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

in the mood for celebrating.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘That’s brought some colour to your face.’

She kissed him then, saw the glamorous moon in her mind’s eye and the steam rise and curl in Natasha’s kitchen and then she saw tears in his eyes. He pushed her away.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’ she faltered.

‘I am the one who should be sorry. Who is sorry…’

‘You don’t need to say another word. I’m so used to running things my own way, I thought…’

‘Leave it there, so I keep my resolve for both our sakes.’ He held her in front of him. ‘Let me look at you, really look at you. Down here is another life. One where just you and I exist, and everything we dream of is possible. Outside, it’s impossible.’

A moment passed and she saw the other life in his eyes.

‘There’s a penknife in the pocket of your jacket – give it to me,’ she said.

She scratched something onto the wall.

AM + B-NC.

He took the knife from her and drew a comet underneath.

‘Thank you for the night walk in your world. I’ll never forget it,’ he said.

‘There’s more to my world than this.’

They held hands until they emerged, blinking against the morning light.

Madame Olivier was on her way to the bakery, basket in hand.

‘Ah, the Russian general and the French vintner at the cellar door! Good morning to you both, my dears, bonne journée!’

She hurried on by before Nicole could reply.

‘I must go now, milaya. I’ll create more problems for you if I stay. I’ll write you a note and we’ll meet again.’

The post was full of bills the next day, and the next, but she was busy as always, à pied early and collapsing into bed late, putting in a full day of work and spending her evenings with Mentine. No matter how busy she was, however, she couldn’t stop herself hoping for the note he’d promised, or allowing herself to imagine a future together between Reims and St Petersburg, her wine empire stretching its tendrils across Russia like new vines.

No news came from him and after a week she heard rumours in the bakery that all Russian troops were heading back to the border. He couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye, could he?

Pinot was happy to be saddled up and ridden fast to the camp. When she got there, it was deserted. Nothing but patches of campfire ashes and a hundred tent-shaped patches in the field where they’d been. A couple of soldiers were picking up litter and debris, trailing sacks for the purpose.

She spurred Pinot to the two men and they stopped and saluted.

‘Madame,’ said the one with the most medals on his jacket.

‘Bonjour, Capitaine. Where is everyone?’

‘Gone, Madame. We’re going home at last. It’s a long march back, but towards happiness and not a moment too soon. My son will be four years old now – he was a babe in arms when I left.’

‘I have some final business with General Marin. When did he leave?’

‘He hasn’t been here all week, Madame, but he’s not far, at Monsieur Moët’s mansion in Épernay. Who can blame him; it’s a bit grander than a tent in a field and they’re old friends.’

Pinot stamped as she gripped his flanks.

‘In fact, I’m desperate to get on the road after this and catch up with the lads.’ The soldier fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sealed note. ‘If you’re going back to Reims, could I trouble you…? He said I was to deliver this before I go, but it would save me a few hours.’

She blinked at the note. It had her name on it. She forced a smile.

‘Happy coincidence. It’s for me! He hadn’t forgotten his business after all and I’m glad to save you some time. I wish you luck, my friend. Go home to your family and look after them well – you’ve earned peace for the rest of your life!’

He saluted her once more, tied his sack and kitbag to his horse and rode off, whistling with his fellow soldier.

As soon as he was out of sight, she opened the note. Two words: I’m sorry. And at the bottom of the envelope, something metal. She held it up to the light: a round cork-branding tool carved with a picture of a comet – exactly like the one he’d joined their names with on the cellar wall.

The realisation was a punch in the guts. She’d given him – and now Moët – the riddling tables.

Chapter 29

Another Life

Mid-May 1814

The doorway on rue des Murs was flaking and worn; the medieval walls bulged. Nicole had known Louis all these years and never been to his house. Washing hung across the road and slops piled up in the streets, landing wherever neighbours chucked it from the windows. She’d been so preoccupied with her own troubles, she’d never once stopped to think about the circumstances of her closest and most faithful business ally, and he’d never said a word to her about the pittance she paid him in these difficult times.

She rapped on the door and his wife Marta answered. She was thinner than she remembered, and her hands were red-raw. Marta stiffened.

‘Madame Clicquot. What brings you here?’

‘Is Louis… Monsieur Bohne at home?’

Marta beckoned her in with a jerk of her head and Nicole squeezed past her in the narrow corridor.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you in your home, but it’s urgent.’

‘Wait here.’ Marta’s Russian accent was much stronger than Alexei’s.

Louis came running, buttoning his shirt collar and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Of course, follow me.’

He took her to the parlour, overlooking the garden, and pulled out a chair for her. A threadbare rocking horse stood in the corner, the fire was dying in the hearth, home-made curtains hung at the window and the sun streamed in. A happy, cosy home. She felt like an intruder.

‘What’s happened?’ said Louis.

‘I’ve been a fool.’

‘I doubt that. You