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

winter. And summer in a classroom was torture when I knew the vines were flowering, followed by budburst, then working into the night by a bright June moon. If you’re happy to put in a bit of hard graft, you’ll be hooked, I promise.’

Back to the house for embroidery and marriage wrangles, or bouncing down the baked roads to the vineyards to be amongst the workers with this intriguing man? It was impossible to resist.

The clock struck twelve in the old church when they arrived at Verzenay. The vineyards stretched away in every direction, blue shadows pooled under the vines in the bright sun. Families and farm workers gossiped along the vines, muzzled donkeys stamped, ready to take their wooden cartloads of grapes to the press. Children cut bunches of grapes next to their mothers. Grandmothers picked out bad grapes, everyone working to bring in the harvest before the heat of the afternoon. These were the families of the revolution and they were better fed than they had once been under the old regime, but this was still back-breaking work: the men bent under the weight of the heavy baskets, and women pulled their headscarves across their faces against the sun.

François offered her a hand down from the barouche and he spun her to the ground in a carousel of sky and vines.

‘Grey and blue,’ he said. ‘Like the sea at Calais. The colour of clouds.’

She blinked, not understanding.

‘Your eyes,’ he said.

‘See you back here in an hour,’ Antoine said, jumping down and linking arms with Claudine. ‘We need to check in at the press.’ They were off before she could reply.

‘Come with me, there’s something in the vineyard up on the Montagne you should see,’ François said to Nicole. ‘It’s quite a walk though.’

She lifted her skirt and scuffed the dirt with her sturdy boot. ‘Napoléon’s army could march to Austria in these.’

‘I remember you as a child, you could outrun most of the boys. Come on then.’

They climbed a hill towards the forest, throwing up clouds of chalk as they walked, dusty butterflies skimming the poppies and cornflowers, larks buzzing.

When they reached a remote patch of vines, François pointed.

‘There, see the yellow rose? Exactly there.’

At the rose, François counted three vines along and peered at the foliage. Lifting up the dark leaves, he revealed a bunch of crimson grapes. Not purple, or white, or anything in between, but ripe grapes the colour of holly berries. She’d never seen any like it.

‘I thought you’d be impressed,’ he smiled.

‘You hardly know me.’

‘But I remember you.’ He picked two grapes.

‘Don’t! They’re the only ones!’

‘They’ll die and wither and no one will ever have tasted them. Isn’t that sadder?’ He popped one in his mouth. ‘Aniseed, almond…’ He savoured it. ‘Then clover. Try it.’

He handed her the second grape. Nicole hesitated. It was a lurid red.

‘Go on, we will be the only two people ever to taste them. They’re delicious.’

She took it and popped it into her mouth.

‘Sour!’ she spluttered, spitting it out.

‘You might have pretended!’ he laughed.

‘I can’t pretend, I have to say what I think.’

‘You’ve passed the first test of wine tasting,’ said François, ‘Be honest, don’t humour the grower, act for the buyer and you’ll never go far wrong. Come on, I’ll find you some sweet ones.’

They walked back to the busy vineyards and François gave her a flat basket for collecting.

‘Pick the best first, along the entire row. This is a grand cru vineyard, so be careful. These beauties have worked the entire summer, quietly growing sweeter.’

‘Like my perfect sister. Personally, I’d rather be the picker than the picked. What happens after this?’

She saw how ripe fruit hung heavy on the vines, felt the stickiness on her hands, breathed in the pungent scent. Actually being there was nothing like the dry manuals she’d squinted at by moonlight.

‘It’s a beautiful process, sauvage,’ François replied. ‘The whole thing, from picking to pressing and tending the vines. The blend, the bottles in the cellars, slowly turned. It’s what I love. The terroir here in Verzenay produces the best grapes for champagne. You are picking the finest Pinot Noir. They will be blended with the Pinot Meunier over there. The black grapes grow best here on the Montagne. And the third grape for my champagne is the Chardonnay. We have another vineyard on the other side, on the Côte des Blancs. That’s where we grow our Morillon Blanc. This is my place, where I’m happiest.’

Nicole nodded, remembering the first time she’d arrived in the cellar on the day of the revolution, the deep green bottles so neat, so safe and enchanting in the candlelight. This was where those bottles began their journey, with picking in the maturing sunlight.

‘Mademoiselle Ponsardin!’

It was Monsieur Moët striding towards her in a big hurry, smoothing down his sideswept grey locks in eager anticipation of reaching her. She wished him a million miles away.

‘You’ll wake up sunburnt tomorrow without a parasol, and vineyards are for workers! And I had thought you might want to be at home with your parents, in discussion. My carriage is nearby. Come.’

‘I think you’ve met Monsieur Clicquot?’ Nicole replied coolly, determined not to respond to his comments.

The men shook hands frostily.

‘Are you accompanied?’

‘Yes, Monsieur Moët. With Claudine the couturière, so don’t fret. I’m not a wilting flower you need to protect.’

‘Where is she now? It would be remiss of me to leave you alone…’

She could barely breathe for the sense of claustrophobia he brought with him, like a windowless room closing in around her.

François interjected with a smile. ‘Monsieur Moët, she is well looked after with me. I know her family well. Our fathers are good friends.’

Monsieur Moët appraised François and clearly didn’t like what he saw.

‘Your poor mother would be frantic if she thought Claudine had been so neglectful. I’ll find her for you.’ Monsieur Moët buttoned his jacket and took the path to the press, careful to ignore the workers who greeted him along the way.

‘In discussion,’ François mocked behind his