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

be lost to Moët under any circumstances. Thérésa had acted to the best of her abilities to gain whatever she needed at Nicole’s expense, but two could play at her game and Nicole had the advantage of surprise.

She lined up the bottles and the cellar door creaked open.

‘Monsieur Moët! You came!’

‘As you see,’ he said stiffly. ‘You said you needed my help.’

‘Thérésa persuaded me to be realistic.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t manage alone any more. If your offer still stands, I would like to join you in… a business deal. I don’t like your methods, but I see now it’s impossible without you.’

‘Then Thérésa is a more remarkable woman than I thought, but we’ve been here many times before. Until you’ve signed…’

‘Let me show you a secret.’

She knew he wouldn’t resist. At the back of the cellar, she held up the light and Moët gasped. Ten neat bottles of champagne. Ten yellow labels, Veuve Clicquot, Cuvée de la Comète, the family’s anchor symbol outlined beneath the script, with the addition of a comet burned onto the cork. She was proud of the new concept of a printed label, in addition to the distinguishing mark on the cork. Moët eyed them suspiciously. He hated any break with tradition and no doubt he would think her labels disgustingly commercial.

‘Look, I have thousands more like this,’ she said, handing him a bottle. ‘Every one is the same. Not one of them will spoil. Each one uniformly free of sediment, with a mousse so lively I sourced a new bottle supplier for safety,’ she said.

He didn’t take his eye off the bottle. ‘How did you do this?’

‘This must be our secret, Jean-Rémy. I cannot realise the markets without you.’

He crossed his heart impatiently. ‘Of course, our secret.’

She showed him a vine, wooden, but not dead. ‘This is my secret.’

He took it, felt for buds, held it up to the candle and scraped the bark to check for green underneath. ‘What the hell is this dry stick?’

‘It’s a special grape varietal. The family has been developing it for centuries. It’s from Rome originally and has been grafted to make the perfect grape for Reims soil. It guarantees no sediment, the clearest wine, the best fizz, every time.’

‘Impossible!’

‘You would think so, but here is the living proof, right in front of your eyes.’

He looked at the dead wood contemptuously.

‘You know the Clicquot grand cru yard on the Grande Montagne, the one at Verzenay?’

‘Middle, east slope, one of the best. Of course I know it,’ said Moët enviously.

‘That is where we planted the new Clicquot varietal.’

‘I know those vineyards well, they’re all Pinot Noir.’

‘They look like Pinot grapes, but they’re not. We call them the Clicquot-Ponsardin grapes. François’ father Philippe gave us twenty to plant on our wedding day. All these years later, this is the result. It’s a kind of miracle.’

Moët looked at her sideways. ‘What does it have to do with me?’

‘Between us, we own enough of the best land to revolutionise production. I can give you twenty of these roots. It will take time, but we’ll leave a legacy for future generations.’

‘How could I refuse an adventure – and profit – with a beautiful woman?’

‘The east slope, your vineyard, next to mine. The soil there is perfect for them. It must be our secret.’

‘There is no one else I would rather keep one with.’

Outside, the strange sky glowered as she waved goodbye to Jean-Rémy, clutching his sack of Pinot Noir vines, fully believing this was the great Veuve Clicquot trade secret Thérésa was dangling in front of him. Her riddling innovation was safe for now. The vines were her finest ones, she comforted herself, even if the mythical Clicquot-Ponsardin vines didn’t exist. And if her exploding bottles were Monsieur Moët’s doing – although Louis was right, she’d never prove it – he deserved this, and more.

That part was relatively easy. Next, she needed to manoeuvre with a more dangerous opponent, Thérésa Tallien, before her former friend could get to Moët with the real truth of the matter. She’d learnt a lot from observing Thérésa’s intrigues over the years, seen how a mixture of desire, heartlessness and betrayal could get you everywhere. Nicole intended to play with Thérésa by her own rules from now on.

There couldn’t be a more sumptuous Madonna than Thérésa, and the harvest feast of St Rémi was observed as usual. Revolution or no, Champagne couldn’t risk any harm to their vines and everyone knew that St Rémi was watching for neglect; harvests had not been good after the revolution, apart from the glorious year of the comet. Thérésa sat next to Nicole in the Clicquot family pew, away from prying ears, but in full view of the congregation – and Thérésa never resisted an opportunity for drama.

Her solemnity was impressive, her hair demurely covered, silky strands carefully arranged to rebel beneath expensive lace. The cool cathedral air turned her skin to marble and a half-smile of adoration played around her lips as she joined the townspeople in prayer for their vines.

There was not a man in the congregation whose eyes didn’t devour her, or a woman who didn’t wish they could be her. She was their mother, their sister, their lover, their saviour, in one ethereal package. Nicole had no doubt that as they mouthed prayers to St Rémi for a good harvest in the soaring space, Thérésa was their idea of paradise.

There was only one man in the congregation who was not gazing adoringly at Thérésa. Every time Nicole looked up from prayer, Jean-Rémy was staring right at her, desperate to catch her eye. Nicole forced herself to smile back, and she had no doubt that Madame Olivier was observing closely, readying herself for the juicy gossip in the church hall afterwards.

Thérésa leant close. She smelt fresh as a meadow, musky as a cat.

‘You are more wicked than I ever imagined you capable of. Poor Jean-Rémy is bursting with excitement! Careful he doesn’t go spreading it all over