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

she pulled Thérésa aside. ‘Is he related to the old king?’

Thérésa scoffed. ‘I never thought anyone as fat and corrupt as old Louis XVIII would have a place back in France, but there you are. Of course he’s connected. You don’t think I’d waste my time with such a fop if he wasn’t going to lead me straight to the new king.’

‘You know Natasha hated aristocrats. Perhaps it’s time to get back to Paris where you belong.’

‘Natasha would understand. I don’t need the money – thanks to my investment in your wonderful business – but life is so dull if one isn’t at the centre of power.’ Thérésa leant close, lips brushing her neck. ‘I’d stay if you asked me,’ she whispered.

‘You would tire of me and this little town,’ smiled Nicole.

Thérésa caressed her cheek, crossed herself at the graveside, then swept away with grief-stricken poise, leaning heavily on her Bourbon.

The priest led a procession back through the cemetery. Nicole blew a final kiss to Natasha and joined the line. Everyone but her had a loved one with them, but Mentine was waiting for her at home and Natasha wouldn’t want her to be sad. She lifted her chin and broke away, unhooked the latch on the cemetery gates and walked out towards the vineyards.

By September, when every last drinkable bottle was safely in Russia and the workers had left for the night, Nicole polkaed through the empty cellars. Incandescent at their turn of fortunes, Louis’ letters were a delight: the abscess of the last twelve years has finally been lanced… I can’t tell you how sweet it is to bring you such good news, my heart is bursting with joy to bring you the balm to heal the wounds you so little deserved…

The Champagne region became wildly fashionable with the return of the troops. Casks of Pippin apples and Rouselette pears piled up at the borders, and Emile and Marie supplied a thriving black market in Rémois nonette cakes until their tills overflowed.

Nicole studied her ledger. All black now, her loyal workers paid the double wages she had promised. In the press yard, carts buckled under the weight of deliveries, smuggled out under the cover of night.

The vine leaves were turning. It would be harvest time soon, and she was newly appointed to the tasting committee alongside Jean-Rémy and the others. The only woman ever to be accepted into the inner circle. In the barrels, new wine was fermenting just as it should and outside a ripe orange moon hung above the vineyards, a good augur for the crops and for Reims.

Across the sea, Veuve Clicquot champagne was changing hands for more than a month’s wages a bottle and in St Petersburg they called her Klikoskaya. General Marin came up with the name and it stuck, according to Louis, regaling prospective buyers with tales of her spark and elegance in winemaking.

She picked out a bottle from the crate of comet champagne she’d kept for herself, for a special occasion, and ran her thumb over Alexei’s comet brand on the cork. ‘I’m saving you for him,’ she whispered, wondering if he was reunited with his wife, whether the familiar fields and buildings of his homeland sharpened his loss. She slid the bottle back. ‘Don’t forget me.’

It dawned on her then, and the loneliness was crippling, that it was unlikely she would ever open the bottle to share it with Alexei. Evening was falling, the autumn air was damp and chilly and here she was, with only her bottles and ledgers for company. All this, for what? She lit a candle against the dark and it fizzed like champagne as the flame jumped and brightened. Natasha always said you could see the world in a flame. She stared. Nothing but a translucent blue arc steady on the wick, the flare of light above it devouring the air. It guttered and extinguished, though not the slightest breeze had touched it. Of course!

She grabbed the little key to the secret compartment of her bureau and felt for the velvet bag that Natasha had given her. With the candle relit, she untied the strings and looked inside.

Her firefly necklace, and a note.

I kept this safe for you, guaranteed against my bakery. Fulfil the promise I made to my good friend the pawnbroker, and pay him back. You can afford it now.

The yellow diamond threw prisms as she held it up to the light. François’ last gift before he died!

If I go first, remember me by it, and he had laid it on her skin, fixed the clasp at her nape. François always makes the darkest days into the loveliest, she had thought as he smiled at her reflection in mirror.

She slipped it on, the jewel warming to her touch, and stepped outside. A big harvest moon was presiding above the vineyards and the sweet, plump grapes were ripe for picking. Across the yard, the press and cellars that would work their magic stood ready.

You’re right, Natasha. This is what it’s all for. For François. For us.

His dream, and hers, and she had made it reality. It would be a good vintage, at least this year. After that, who could know?

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The French House

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