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

‘I only see Daniel. He’s waiting for me. Make sure they make me pretty for him when they lay me out.’ She turned away.

‘Don’t go, Natasha. Please stay.’

‘I go when I go. You will be happy, that much I know for sure, but first, two more things. See the box on my dressing table? Open it… Don’t break the salt! Take out the folded document.’

Nicole scanned it. Natasha was bequeathing the bakery to Emile and Marie.

‘Marie’s too old to work in the fields and Emile loves this place. Marie fought for the revolution and she deserves it. Come back to me and sit next to me.’

Nicole laid her cheek next to hers.

‘Be kind to Jean-Rémy, Babouchette,’ Natasha wheezed. ‘Forgive him. He just loved you too much, in his own arrogant way. This town is too small for feuds and he can’t fight you any more.’

Nicole nodded to please her. Never, she thought.

Natasha held her face. ‘You’re lying. Promise! Jean-Rémy has confided in me over the years. That will surprise you, I know. At some point in their lives, everyone in this town has hoped I could tell their future – rich, powerful, or poor. He loves you in his twisted way, and when he learns that you have truly beaten him, you must be kind. Be better than him.’ Natasha fumbled under her pillow. ‘One last thing.’

‘Don’t say last,’ Nicole whispered.

‘Hush, let me finish, it’s important.’ Natasha took her hand, dropped a velvet bag into her palm and closed her fingers around it. ‘Don’t open it until you know the time is right.’

Nicole squeezed her hand. ‘I can promise that.’

A candle guttered and fizzled out.

‘I’ll light it again for you.’

‘No! Leave it out, it’s meant to do that. You know by now not to argue and that I’m always right.’ Natasha managed a smile, but her breathing shallowed. ‘It’s time,’ she whispered.

The light dimmed and Nicole held her tight.

She left as she said she would, fell quiet and limp with her eyes wide open. As in life, she saw everything.

Xavier found Nicole curled up next to her. It was dark outside. She’d lost track of time, but the silence was lit with spirits. He crossed himself.

‘I thought she would always be here. Come on, let me take you home.’

Nicole waved him away. She stayed all night, relit the candles when they sputtered, tended the salt line, brushed Natasha’s hair, wrapped her in her red Russian shawl to make her beautiful for Daniel.

‘Give Daniel my love,’ she whispered.

Was Natasha really inside the rigid dark coffin, so final? The priest looked away discreetly as Nicole held up the salt bag Natasha had left her for this moment. She made a figure of eight on the coffin and the salt skittered and bounced and blurred.

Mademoiselle Var and Madame Olivier from the secret tasting committee leaned on each other and threw a cork to land on the salt.

‘Courage,’ they shouted, echoing the word they used for the first sip at their tasting sessions.

Madame Olivier’s husband shot her a malevolent glance. She would no doubt pay later with a bruise.

Louis’ Marta threw a chamomile sprig on top of the salt and cork, Natasha’s favourite, and mouthed a Russian prayer, adjusting the veil on her expensive new hat. Their fortunes were rising thanks to Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie. They exchanged watery smiles. Nicole silently thanked Natasha for this new entente cordiale. Even in death, she still fixed everything.

Say hello to St Petersburg for me, she mouthed and closed her eyes to catch the tears. A hand on her shoulder startled her.

‘I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do…’

She shook her head and recoiled.

‘She was a good friend,’ he pressed on. ‘Not just to you, but to all the lost and disaffected in this town. She made the ultimate sacrifice for the revolution. I’ll never forget the image of her in the square that day, cradling her dying husband.’

Be better than him, reminded Natasha.

‘I thought she’d be able to defy death with all her spells and amulets,’ said Nicole.

Jean-Rémy studied his shoes. ‘She asked me to tell you something.’

‘Oh?’ Natasha would never send messages through him.

‘I went to her for weather forecasts; she had incredible foresight in these things. It was me that sent Xavier for you when I saw she was so ill. She made me promise to do something for you in return for her protection from the afterworld.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Of course, I don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus, but the words of a dying woman cannot fail to have resonance. I have been arrogant…’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘I only wanted to protect you, but it seems I needed protecting from you. The war is over. This town needs all the success it can get and Reims is yours now as well as mine.’ He held out his hand. ‘Peace?’

She glanced back at the grave. The mourners were starting to drift away, back to their lives.

‘Peace.’ She took his hand. ‘To the future and new friendships.’

He smiled. ‘I can stop tending those Pinot vines you gave me now. Worst grapes I’ve ever tasted.’

‘Desperate measures… I’m sorry.’

‘I have something for you,’ he said, handing her a worn document.

François’ death certificate, Natasha’s final act of magic. And nothing like success to win you friends in unexpected places, at least while things are going well.

‘Ah, my two favourite vintners, in perfect harmony, so nice to see you reconciled. Just as it should be. I wish Natasha were here to witness the happy moment. Come now, darling. Frowning like that will give you wrinkles.’

‘Thérésa! I never thought you’d come!’

‘You’re surprised, ma belle? Let’s blame Natasha. Don’t ask me if any of her spells ever worked, but here I am.’

Jean-Rémy bowed and left. Thérésa was a glamorous raven in her black feather dress, cut lower than appropriate. A sickly man in a frilly shirt escorted her.

‘I almost forgot. Meet my new companion, Xavier de Bourbon.’

‘Bourbon? A word alone?’ said Nicole as