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

the towpath past the locks. With a barge secured below the locks, hers would be the only cargo leaving this place for Amsterdam today. Thanks to the shorn-off lock-gate winch and the boat at the bottom of the lock flight that Châtelet had secured for her, Moët had absolutely no chance of doing the same.

She was glad she’d taken the precaution of packing so well that the bottles wouldn’t clang, and also writing ‘coffee’ on the crates. No matter how much money she offered, the men would know they’d be risking their liberty handling illicit champagne – better they knew nothing about it.

Straightening her back, she knocked on the port-authority door next to Moët’s barge.

The customs officer stubbed out his cigarette and straightened his cap.

‘It’s a bit early for a visit from a lady,’ he said, stepping out and closing the door behind him. ‘We open in an hour, come back then.’

‘I have information relating to that cargo,’ said Nicole, pointing to Moët’s barge.

‘Do you now?’ replied the man.

‘May I come in?’

‘Say what you’ve got to say,’ he said, staying where he was.

‘It’s a criminal matter.’

‘Is it really?’

He gestured for her to continue.

‘There’s forbidden cargo on that barge,’ she said. Through a window, she saw someone move inside the office.

‘And what would that be?’

‘Champagne,’ said Nicole. ‘Bound for Russia. You’d lose your job if it was found out, so I thought you should know.’

The man’s expression changed. ‘I see. Why don’t you step inside after all?’

Pleased, she followed him in, but he slammed the door behind her. Jean-Rémy Moët sat behind the customs desk.

‘It’s not at all safe here, my dear,’ he said, raising an eyebrow as her nostrils flared in fury. ‘I promised your father I’d bring you home safely. It seems Valentin has switched sides. And who can blame him rushing to aid such a charming damsel in distress? He’s a complicated man, but whatever heart he had was taken in the revolution, so do take care with your new friend. However, as you see, I have friends everywhere and I never rely on one single point of failure. It pays to always have a back-up plan.’

Moët and the customs man bowed to each other in satisfaction.

She turned to escape, but the customs man blocked the exit and turned the key in the lock.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demanded.

‘I’m sorry. My boat needs to be on its way before you are,’ said Moët. ‘It’s better just to calm down and let it happen. How bad can it be? You must see, this is no business for a woman. The first rule of business is that it’s for men – it’s money and power and dog-eat-dog and you’re in deep.’

‘You overbearing, deceptive, dishonest, thieving…’

‘And you expect to sell me down the river while exporting your own champagne to the promised land? The second rule of business is that you must see things from more than one viewpoint,’ said Moët, infuriatingly smug.

‘If you don’t care about me, there’s Natasha. Her mother is dying, she needs to get to her before it’s too late. Jean-Rémy, why can’t we both sell in Russia?’

‘It seems you have been doubly fooled. I helped Natasha file papers for her mother’s death years ago. She asked for my assistance in the matter when I was Mayor.’

He looked out of the window and drummed his fingers while the revelation sank in. Dear, clever Natasha had more than made up for abandoning her after François’ death now, by giving her a reason to carry on.

‘An hour or so will do it,’ Moët continued. ‘I’m sure you won’t want to come back to Reims with me, but you would be welcome. After an hour, you are free to go, but in the meantime, I must keep you safe here. One day I hope that you will see that I only act in your interests.’

‘I would rather drown here than die a death in drawing rooms.’

‘I’m afraid you have no choice. It’s the natural way of things,’ Jean-Rémy said, pressing a large gold coin into the customs officer’s palm as he left.

Nicole’s pocket watch chimed the half-hour, then the hour, as she paced the little room. There was no more money, no more chances.

Outside, harsh morning dawned – time was rushing by and each minute that passed made her burst with frustration and fury. She banged on the window, but the customs officer pulled her back and shoved her onto a chair.

‘You’re a little vixen, aren’t you? Just sit nicely, or I’ll need to tie you up.’

Men were busily hauling cargo, scrubbing boats, preparing for the day. A knot of sailors clustered round the Moët barge, unloading, no doubt, to use her barge beyond the locks. She watched in a rage of despair, but something wasn’t right. Instead of heading down the towpath past the locks, the men were running with armfuls of bottles into the fields. A man was raging at them and someone restraining him. She squinted to see more clearly and gasped. Jean-Rémy was handcuffed, held hostage by a man in a customs uniform.

‘Putain, bordel de merde. Thieving peasants! I’ll remember each and every one of your criminal faces!’

‘He’s got a worse temper than you,’ laughed the customs officer. He stood up, unlocked the door and opened it with a sweeping gesture. ‘You’re free to go,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Moët’s champagne is being distributed. We might as well – if it got to the port, it would be poured away as an illegal export.’ He handed her a white feather tied with a narrow red ribbon. ‘She said you’d understand. It seems you have friends in high places.’

How could she ever have doubted her beautiful, clever friend! Thérésa loved a riddle, but these clues were obvious. At least there was someone she could trust to get things done properly, apart from herself.

He bowed. ‘My apologies for the charade, but you were the honey for our trap. Madame Tallien arranged everything, and we’ve been waiting for