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

benefit from ageing, it’s best drunk young, but there’s still finesse and perfume to be enjoyed. The name comes from sauvage and blanc. Wild and white.’

He looked at her through the bottle. ‘Zest and flint, a perfect combination. I suppose your prices are astronomical and not even a comet to justify it?’

‘Of course, but worth it.’

Alexei held up a little sketchbook and pencil. ‘Do you mind? It’s a beautiful view and not an army tent in sight. It’s like there was never a time before this war.’

‘Of course. I will leave you to it. Xavier, my foreman, is over there and I need to talk to him. I don’t like the way they’re wasting that precious fumure, spreading it too far from the roots; they won’t get the benefit.’

‘How can you see from here?’

‘When it comes to my vineyards, I see everything.’

She felt him watching as she walked away, so she twirled a strand of her hair back into her bun.

‘Who’s the poser in the gold brocade? Is he here to requisition the vineyards?’ Xavier asked, his face still painfully bruised and scabbed.

‘Our biggest buyer.’

‘You’re getting them to buy? How do you do it? Only a few days ago, I was beating the ball-sacks off with sticks and now you’ve got them eating out of your hand. He can’t take his filthy eyes off you.’

She grinned. ‘He’s just interested in viticulture and watching how things work.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Stop it, Xavier, please. He’s a genuine buyer and we need him. Now, the fumure…’

A new-minted sun, an appreciative buyer with money to spend, the workers out in the field again, gradually returning from war and desperate to bury their hands in the soil of their homeland. Perhaps Natasha was right. Luck from the east. Rumours were flying about the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy; two revolutions in one lifetime was enough for anyone, but Nicole would welcome her own revolution in fortune. Ironic that today, anyway, the Russian enemy was her friend, but her own town and the most powerful among them – Moët – was set against her success. They would prefer her to marry Moët than to sell to Alexei.

She finished with the workers and returned to Alexei. He tore a page out of his sketchbook and gave it to her. It was her, in profile, pointing to the vines and saying something. He’d noticed every detail, down to the teardrop earrings she’d forgotten she was wearing, and the loose hair she’d tucked into her bun as she walked away.

‘It’s very well-observed, you don’t miss a thing,’ said Nicole.

‘It helps when dodging bullets,’ he said bitterly.

‘I’m sorry. Here am I worrying about compost and pests and you must have been through hell to get here.’

‘We all have, I’m sure. You’re a widow and I’m…’ He stopped. ‘I’m lucky to be here. There’s no heroism in war – it’s random, luck of the draw. I don’t deserve to be alive and sometimes I wish I’d gone and others had lived in my place.’

‘Don’t say that! What happened?’

He shook his head.

The church clock struck a lazy four in the distance.

‘I have to get back,’ said Nicole. ‘I promised my daughter and I seem to be forever letting her down.’

‘Go on ahead, I’d like to stay here and draw. I can make my own way back – go on, don’t be late. She won’t be yours forever, you won’t know how quickly it goes until she’s gone.’

She didn’t want to leave.

‘All of this is for her. Let me know about the Sauvignon. I can get it delivered.’

‘No need, I’ll come and get it myself. That way, I get personal service.’

‘I’ll make sure I’m here for you.’

‘Oh.’

He had a way of saying ‘oh,’ an eastern inflection shortening the vowel, that stuck in her head.

Chapter 27

Reparation

Mid-April 1814

Since Alexei had arrived, Nicole’s world was more vivid. Funny she’d never noticed the tangle of forget-me-nots so blue against the cobbles, pushing up between the stones in the cathedral square, until this market-day morning. Swifts burst out of the sky from nowhere, whirling on pointed wings, and the planes were singing trees packed with fat little puffs of birds.

Mentine’s warm arm linked hers as they passed the big cathedral and crossed the square, her own fresh spring flower. Her soft blonde hair was so like her aunt’s, eyes the same blue-green as François’, with lips full as orange segments. Her grandmother’s demeanour, her grandfather’s way of walking, Nicole’s figure and perfectly duplicated fingernails – how does nature do that? Everything she loved, rearranged into Mentine, who was, again, her own person.

‘Are you selling more wine, Maman?’

‘Not really, chérie. You might not have noticed, but there’s a war on.’

‘You seem… sort of glowing.’

‘It’s a beautiful spring day.’

‘And you’ve got a big fat cheque from that handsome Russian general. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s just the same old town gossip; I’ve told you a million times not to listen. Now, which colour are you going to choose for your new dress?’

Mentine cuddled into her and she kissed her head, breathed her in. She smelt clean and her hair was as warm and soft as it was when she was a baby.

Mentine nudged her. ‘Look, it’s him, your general!’

Alexei was right there, under one of the singing trees, sketchbook in hand, dark curls falling over his eyes as he concentrated on the task.

‘Alexei, good morning.’

‘Good morning, both.’

He knew there was two of them, even though he didn’t look up from his sketchbook.

Nicole glanced at the drawing. A tangle of forget-me-nots growing out of the cobbles, flimsy smudges of blue, fragile against the stone.

‘Your Sauvignon’s ready for you,’ she smiled. ‘I even found some of the same chèvre we paired with it for you to take back to the camp.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to send someone else to collect it. This afternoon?’

His watchful hurt was unmistakable. She searched back through her words for what she might have said to upset him.

‘If you come yourself, I’ll open a bottle of my