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

on a wardrobe of tight-fitting, stifling dresses. For someone who was always in a hurry, the dresses were like vices.

Thankfully, Josette took pity on her and tied her corsets loose. And today, even Maman had to agree that her new empire-style dress made from light, loose cotton and silk suited her petite figure, so at least she could move. That was today’s victory, and no one could stop her stealing Papa’s wine manuals and reading them on the nights the moon was in her favour to teach herself, if no one else was going to. Every day, she found a way to contravene a rule without anyone noticing – it was the only thing that kept her sane until she could somehow escape the womanly constraints that had settled around her as she grew.

When she reached the crossroads and was out of sight of anyone who might tell, she undid her bonnet where the ribbon chafed under her chin, shook her hair loose from its pins and faced the sun to just breathe.

The cathedral clock struck the hour. She’d be missed if she didn’t hurry, but before turning the corner towards home, she paused at the crossroads to touch the horse’s nose, her talisman now that King Louis XVI’s statue was torn down. A champagne cork topped Joan of Arc’s sword and an empty bottle balanced in the crook of her arm. That much hadn’t changed.

‘A saint drunk in charge of a horse, tut-tut. Who would do that?’

She spun round and there was Xavier, short, stocky and suntanned, secateurs hanging from his belt for the harvest. He used the secateurs to sweep his thick black hair from his brow and stubbed his cigarette to join the others.

Nicole jerked her chin at the statue. ‘What’s this?’

‘Art.’

‘You mean Etienne chucked you out early from his bar and you took the opportunity to taunt your boss?’

‘Talking of which, there he is, sliding your way as fast as shit off a shovel.’

An imposing man advanced towards them, grey hair tamed into a wave from a strict side parting, strides oiled with the ease of the rich. Xavier made himself scarce, but it was too late for her to escape.

Monsieur Moët bowed. ‘Your parents advised this horse was a favourite of yours.’

‘He brings me luck,’ Nicole replied.

‘You’ll need it, mixing with those peasant boys, and you know you shouldn’t be out without a chaperone. It’s a good thing I’m here, n’est-ce pas? Our little secret.’

‘I don’t need to keep any secrets with you, Monsieur Moët. My parents are happy to let me walk to the square on my own,’ Nicole lied. She gave him a tight, unfriendly smile and turned to leave, but he wouldn’t go away.

‘Your eyes are better than mine, Mademoiselle Ponsardin. Is that one of my corks?’ asked Monsieur Moët, straining to see the top of the sword.

‘I’m afraid it does say Moët,’ replied Nicole, just able to see make out the capital ‘M’ from where she stood.

‘I’ll see they are punished. Was that Xavier Jumel I saw you talking to? People like him are not our kind and shouldn’t be encouraged, Mademoiselle. I’m sure you mean well, but it’s just not the order of things. They can get the wrong idea and then where would we be? Come,’ he commanded, ‘I happen to know, contrary to your suggestion, that your parents would rather you weren’t wandering around alone. It was them who sent me to get you.’

He tugged his shirtsleeve free of his jacket, twisted his crested cufflink and held his arm out for her to take.

She politely refused. This was his third visit in a week and an afternoon of endless stories about his esteemed friend and associate Napoléon stretched out ahead like a dusty journey on a featureless road.

For a man usually in a hurry, he walked painfully slowly back to the house, pointing out the property and businesses he owned along the way, as if she ought to be interested. She tore a bunch of lavender from a hedge. Bees scattered lazily.

Monsieur Moët stiffly picked a rose and gave it to her, most of the petals dropping from the plucking. She reluctantly added it to her lavender bunch, hoping no one would see.

‘You shouldn’t be fraternising with servants. What will people think? Especially now you’re of marriageable age…’

A trap she couldn’t quite name closed around her.

‘You want that, don’t you?’ he pressed.

‘I’d rather be fraternising, quite frankly, Monsieur Moët.’

‘You will change your mind.’ He fixed her with his uneven gaze, one eye assessing, the other issuing a warning. ‘You can’t stay single forever and I would hate to see you in a match that wasn’t worthy, or worse, ruin your reputation by talking to street boys. I would protect you, fund any dresses you desire, as long as they’re properly feminine. Your papa has let you run wild; however, even he agrees it’s time you joined society. I could teach you, help smooth some of those harsh edges, charming as they are. I must say, you do have some advantages. Your eyes are wide and strangely pale and so full of life. And the way the sun catches that red tinge in your fair hair makes it shine like a… a…’ He was clearly struggling, so she jammed her hat back on and tucked her hair up to save him the effort, mortified by his botched compliments. How to be kind but unencouraging?

‘I’m determined to keep my sharp edges, Monsieur Moët. I like this dress, it’s light and easy and I can run in it. And I should tell you, I really am unteachable – the nuns at the convent tried valiantly, but to no avail, I’m afraid.’

From his smug look, she was clearly meant to be grateful for his veiled proposal. Maman and Papa must have given him permission, without a word to her.

‘Of course, you need time to think, as tradition dictates,’ Monsieur Moët said confidently.

They walked in awkward silence to the house. Thank God Xavier