause, and everyone here is on the lookout for new blood. Watch me and learn.’

Nicole linked arms with him and went back in. Veuve Clicquot, a woman in command of this ballroom, herself, and a burgeoning wine empire, with her trusty and charming salesman at her side. François would delight at the sheer fun and daring of it all.

Chapter 7

The Parisienne

December 1805

Republican date: Nivôse, year XIV

New Year’s Eve morning. Only one more day until this horrible year was over. Nicole propped herself up on her pillows, fluffy as marshmallows. She pulled the tangle of linen sheets and cashmere blankets to her chin, pushed her feet to