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

hadn’t witnessed her humiliation; she’d never live it down.

‘I won’t marry him. He just wants your vineyards.’

Her mother huffed. ‘You’re too much like your father. Too much like a man, with all your talk of independence. So brutal in your assessment of what most young girls would leap at.’

‘He’s twenty years older than me. He wants to lock me up in that big house of his and keep me there to order his servants around and dress up to entertain his military friends and try to impress Napoléon.’

‘Too many opinions! People get killed for them, shouting them in the street, murdering, denouncing the church. My advice to you, Barbe-Nicole, which I know you won’t take, is to keep your opinions to yourself.’

Nicole rolled her eyes. Nobody ever used her full name, Barbe-Nicole, other than her mother, and even then only when she was truly angry. Her older sister Clémentine giggled.

‘I think he’s handsome, even if he does have grey hair,’ said Clémentine shyly.

Maman’s eyes lit up at her elder daughter’s attractive acquiescence. ‘Exactly the kind of opinion it is suitable for a girl to express. Nicolas, will you talk some sense into the girl?’

Her father took the cue (which Nicole was sure had been pre-arranged) and cleared his throat. ‘Babouchette, you can’t stay here forever and you crave freedom. You’re nineteen years old. A woman must marry to gain her freedom. His money would provide anything your heart desired.’

‘And a gilded cage to enjoy it in? I just can’t throw my life away on a man who wants a poupée, a doll, for his drawing room,’ said Nicole.

Her father suppressed a smile.

‘Nicolas! You’re encouraging her.’

Nicolas Ponsardin was a big, gruff bear, a self-made captain of industry who’d built a fortune for his family through his woollen mills and vineyards. He took his daughter’s hands. ‘You owe it to him to consider his offer, seriously and with clarity, as only you can. You would lead a comfortable life with him. He’s a good man and it’s a good match. You might not believe it, but he is also very fond of you. In fact, you might even call it love. Be practical. But in the end, your choice…’

‘She’ll always take the contrary position. She takes pleasure in it,’ Maman protested.

‘She’s a thinker, that’s all. She needs to assess the options for herself. Let her,’ said Papa.

Nicole took the opportunity to escape. What a mess. What if this was the only serious proposal of marriage she ever received? In all the books she’d read, the beauty accepts the beast or kisses the frog and is rewarded. What nonsense.

The Ponsardin family home was one of the grandest in town, with rooms no one ever went into and light pooling through a wall of French windows which spilled onto the vast gardens, but Nicole felt stifled in here. She paced across the polished chequered hall until she reached the heavy front door. Josette opened it for her, winking conspiratorially.

Out, out, out into the morning air, down the rue de la Vache back to the square. She respected her papa, but it wasn’t right. Was it possible to marry and still follow your dreams, make your own money? She’d never seen it. Husbands owned their spouses and wives had to beg or scheme for what they wanted. A visit to Antoine and Claudine, faithful old friends of the family – her mother’s dressmaker, and her father’s cellarman – would help her get her head straight. It always did.

She stopped at the boulangerie. Natasha ran it alone now. She had aged more than she deserved to since that horrible day eight years ago. Her mouth was pinched, her dark skin sallow at the cheeks, grey strands peppered her black hair and her kindness had dissolved into a weary determination.

Nevertheless, Nicole regarded Natasha with envy, mistress of all she surveyed – the highly polished counter showing off her neat trays of shiny fruit tartes, glossy religieuses, pastel-coloured macaroons, a wholesome wall of ficelles, baguettes and pains de campagne stacked in baskets, lined up smart as soldiers, ready to sell. To be doing something. Something with purpose and satisfaction.

‘Bonjour.’

‘Nicole.’ Natasha’s tired face creased into a smile. ‘You have that fire in your eyes today. Planning your own revolution?’

‘Just visiting Claudine and Antoine.’

‘Ah, bon.’

Natasha immediately picked out three plump religieuses. She knew their favourites.

‘I make these for him,’ said Natasha. Nicole knew who she meant without asking. ‘The first thing my husband taught me when I arrived from St Petersburg.’ She scattered a pinch of salt on the floor, muttered a Russian oath and looked up to the heavens.

Nicole nodded in sympathy. No need for words, but Natasha picked up on what she had hoped was her supportive, empathetic expression.

‘I take pleasure in small things. Don’t you worry about me.’

Natasha wasn’t the only one. The revolution had made widows of too many women in this town, both rich and poor. Even now, Napoléon was at war with Austria and had an insatiable appetite for despatching the souls of young men from the battlefield to heaven – or hell. Without a husband, you were a second-class citizen if you were lucky enough not to be on the streets. Not Natasha, though. She had her bakery, and hardly a day went by when Nicole didn’t drop by for a patisserie, or to pass the time of day.

She took the string handle of the neat waxed paper package: a small piece of perfection repeated a hundred times a day.

‘Merci, Natasha, bonne journée.’ She hesitated.

‘Qu’est-ce qui va pas, ma petite?’

Yes, something was very wrong. She wished she could ask Natasha’s advice about Monsieur Moët, but if she was going to refuse him, it wouldn’t be fair if others knew, even if he was arrogant enough to think he could mould her into his imaginary perfect wife.

‘Non, tout va bien. A demain!’

‘Tell me when you’re ready!’ Natasha called after her. Sometimes Nicole thought Natasha really could see right into people’s minds.

Down rue de l’Etape,