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

known. A widow with a nose for business and the best blend can help make you wealthy and provide for your families in return for loyalty.’

The man stepped out of the shadows. Moët’s foreman. No doubt here to recruit too.

‘Are you really going to turn down double wages on a promise from a woman with a failing business? Are you really going to go back to your wives and tell them what you’re doing for a woman with a reputation, that they won’t have a share in the rare bounty of this harvest? How do you know she didn’t arrange this with Etienne in advance?’

This wouldn’t be the first time she’d been doubted, or the last. She steeled herself to face him – she’d come up against his sort before. The only way to deal with him was to prove it directly to him.

‘Go behind Etienne’s bar and choose a wine for yourself and I will prove it to you. My only criterion is that it’s from Champagne.’

‘You want me to help you continue this charade? No. Men, I have my sign-up sheet here for tomorrow’s harvest. Sign up and get back to your drinks. We came here to escape from the nags and dreamers.’

A few men shuffled over, embarrassed, to sign up with Fournier.

‘Best night I’ve had in here in years,’ one man shouted. ‘Come on, if you’re so sure, choose a wine. See what she comes up with. A night with the comet.’

‘Put your money where your mouth is, Fournier. Choose a wine.’

Nicole scrutinised Fournier. Red face, cruel eyes. This man was not well-liked. Moët mistreated his workers, she heard, and Fournier was his enforcer.

‘I’ll make a bet with you,’ said Nicole. ‘Choose three wines. If I get them all, leave me to sign up whoever is willing tonight. Agree that you will not turn them away if they change their minds by tomorrow morning, or at least if their wives have changed their minds for them.’

‘Come on, Fournier,’ a man heckled. ‘Too scared to take a woman’s bet?’

Fournier stomped behind the bar, shooing Etienne away. After rummaging around, he placed a small glass of red on the counter.

Nicole tasted it. Her mind came up blank. The taste was full of sun, too full.

‘This one’s not from the region, Monsieur Fournier. It’s from the south, somewhere hot.’ She pushed the glass to him. ‘I said it must be from Champagne.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Madame.’ Fournier triumphantly held up the bottle. ‘Blondel. Vallée. No one wants to work for a swindler, Veuve Clicquot.’

‘I know that wine. It’s not the one I tasted,’ said Nicole.

‘Ah woman, thy name is vanity. I’ll put it kindly. At best, you’re mistaken. More likely, you’re lying.’

‘Who volunteers to taste from that bottle and this glass and tell me if it’s the same wine? I’ll need three people,’ said Nicole.

Fournier was rattled. ‘Will she ever stop and let us carry on with our drinks? This is a man’s place. We’ve humoured you enough, chérie, now go home to your debts. They always said there was madness in the family. Takes one to marry one.’

Three men stepped forward and one spoke.

‘We’ll taste it. Fair’s fair.’ He was one of her own, a picker. ‘Give her a chance. And no need for that kind of talk, if you don’t mind me saying, Monsieur Fournier. François Clicquot was a good man and a fair employer, as is his wife.’

Men throughout the room crossed themselves, raised a glass to the sky and toasted him.

Thank you, François.

Etienne poured water for each man to clear their palates. Each one declared that the two wines were not the same. Etienne returned, studied the wine collection. He held his hands above the counter.

‘I haven’t touched a thing. Look.’

In a dark corner, tucked away, were several dusty wine bottles. One of them had fingerprints in the dust, newly made, with the cork halfway out. It had been opened and hastily stoppered.

The picker pulled it out.

‘Bandol, Domain de L’Estagnol, Provence. Somewhere hot, like she says. Pretty low, Fournier, to cheat a woman.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

Whispers rippled around the room. The three wine tasters were the first to approach her.

‘Where do I sign?’

Nicole picked up her ledger off the bar. ‘Sign here. Six a.m. sharp tomorrow.’

They signed.

‘You won’t regret it, I promise.’

One by one, men came to sign. Not all, but enough for a good harvest if they were prepared to work long hours.

Outside, the evening was chilly. Nicole could taste the slick wet flagstones, grit and damp dust in the air. Mixed with the taste of Bandol, still lingering on her tongue, it tasted of relief. The comet was still there, tail fizzing. Good. This would be her best harvest. It had to be.

She stepped quickly into the waiting carriage, glad to be speedily whisked away. Fournier’s words would not leave her. Back to an empty house with only debts to greet her. Madness in the family. How dare he! She would be so successful that no one would ever question her, or Mentine’s legitimacy as a good catch. And she would never need another man, not a husband, a business partner or a father. Her life was entirely her own.

Chapter 20

A Widow’s Genius

September 1811

The world looked better through a bottle. Nicole held it up to the light, distorting the vines and turning everything bottle-green.

Emile sat next to her in her little courtyard office, adjacent to the presses and overlooking the vineyards. He still had gauze over his eyes, his fresh face scarred. She passed him the bottle. He weighed it in his hands and smiled.

‘Heavy, much better, Madame.’

Nicole didn’t smile back, not when he was still in pain. His mother had done him proud, against all the odds, and now this. She took the bottle back from him and remembered the yeasty smell of the explosions, the metallic taste of blood.

She patted his arm. ‘Good, I’ll agree to these ones. Thank you, Emile.’

‘Is it a good harvest day, Madame?’

Nicole took