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

soldiers caught Xavier before he could fall and gently sat him on the ground. ‘And you! You’re not soldiers, you’re thieves! Get out of my sight before I court-martial you. This is a peaceful occupation. A liberation, not a backstreet brawl. If you want a drink, you buy. Go, now. I will bring liquor back to the camp for anyone who wasn’t involved in this.’

A French accent, perfect, almost.

‘Madame, I am so, so sorry for this. Are you all right?’

Her head hurt; no words came.

He gave instructions to two of his men to get Xavier home and stay with him until the doctor arrived, then carried a table and two chairs from the café opposite and set them up outside the cellar door. He took her arm and she flinched away, afraid.

‘Please, you are hurt. Those men will be locked up; let me help. Sit.’

‘I can’t leave until it’s bricked up,’ she slurred.

‘Understandable – of course not. Sit.’

She slumped onto the chair, cradled her head on the table and tried to gather her thoughts. Perfect French, almost. The man from the café in Paris, the Russian officer. The third time he had appeared.

‘Don’t you dare go a step further. Everything I’ve ever worked for is in there.’

‘I have no intention of doing so. I’m just going to sit here with you until you’re well enough to move. May I?’

He parted her hair and touched where it hurt; she winced. His fingers came away covered in blood.

‘Let’s get you home.’

‘I can’t. I have to stay.’

‘Shh, you’ll make it worse. Alright. We’ll sit here for a while.’

He gave her his handkerchief.

‘Press, hard.’

She sat up woozily and did as she was told. He put his jacket around her shoulders. It smelt of woodsmoke.

‘I’ll have my men stand guard. Try to trust us. It won’t happen again.’

She blinked. He came into focus and she scrutinised his gaze for honesty.

‘I have to stay. I can’t leave it to anyone else, no one cares as much as I do, why should they? This is what happens when I’m not here.’

‘I understand; please don’t worry any more. We have a lot to prove before you can trust us. I’ll wait here with you.’

A dog barked. Someone coughed. The cathedral clock struck the half-hour. Stars watched and her pulse slowed.

‘So you’re the famous veuve. I have toasted you, in a different life.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘Veuve Clicquot. Of Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie. It’s written over the door and I’m guessing you wouldn’t be defending it alone with your head bleeding if it wasn’t yours. It’s the kind of commitment I imagine made you famous for your beautiful wines. Before this war made us enemies of the French, drinking your vin mousseux was a sign of immaculate taste. That was a million years ago.’

‘My whole life is in those bottles.’

‘Is it just you and them against the world?’

‘That’s how it feels sometimes.’

‘Are you ready to go now? I promise my men will keep it safe…’

‘I can’t take that risk. I’ll survive, really.’

‘You need to survive beyond just tonight. Where is your beautiful daughter? Yes, Madame, of course I remember you from the café in Paris. Do you have someone who can look after you?’

‘I want to stay. I need to think. You should go and get some sleep. And thank you for averting disaster.’

‘I’ll wait with you.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I clearly do. I only left you for a day and look what happened!’

Laughing and crying at the same time hurt. In her delirium, she couldn’t decide if she was happy or sad. Or, like she’d always told Mentine, both at the same time. She knew what would bring her back to herself.

‘Do you want to taste some?’

‘Wine? I thought it was only for French lips.’

‘My comet wine will give me strength, remind me why I’m sitting out here in the cold with a Russian officer who’s occupying my town while I try to defend what’s mine.’

She reached inside the door, to the safe where Louis kept his sample wines for passing buyers, one of every vintage. She knew which bottle just by touch: the one on the right-hand side was always the best. She took two clean glasses off the shelf above. She put the lamp in the middle of the table, set out the glasses and poured. A starlit vineyard, hot summer, a fizzing tail mellowing the Pinot grapes, the south-east-facing yard at Avenay-Val-d’Or to absorb just the right number of golden rays. It was enough to forget the soldiers who’d been here just moments ago, the danger she and Xavier had been in.

He rolled it around the glass, studied the viscosity – the ‘legs’– breathed it through his mouth and nose and raised it to his lips in a surprisingly delicate gesture for the size of his hands.

‘Of all the grapes, a Pinot communicates the taste of the terroir the best. It is unmistakably from here,’ he said.

Nicole chinked glasses with him.

‘Cherry, raspberry, caramel.’

‘Roses, plum, violets.’

He took another sip and smiled. ‘Those too. What’s your first name? You’re not my idea of a wine widow. I was expecting a fierce matron, counting her francs on the surface of a barrel in grubby fingerless gloves.’

‘If things carry on like this, you won’t be far off the truth, and I won’t be able to afford even the gloves. Nicole.’

‘That sounds more like it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Alexei. Well, Nicole, I thank you for your delicious wine, but you really should let me take you home. I have a cart, with blankets…’

‘I’m not good at taking orders from anyone. Even kind men who know about wine. I told you, I’m staying put ’til morning, and once I’ve made my mind up…’

‘As you wish.’ He took another sip. ‘You have some well-placed south-east vineyards in your considerable collection, Veuve Clicquot?’

His eyes were dark and bitter, like her favourite chocolate.

‘Right again. How do you know so much about wine?’

‘Another life. Tell me about the comet. Was it 1811? It passed