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

gentleman never reneges. This isn’t a drawing-room game, Madame, you can’t just change your mind on a whim. A woman has never run a vineyard in Reims. It’s just not how things are done. I shouldn’t have offered you extra, you’re proud of course and you don’t need it. I’ll write it out for the amount we agreed so there is never a question of obligation to me, if that is so odious to you.’ He went to his desk and hastily scratched out a new cheque. ‘Take it. I’m only thinking of you. I won’t be so generous when the vineyards fail and you can’t pay your workers. You’ll be living with debts you can never repay. Your poor parents will be wrapped up in your downfall.’

‘There will be no dramatic downfall, much as you might wish it. And I’m not reneging, I merely told you I was open to talks. My mind is made up. I’m not selling. And my parents fully support my decisions.’

‘That’s true, they have not adhered to the proper conventions in your upbringing, I have observed that in the past – no wonder you are so determined. It’s a trait unbecoming to a woman! I’ll give you more time. I’ve been protecting you from the rumours about your husband, but you should know they say the Clicquots are bad blood. I may have alluded to it before, in anger, but people talk. Stupid superstitions, but you know this town as well as I do. No one will do business with you.’

‘They have nothing else to think about,’ she snapped, incensed. ‘Don’t wait. It’s vines that are in my blood, nothing else. I’ll prove them all wrong.’

Jean-Rémy narrowed his eyes and looked at her for several long seconds. Then he spoke again, more coldly than before.

‘This is a wine town and it’s mine. When you’ve failed, come to me and I’ll buy your vineyards for the small sum they’ll be worth by that time. Until then, I’ll be watching your every foolish move. Good luck.’

Jean-Rémy lit the cheque over the candle and thrust it, flaming, at her face. It hung in the air, caught up by the heat, then dropped in ashes between them.

Thank God she’d asked the carriage to wait. She’d made an enemy of the most powerful vintner in Champagne and there was no time to lose.

It took less than a week to organise everything. Tonight was magic: inky, star-pricked, velvet, with an icy bite that kept them on the move. The stable was in darkness, the horses blinkered, even in the gloom, to stop them from being frightened as Emile fixed the carts to the fastest steeds Nicole could muster. Their hooves were shod in sackcloth as instructed. Good. All in order here.

She slipped out of the stable side-door. She didn’t need a lantern; she knew every step of the way back to the Bouzy press and cellars.

In the vineyards, the pale paths stood out against the dark vines. It would be easy to see anyone approach that way. Out in front was the hamlet, a few houses strung along the road. Plenty of places to hide, but the villagers were unlikely to wake. These people were as predictable as the sunset and sunrise, their lives tethered to nature’s rhythms.

In the cellars, the bottles calmed her nerves. She knew every one of them – had counted and noted them against the bailiff’s reckonings. She had forgotten how much each one of these quiet green chrysalises meant to her, the golden liquid inside as delicate and short-lived as a butterfly when released, but bringing pure delight while it lived. Where would each one end up? The amber ballroom in Moscow? A secret rendezvous between lovers? A wedding party under the trees by the sea, the whip of salt heightening the senses?

She ran her hands over the smooth glass wall of bottles. Some, like François, would never reach maturity. Some already had a cancer growing inside them, the sediment waiting to spoil the wine.

Fifty thousand bottles, all to be loaded tonight, under cover of darkness. Antoine, Claudine, Xavier and Natasha were packing trunks as fast and quietly as they could.

The clock struck one and she hurried over to Xavier.

‘We’ll never have it done.’

‘Takes as long as it takes,’ he said stubbornly. ‘It’s got to be right. They’ll have the lot off us if it’s not. Those Dutch customs officers are looking for any excuse to take it to the nearest whorehouse to loosen up their fancy women. They’ll pour it down their throats like piss. Go and fuss around someone else before I lose count and fuck the whole lot up for you.’

He heaved the sacks over the bottles, the nutty smell of coffee filled the air and he slammed the trunk shut.

She picked up a candle stub to inspect the inscription: Café. Pays d’origine, Reunion.

Customs would allow coffee through the blockades, even if it was closed to French wines.

‘Excuse me, Madame.’

Nicole stepped aside as a field hand hefted the trunk onto a trolley ready for loading. He looked half-starved, but handled the heavy chest as if it were empty.

Xavier held up the lantern to help him see. ‘Drop that and I’ll string you up by the balls.’

The man smiled good-naturedly. ‘I’d rather hold onto them, camarade,’ he said as he carefully lowered the trunk down.

Nicole turned to Xavier, concerned to see a stranger in their midst. ‘You haven’t introduced your friend?’

‘We needed some extra muscle and Monsieur Châtelet might look like a runt, but he’s got more strength in those arms than a bull,’ he said, grinning. ‘You don’t need to worry, I’ve worked the fields with him for years. Talks like a toff, works like a bastard. He’ll have this lot packed and loaded in the time it takes anyone else to take a piss. You asked me to get you a driver you could trust?’ Xavier slapped him on the back. ‘Solid gold.’

Monsieur Châtelet bowed. ‘At your service. Xavier’s in charge