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

each other at the little moment of causal intimacy, until they realised men were exchanging lewd glances at the spectacle.

‘Let’s get back to work; we need to get this lot off. You have a business to coax back to life for your husband and his little family,’ said Alexei, his gaze hardening.

Another few hours and the men were done. The carts clattered off towards her Paris buyers, driven by two of the soldiers. She waved them off, wishing her bottles a happy future in ballrooms, at soirées, at, please God, celebrations of peace at last from the war.

‘You know you move your lips when you talk to your bottles?’

‘It doesn’t count unless I do.’

He waved them goodbye, too, and she laughed happily, feeling carefree for the first time she could remember in a long while.

The men were dismissed after Emile had fed and watered the horses. It was the last of the hay, but at least she could afford to buy some more when the money was sent back from Paris. A few more months bought; no point in thinking any further.

Alexei picked up his jacket. ‘Crisis averted, General. I really must get back to the garrison. Am I released?’

‘Wait. I promised you something.’

She fetched a bottle of the Cuvée de la Comète and added it to the crate of Sauvignon.

‘The first one to be opened since we laid it down.’

He picked it up, ran his thumb over the crude charred comet on the cork. The late afternoon was hot and still.

‘Open it now,’ he smiled.

‘It won’t be cold enough,’ she protested.

‘Well then. An idea. I have a little boat moored at Tours sur Marne. I’ve been escaping to it when I wish to draw. We can drink it there, cool it in the water and cool off ourselves, too. I think it’s not too far to walk, milaya?’

Milaya. Natasha used to call her Daniel that.

The rowing boat was hidden in a little clump of trees in a quiet eddy of the river. He helped her in, held the boat so it wouldn’t rock and tied the champagne to chill in the water.

The river was like glass, reeds flattened in the current. A sharp scent of water mint filled the air. Nicole lay back and trailed her hand in the water, looking up through the tree-filtered light to the sky.

Alexei took out his sketchpad and started to draw. She closed her eyes. The river meandered, silver and filled with promise, so different from the day François had shouted his grief at the raging water, not far from this place.

He opened the champagne and poured them both a glass. She took a sip.

‘Draw it for me!’ she laughed.

He gave her a comet, with a scintillating tail, as she’d seen it crossing the sky the year these grapes ripened.

She held the glass up to the light – as clear as the sparkling river thanks to her new invention – and chinked with him. Rich, toasty and nutty, notes of caramel and lemon. It was good, the best she’d ever made. She needed to get this to a market which could afford it, which hadn’t been at war forever – Russia, England… A fish jumped and a fly was lost to the world in one quicksilver moment.

His next picture caught the moment the fish had snatched the fly in intricate detail, a ripple disturbing the glassy surface, the fish curved with the effort of jumping, iridescent patterns on its scales, like oil in the sun.

They finished the bottle and he kept drawing: a dragonfly, the light distilling through the trees, a mother duck followed by furiously paddling ducklings – she counted six, but he only drew five – and finally, the sun going down. She had forgotten the sun went down. She willed against the end of the golden evening, framed it like a picture in her head to look at later. The damp in the dusky air made her shiver.

‘I’ve kept you out too long and I should get back to the camp. Come.’

He jumped out of the boat across the water and held his hand out for her. She reached for him, but the boat slid away and she screamed at the sudden cold as she hit the shallows.

He scooped her out, dress dripping, giggling with shock, and he hugged her, freezing, teeth chattering, dizzy. The moon shimmered a path on the river. He lifted her to drier ground, set her still, took off his jacket and put it on her. He turned up the collar against the chill, then slowly fastened each button. The jacket was heavy and warm and smelt of sweat and woodsmoke. The last birds swooped to roost and chattered with the setting sun and his bitter eyes fixed on hers and they didn’t speak for a while.

‘Better now, milaya? You’re still shivering.’

‘Better.’

Kiss me, she thought. He didn’t move, but his eyes devoured her.

‘I toasted you in another life and, in a different world, I would… You look too beautiful, dripping and cold in the starlight. I have to return, and so should you. It’s not far back for you, I think?’ He held out a folded piece of sketch paper at arm’s length, cupped his hands around hers. ‘Please, don’t open it until you get back. My camp is in the opposite direction to Bouzy. Goodbye.’

She watched him disappear in confusion and studied the picture he had given her, tempted to open it. Instead she thrust it deep into her pocket and stumbled back, the moon lighting her way.

Back near the village, she took off his coat and folded it tight so that no one would see her in it – she didn’t need to give the gossips anything else. Thinking back, he’d only sketched five ducklings instead of six. Why, when he noticed everything?

At her front door, Josette fussed over her wet dress, but she waved her away. The fire was made in the parlour and she drew up François’ old chair and unfolded the