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

realise she had wanted. Foolish of her to imagine she would be lucky enough to ever love again. Her place was here, at the vineyard, with François’ shadow beside her. She resolved never to show him her regret.

She stood up, brushed her hands off and said briskly, ‘You did the right thing.’

‘Not by you, though. I wanted to pretend. That week watching over you will have to last me a lifetime.’

‘Don’t even speak of it, Louis, it’s impossible,’ she said, blinking away a threatening tear and striding towards the press. ‘If you have mouths to feed, you’d better get to work. Your first child will be born in the year of the best harvest we’ll see in our lifetime. The year of the comet. We’ll never forget it.’

She knew what she had to do next. There could be no wine without workers, and she had a business to run.

Chapter 19

The Taste of the Terroir

September 1811

Etienne’s bar was always packed at harvest time, with men hunched over their pastis and beers after a day in the fields. Strangers wolf-whistled. Familiar faces avoided Nicole’s eye, or sulked at the audacity of her entering their refuge.

Etienne came to the rescue, bustling out from behind the bar, wiping his face on his apron and kissing a welcome.

‘I have a bottle of your Bouzy behind the counter. Will you join me?’

‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

Her barouche was waiting outside, a safety precaution in case her plan went awry. It was never going to be easy walking into a bar full of men, and she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to do this, but she had to act.

A hush descended as she pulled herself up onto the bar stool. Etienne passed the wine across the counter. She sipped and rolled it around her tongue: a red-brick vineyard wall and rainy summer.

‘Villers-Allerand, north-facing slope, 1808. Pinot Noir. Hail in May, hot summer, then rain at harvest time. The harvest was small, but these were our best grapes.’

Etienne ran his thumb across the label and squinted. ‘Very good, but it’s your own,’ he said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out another, a white this time, and a clean glass. A couple of field hands next to her turned to look, elbows on the counter. Etienne showed them the label, concealing it from her.

Nicole breathed it in and swilled it around her mouth, spat into the bowl Etienne held out and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Almond, brioche, a touch of metal. Vintage Ruinart Côte des Blancs, his little vineyard right in the centre, the one he likes to patrol with the Mayor.’ A few appreciative sniggers bubbled up. ‘1805…’

The year that wouldn’t go away, the year François died. An easy harvest to remember.

Etienne discreetly studied the tasting ticket tied to the bottle. His eyes widened as he showed it to the small crowd that was gathering. ‘Spot on, Madame Clicquot.’

‘Bring out a sparkling next – your best. Half a glass for me, and the rest for the gentlemen at the bar. Open another if it doesn’t go far enough.’

Most refused it and crossed themselves, but a few accepted and raised their glasses in a toast. The men solemnly tasted the champagne and whispered their tasting notes to one another. It was a serious business, tasting champagne. One glass was worth more than they earned in a week.

The comet was fizzing outside, like the cordons of bubbles in her glass. She swirled a mouthful.

‘The Pinot is from the Aube. The Meunier from the Vallée gives quite a youthful exuberance and the Chardonnay provides the creamy backbone. The Chardonnay can only be from the Clos du Mesnil. Which means, cher Etienne, that I’m disappointed in you.’

‘I’ve just served you my finest champagne,’ he said.

‘Exactly. I’m more than disappointed that you consider your finest champagne to be from that second-rate vintner Moët. However, I must admit that his 1802 vintage was very good.’

This turned a few more heads, and some grudgingly appreciative glances.

‘Correct again, to the last grape,’ declared Etienne.

She was a pariah, but who could resist the gossip? She had the attention of the entire bar room now.

‘There is no taste, no grape, no wine that I couldn’t pinpoint almost to the vine in this region. I grew up here, I taste and feel it. I hear things too. You think I’m a pitiable, widowed woman, playing at making wine in memory of my husband. Perhaps that’s true, in part. But I know my vines, understand the press, the alchemy of the blend and I know you all understand that, too. You grew up here, like me, and it’s in our blood.

‘I make the best champagne and wines in Reims and I want to persuade you to come with me. You all know I have had setbacks. Who hasn’t? I know it’s the talk of the town. I can’t pay you what Moët and the others are promising for this harvest, but every man and woman who harvests my vines this year will be rewarded, I guarantee it. See it as an investment in your future.’

‘It’s a set-up with Etienne!’ shouted a man from the shadows at the back. ‘She’s desperate. What kind of brazen woman would come in here, trying to recruit for a failing business, especially with her background?’

Nicole couldn’t make out who it was in the gloom of the bar.

‘You are correct, Monsieur. I am desperate. This could be the best harvest any of us will see in our lifetime and I don’t intend to let it pass me by. I am also offering everyone here an opportunity they won’t regret. You have all seen the comet?’

Some murmured and nodded, some crossed themselves.

‘Unusual things do happen. Take the comet as a sign that the world can turn upside down. A great, unbidden star with a tail can hang in our skies for months on end with no explanation, bringing with it the best harvest we have ever