The French House by Helen Fripp (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📕

in her ears. She laboured through the familiar streets, now unfamiliar, as on the day of the revolution. A new, dangerous place.

She hurried to the side of town, where human waste ran in the gutters, and hunted down the sign, a skull and crossbones. Inside, a pockmarked girl with scarred hands emerged from behind the counter.

‘A bottle of rat poison, for an infestation in my daughter’s room.’

The girl clucked in sympathy and reached to the top shelf. ‘This should do it, Madame. A few drops where they’re entering the room and a few near the droppings.’ She flicked a clean sheet of paper over on the pad and licked her pencil. ‘Address so we can clean up when they’re dead? Two francs extra. Well worth it.’

‘No need. My stable boy knows what to do. There is something that worries me, though: my daughter’s very young. What would happen if she ate some by mistake?’

‘Make sure she doesn’t, Madame, it’s horrible. I’ve seen it myself. Blood out of your eyes, the flesh on the body bruised as a plum with black marks. We advise moving out of the room during the treatment, Madame.’

Nicole pressed a coin on the counter, took the poison and fled. Outside, she retched, poured the poison over her vomit and watched it snake into the open sewer. She fumbled for a lavender bag, choked back more bile and tears and stumbled on. Somehow she got back to the square. The stalls were out, the cathedral still there, just a normal day.

The same symptoms. Would things have been different if she hadn’t left him in the night?

Chapter 6

Wax Tears

December 1805

Revolutionary date: Frimaire, year XIV

The marble entrance hall of their house in town was filled with irises. He was waiting for her, with armfuls more of them, rain lashing the windows. Her heart filled, but then he was crying, tears of blood sliding down his gaunt cheeks.

Nicole woke with a start, rolled onto his side of the bed. Dead four months. Today was his thirty-first birthday.

Mentine was humming in the bedroom next door. When was the last time she had held her daughter? She couldn’t remember. Dragging herself out of bed, she peeped through the crack. Mentine was having a tea party in the nursery with the Russian dolls François had given her, a little cake in front of the father.

‘Happy birthday, Papa,’ her little daughter voiced.

‘You remembered! Blue and gold onions. Yum, my favourite. How did you know they tasted of sugar?’ said the papa doll.

‘You told me yesterday, silly, so I flew to Russia and got them in a purple field.’

Mentine lifted the mother and child dolls and huddled them together against the father, then poured them each a cup of tea.

When Nicole went in, Mentine slid the papa under the table and carried a cup to Nicole, face scrunched in concentration, slopping water.

‘We’re having a party. Tea, Madame?’

Nicole sipped the tea. ‘Delicious. Good job I’m so little. I can fit into the Mummy’s chair.’

‘Would you care for cake, Madame?’

‘Merci, ma petite,’ said Nicole. ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

‘No. Me and Josette made it for fun. It’s chocolate.’

‘Doesn’t Papa want some?’

‘He’s not at this party.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s in Russia. He’ll be back next year,’ she said firmly.

Nicole picked up the doll from under the table and put him back in his chair.

‘Oh, look. He’s back now.’

‘No!’ Mentine flung it across the room. The doll broke in half and she stamped her foot. ‘You’ll be sad and go away and I want you to stay and play.’

‘I’ll stay and I won’t be sad, I promise.’ But Nicole felt that her heart would snap.

‘Don’t talk about Papa!’

‘Why?’

‘It makes you sad. I’m not allowed.’

‘Of course you are.’

‘Do you want strawberries or tomatoes and jam on your bread?’

‘Hmm, tomatoes and jam, I think. Sit on my knee and we’ll eat them together. I’m not sad now, am I? You make me happy.’

Mentine cuddled in. Her warm little body felt so sweet, and Nicole stiffened against a threatening tear.

‘Now you’re sad. Everyone always lies to me!’

‘I’m sad that Papa isn’t here and so are you, but that’s all right. You can be happy and sad at the same time. The good thing is, we have all the special memories of Papa between us. Let’s make a new rule, ma petite. From now on, we start and finish each day by talking about Papa. You go first.’

‘He crossed his eyes and fell over and made me laugh,’ began Mentine, entering into the spirit of this new game.

‘He told us what all the stars in the sky were called.’

‘He kissed you and it was disgusting!’ Mentine giggled.

‘He took you riding on his fastest horse.’

‘He made up stories about cats.’

‘It’s his birthday today,’ said Nicole.

‘I made him a cake.’

‘His favourite is sweet blue and gold onions, isn’t it?’

‘How did you know?’ Mentine’s eyes were round with astonishment, and Nicole’s heart melted.

‘Of course we both know. He was your papa and my husband and he belonged to us both. Between us we can remember everything and never forget him.’

Nicole picked up the doll, pieced it back together and replaced it at the table, swallowing a lump of grief.

‘See? I’m not crying. You can talk about your papa whenever you like. Sometimes we will be happy and sometimes we’ll be sad, but I’ll never go away from you again, Mentine. Now, I’ve got a good idea. Let’s go to Natasha’s and buy a real cake. We can celebrate together, just you and me, and talk about the things we remember.’

‘Yes please, Maman! Can I choose? Can I hold your hand all the way there? Can we skip?’

‘All of those things.’

How could everything be the same? She hadn’t been to the boulangerie since François had died, but here it was, the long swirl of the brass handle polished to within an inch of its life, the big wooden door and brass step scrubbed, and a brazen display of patisseries in the window.

‘Bonjour, Nicole,’ Natasha said stiffly.

‘Bonjour.’

She hadn’t seen