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

‘I got here early to get the best religieuses. Where is everything?’

Natasha stared at her darkly. ‘You really haven’t been anywhere, have you? There’s a war on. The only thing I have are these miches.’

Nicole stared at the solid brown loaves on the bare counter, like clods of sodden earth.

‘What are you living on? Nettles and blackberries?’

‘I’m fine, really. Happy, in fact, with my grapes. I am not what you need to be worrying about. How are you coping with nothing to sell?’

Natasha sniffed. ‘And vice versa. You deal with your business, I’ll deal with mine. I don’t need anyone fussing or worrying over me. At least I haven’t sold the most precious thing my husband gave me.’

Nicole’s heart lurched. Her firefly necklace. It was three years ago now that she had pawned it. ‘Don’t! He wouldn’t have wanted me to give up on the business and I needed money.’

‘I know,’ said Natasha more gently. ‘I just wanted you to know that I knew, and I am looking out for your interests, even when you stay away from me.’

‘Is there nothing I can hide from you?’

Natasha folded her arms. ‘Nothing. I have many more links in this city than you imagine for a poor old bakery widow. Monsieur Nadalié, the pawnbroker, has been a client for years.’

‘A client?’

‘The people who visit him are desperate. They need a little good news, and I give it to the people he refers to me. They believe that I can see into their future. I find whatever elements of comfort for them I can. There’s always something good to come, even if there’s bad, too. He told me about your transaction. Well, I suppose it has kept you in vineyards for another few years, but for shame.’ Natasha tutted and muttered something under her breath.

Nicole was so choked remembering the moment François gave it to her, she couldn’t respond. This was why she avoided company. Too painful. Better just to keep going with the business.

The door swung wide open and a child fell in through the door. Ginger curls, brown eyes, chubby cheeks like a choux bun. The boy ran towards her and hid behind her skirts, held on tight. With that hair, he could only be Louis’ son. Nicole froze, avoiding Natasha’s sharp eyes.

A girl of no more than nineteen or twenty came rushing after him, flustered. ‘Pas si vite, Misha! Arrête!’ Her accent was similar to Natasha’s. Black hair, pulled back, strands escaping to frame dark skin and large brown eyes, rosebud lips. Big hands, thought Nicole, as Louis had told her. He hadn’t told her that she was so young and pretty. The girl panicked when she couldn’t see her son. ‘Misha?’

Natasha pointed behind Nicole. A nettle bite of envy pricked her neck.

The girl curtsied. ‘So sorry.’

She prised Misha from behind her skirts as Louis stood in the doorway, with a look of – what? Panic, sympathy – in his warm eyes.

He scooped Misha into his arms, ruffled his curls. ‘I have told you a million times, you are not to run off.’

The boy curled into him, giggling, and Louis was won over.

‘Let me introduce you to my errant son.’ He took Misha’s pudgy hand and waved it to her and she smiled and waved back. ‘And this is my wife, Marta.’

Marta looked at her proudly, and proprietorially linked Louis’ arm.

Nicole kissed her on both cheeks, noting the cool reluctance on Marta’s part.

‘Well, Natasha. Have you managed to work your wonders?’ said Louis, too brightly.

Natasha blushed. ‘Of course, anything for my little Russian boy. S dnem rozhdeniya. Happy birthday.’ Natasha pinched the boy’s cheek and winked at Marta. From the kitchen, she brought out a millefeuille the size of a cauldron pot, topped with hedgerow fruits.

‘How on earth did you come up with that when all you have to sell are those loaves?’ asked Nicole.

Natasha tapped her nose. ‘You are not the only resourceful woman around here.’

‘It’s a masterpiece!’ said Louis. He kissed Natasha on both cheeks.

Marta said nothing, noted Nicole, a blushing, timid little thing. Natasha and Marta exchanged some words in Russian, and when Louis joined in with broken Russian, she felt sick with loneliness. She left with a feeble goodbye, berating herself for caring.

The florist only had a few straggly geraniums to sell, so she plumped for cherries from the épicerie. They would complement the blackberry of the Merlot she planned to share with Thérésa. Her outrageous friend always chased away her cares, if only momentarily. She put everything in her basket, and hurried to the mansion on rue de la Vache.

‘Ma belle, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Come and sit here.’

The maid showed her into Thérésa’s orangery, steamy with exotic plants and orange trees. Thérésa lounged in a see-through dress, her skin dewy in the heat of the glass room.

Nicole kissed her and settled opposite her, dazzled.

‘I’ve been waiting with bated breath for you all morning. I have had quite the hideous time in Paris. People can be so cruel.’

‘Real trouble this time?’ asked Nicole.

Thérésa blinked. ‘Those grey eyes could bore holes in stone.’

They held hands and giggled.

‘You’re right, I’m sorry to say.’ Thérésa stood. ‘Don’t move a muscle, I have something to show you.’

Thérésa glided over to a box so jewel-encrusted it was almost grotesque, the size of a large jewellery case. Nicole imagined the spice of the huge Indian rubies, the damp crevice where the inky blue sapphires once hid, the brown African river that had smoothed the emeralds.

‘Promise not to be shocked?’

‘I can never keep that promise with you,’ said Nicole.

‘At least, promise not to judge me?’

‘That I can promise.’

Thérésa took out a necklace and put it on.

‘Come,’ Thérésa said. ‘Take a closer look.’

It was a miniature portrait necklace, enamelled in Russian reds, greens and blues. The picture was clearly of the Russian tsar, Alexander I, side by side with a beautiful woman who was definitely not the empress, his wife. Nicole studied it closer. Whoever had