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

his arm and led him outside. ‘The workers are already out.’

‘I can hear them!’

‘It’s perfect. You know how the early-morning mist can cling to the vines yet the sky above is blue and crystal clear? It’s one of those mornings.’

‘The grapes’ll stay plump and juicy for the presses with the moisture.’

‘You know more than I do and you’re half my age!’

He puffed up the way he used to when he was delivering messages on horseback. ‘I’ve grown up with it, Madame. At least until now.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘And you’ll do it for the rest of your life while you’re working for me.’

Emile squeezed back.

The sun was so low that it was brick orange, bathing the fields in light. Her comet workers – as she now called them – had turned up at six o’clock sharp, as requested. They had all kept to their word and not one of them had reneged. What a glorious day! The comet was visible in the sky, even in the daytime, and the autumn morning was delicious, like blackberry jam and croissants.

Nicole helped Emile to the vines. His mother Marie was a familiar sight now, working at the land harder than ever, even though Nicole had paid them enough to support themselves without having to. She guided her son’s hand to the donkey reins. His job was to lead the donkey under her instruction, to gather the grapes.

Antoine was there, still signing a queue of workers and Mademoiselle Var from the secret tasting committee was running a little crèche for the children of the women who needed work. In these hard times, even grandparents were out in the field.

Her parents rode by to offer solidarity, Papa nodding proudly to her at the sight of all this industry.

Nicole turned back, down the chalk path, towards her ledgers, which would not please her, she knew. Any other harvest, she would be out there, tasting grapes, imagining the blend.

Louis arrived for his shift, bouncing towards her, all energy and enthusiasm.

‘Audacity, sauvage. How did you get so much of it?’

‘Good morning, Louis.’

‘You persuaded these men to work for half what Moët’s offering. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘They’re country people, they’re used to planting a seed and waiting for their reward.’

‘I thought I was the one with the gift of the gab, but this eclipses anything I might have attempted.’

‘I had to do it. I can’t let Moët beat me after all he’s done. It’s a special year, I can feel it. I know you think I’m a superstitious peasant and you’re right. This harvest will make us our fortune, the comet has brought a change in the air, and they feel it too. You know they’re calling it Napoléon’s comet? The war will end, we’ll lay this down, and in time, it will bring us all the luck we need.’

‘They know you’re one of them at heart,’ said Louis.

‘How’s Miss Rhinewald?’

‘Mrs Bohne, you mean. She’s well. Not long to go until the baby.’

‘I’ll still never forgive you for not inviting me to the wedding.’

‘How could I let you outshine the bride?’ He searched her eyes for her response.

‘Don’t talk to me like that, we both made our choices. I am married to my land and I’m happy.’ It could be true, on the good days, she thought.

‘You should have someone to share it all with.’

‘I’m sharing it with you, in my own way.’ If she didn’t change the subject now, she wouldn’t be able to account for her actions. She pressed on, ‘I’ve been working on an idea I’d like you to see.’

‘Haven’t you had enough of those for one week?’

‘Don’t tease me, this is serious. It’s a way of making Veuve Clicquot champagne the clearest, most effervescent on the market. Absolute clarity for every bottle and in record time.’

‘If you’ve done that, it’s a miracle. I’d be rich if I had a franc for every cellarman who says he can produce a flawless batch of fizz every time. They are always proved wrong. It hasn’t been solved in thousands of years. It would certainly make my job easier if I didn’t have to discount for cloudy bottles in every consignment. And it would nearly kill Moët if you succeeded! Do you ever stop?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

He held her gaze, so she quickly turned and paced back to her office. Life was complicated – and lonely – enough. Her little Mentine would be home from her Paris boarding school at Christmas and the two of them were a family, however small. Eleven years old now, her little rosebud growing into a rose. In looks, Mentine was more like her aunt than Nicole – fair, tall, conventionally pretty, all milk, roses and almonds. But her joie de vivre, love of poetry and social justice were so like François at his best, and she was becoming a delightful companion.

Nicole opened her ledgers and her head was so deep in her books that she didn’t hear the door open. At first, she thought she was seeing things. Standing there, cool and glamorous and beautiful as ever was Thérésa. Nicole collapsed into her friend’s arms.

‘You nearly scared me to death. How do you do that, sneak up anywhere you please?’

‘Come here, no need for tears.’ Thérésa dried her cheeks with her dress. ‘I rescued your charming salesman and sent him back to you. Where is he? How could he leave you on your own like this?’

‘He’s at home with his pregnant wife.’

‘How careless of you to let him slip through your fingers. Really, I don’t understand why you don’t make use of the opportunities widowhood offers at such a young age.’

Nicole laughed and shook her head.

‘That’s better, now stop being so serious. Well, more fool you, he was in love with you once. I suppose you feel you still have to work for your living?’

‘You know it’s what keeps me alive, Thérésa. You deal in men, I in bottles.’

‘You are fooling yourself if you think that. You have every man here