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

She slammed the ledger shut and handed over the cheque.

‘I’ve got something else to say…’ began Xavier.

‘Oh really – how long have we known each other?’ said Nicole. ‘Just come right out and say it.’

‘Still got the scar where you hit me with that bloody stick. We were four.’

‘Then tell me what it is, Xavier.’

‘They’re saying he should have been buried at the crossroads.’

‘What?’

‘Monsieur Clicquot. The whole town’s oozing with it, like pus in a sore. They’re all saying he did it to himself because he had a few bad years at the vineyards. I don’t like talk behind people’s back so I’m giving it to you straight.’

Nicole’s sadness bloomed to fury. ‘My François died of typhoid – and he was better than this whole town of small-minded insects put together. If I ever hear one of them even think any different, I’ll personally throttle them with my own hands.’

‘I had a few fights about it myself. Leave it with me. There’s nothing else for them to talk about, that’s all there is to it, but I didn’t want it going on behind your back. Sorry for any upset.’

He gave her a rough handshake. He nudged his cap up and it was then she noticed bruising around his left eye as he was leaving.

For the first time in months, she was angry. To be buried at a crossroads was the country people’s way of saying that François had taken his own life and left his little family to take their chances. Small-minded, superstitious, mean gossips that they were, whispering at the bakery, crossing themselves as they passed her. They should keep to their business, and she to hers. She couldn’t stand this dreary place a minute longer and she flew to the drawer to find the letter.

My darling, dark days. You have an open invitation to Paris. I promised and I never forget a promise. Come and forget and bring your little daughter – my brood will adore her. This is not a formal sympathy card, so you’ll forgive me, but even this cloud has a silver lining and I intend to be it. Come soon.

With love, Thérésa

What had Nicole been doing for the last four months? She couldn’t face Christmas without François and the town was too small and full of hurtful gossip. She dipped her quill in the ink and wrote two letters – one to Thérésa to gratefully accept, and another to Moët to say she was open to discussions about selling.

He’d been angling for the Clicquot vineyards ever since she married François and she just couldn’t face the memories any more, least of all run a business, as was clear from Xavier’s necessary approach to her about the wages. She and Clémentine had a small allowance from her parents, which covered all their living expenses, so they could survive. If Moët was running the vineyards, at least the workers would get paid on time. He could afford it, even though the markets were dead and everyone was talking about an impending war with Russia.

She hesitated over the letter to Moët. François would have been devastated. But she had to accept that he wasn’t here any more, and every part of the poetry of the vineyards, the cycle of growth, harvest and blend, hurt too much. If she stayed here, it would destroy her – she was living a half-life in the shadows of her marriage.

And what about Louis? She wasn’t capable of being responsible for him, or anyone else apart from Mentine, she told herself. She’d write and tell him from Paris, or in person when he returned.

She took care to write her Paris return address on the back of the letter to Moët for further negotiations and left the two letters on the hall table for Josette to post in the morning. Exhausted, she headed upstairs to curl up next to Mentine, warm with sleep, in her bed.

In Paris, it was Mentine’s turn to abandon her. From the moment she encountered Thérésa’s eight raucous children, she was absorbed into a cycle of teatimes, horse riding, impromptu plays, fights and reconciliations. After only one week, Mentine was as rowdy as the rest, running as fast as any of the boys, and falling asleep most nights in her arms, heavy and still and sweet as a plum.

After another of these busy days, Mentine immediately fell asleep in her soft feather bed. Tonight, Nicole kissed Mentine’s forehead and left her to prepare for Thérésa’s ball, standing in front of the mirror to tidy herself up. Thérésa had begged her to attend, and she had agreed to please her, but she was a disaster. A skeletal face, dull eyes, dark shadows, lank hair. A ball was the last thing she wanted tonight.

Thérésa appeared in the reflection. ‘Look at you! For goodness’ sake, you’re not in Reims now. Come with me.’

She swept her to a flower-filled boudoir, gilt mirrors lining every available space, a dressing table scattered with a jumble of hairbrushes, combs, jewellery, powders and perfumes. Invitations and notes from admirers filled the mantelpiece and spilled carelessly onto the floor.

‘Let me, please, darling.’

Thérésa unhooked her dowdy black dress in front of the mirror and slid it off her shoulders. Her slip was next, and then she was naked. Nicole felt a kind of pride to be bared to her friend, and found herself smiling at Thérésa as she spun her round to face her.

‘There’s a butterfly inside that chrysalis,’ Thérésa murmured as she leaned in, cupping Nicole’s breasts and drawing her close. An electric charge ran across her skin where Thérésa touched her. She smelt of cotton and tasted of salt as her tongue explored her mouth, until a knock on the door sent them reeling apart.

What just happened? Is this how women behave in Paris? She wasn’t sure, but it made anything seem possible. It was the first moment in four months she hadn’t thought of François.

The