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

When you are recovered, perhaps you could give your biggest buyer a tour of the vineyards?

Sincerely, Alexei

‘What is it, Maman? A love letter?’ Mentine teased.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s payment from the Russian army for everything they’ve looted from the cellars. Quite right too.’

‘I told you, luck from the east,’ smiled Natasha.

‘Dull,’ scowled Mentine.

Nicole endured three more nights in that room, but as soon as she was recovered from the blow to her head, she arranged to move to the press house at Bouzy. There was nowhere else she wanted to be. It was spring, the vines were sprouting acid green leaves, the field hands were out planting, and last year’s blends were ready for bottling. Stocks needed building up again and there was no time to waste.

April was usually the time they’d ship the mature wines, packing off her precious babies ready for their next adventure, with Louis at the helm. Not this year. Nothing was going anywhere. Trade was eternally dead, shipping ports still closed to French exports. It was difficult to see how things could continue, but every time she looked out of the window and saw the vines growing afresh, hope sprang up again. Another year or two, and then perhaps things would be back to normal. Until then, hard work, and a little glimmer of hope with Alexei’s promised tour. At least he was buying.

The press yard was covered in milkweed. The place ran without her, but it was looking neglected. She would stay here until she saw off hundreds of carts loaded with bottles again, if it took years. She bent down and tugged at the weeds. Might as well start somewhere.

‘Haven’t you got someone who can do that for you?’

A perfect French accent, almost.

‘Ah, my biggest buyer. You’re ready for your tour?’

‘I’ve thought of nothing else since I tasted that Pinot.’

‘Once you’ve tasted the terroir, you never forget it.’

‘Is this where you sleep, out here?’

‘Funny.’

‘Which way for the tour?’

‘Follow me. We’ll start with the low-lying vineyards close by, then I’ll show you the grand cru sites, and on to the slopes where we grow the Pinot. We’ll walk, rather than take horses; you see much more that way.’

The air was charged, larks hovered and vine tendrils wound their fingers around the training poles, a firm foundation for the grapes to grow. Tight buds waited to bloom on the roses and ladybirds busied themselves, keeping them free of pests. There was something about being with Alexei that made sun shine brighter than she could remember in a long time.

As they walked together in easy silence, Nicole found herself drawn to studying him when he was distracted by a varietal or planting method. He was broad-shouldered, with thick black curls and his dark, pitted skin gave him a rugged air, at odds with his neat officer’s uniform. He was authoritative and confident, but his glittering black eyes had a kind of hurt behind them which Nicole couldn’t fathom.

‘We have 390 hectares in total and we are lucky, the majority are grands crus or premier crus,’ Nicole told him.

‘And the best vineyards are on the east side, with shallow soil?’

‘You still haven’t told me how you know so much about wine.’

‘I find the deeper the knowledge, the greater the pleasure. I enjoy learning about wine, and you.’

Something inside her leapt at his words.

‘They’re not really my vineyards, they own me. I’m completely dependent on their whim. There are bad years and good years and I have absolutely no control, I can only react with the knowledge I’ve gained. It’s a collective knowledge, gathered over centuries by thousands of people who’ve worked the land, and I intend to contribute as much as I can while I’m alive.’

She thought of her riddling tables, still her secret for now, to gain a competitive advantage. But if and when the secret was out, it would revolutionise the production of vins mousseux across the world.

By the time they reached Verzenay, the sun was high in the sky and it was unusually warm for this early in the year. As arranged, the table and chairs were set up under the old chestnut tree, a crisp white tablecloth and a bottle of her best Sauvignon, paired with chévre, goat’s cheese, the ideal partner.

‘The least I could do for the first major buyer this spring. The war has killed trade, especially to Russia. I never imagined Russia would actually come to me.’

‘I’m honoured.’

They took their seats, and Nicole was glad she’d left her hair loose and worn her favourite dress on this spring day. She liked how the pale blue-grey silk picked out her eyes and she hoped that Alexei would notice, too. It occurred to her that it was the first time she could remember that she, not Josette, had decided what she’d wear that day. She threw her riding habit on the back of the chair to feel the balmy air on her shoulders and smiled.

‘Don’t be. I’m totally mercenary. If you like this Sauvignon, you might be inclined to another crate. As things stand, you’re my only market.’

Condensation on the bottle created hundreds of droplets of sunlight. Cut grass, lemon and gooseberries complemented the tang of the goat’s cheese on her tongue. Candles of pink blossom weighed the branches and the birds celebrated the end of the war.

Alexei took a sip. ‘And I intend to be a good market. Talk me through this one.’ When he smiled, the look of hurt disappeared momentarily.

‘It’s a fine balance. These vines bud late but ripen early, so we plant them away from the other vines, right here in this vineyard. When they’re ready, we pick them early in the morning to keep them fresh.’

She scooped up some chalky earth from around a vine, freshly composted with fumure.

‘Smell this. Can’t you taste it in the wine?’

‘I can, it’s fresh and mineral. Does everyone here taste of this earth?’

At this moment, it was exactly how she felt she’d taste.

‘This one’s from last year. Sauvignon doesn’t