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

a cool part of the bed and swooshed them around on the cold smoothness. The sheets smelt of Thérésa’s perfume and the sun slid through the heavy drapes, dust motes dancing to her mood. Shouts, door slams and pounding little feet at full pelt permeated the house at Thérésa’s vast home at rue de Babylone.

A million miles away from Reims and their talk of burying François at a crossroads. The dust hung heavy in its suspension of light, then disappeared in the gloom. She shook herself. Today was a good day. François was the second thought she had had on waking, not the first. She had got through Christmas in a riotous, pungent bouquet of Thérésa’s parties, soirées, card evenings and theatricals. The vanilla taste of waxy candlelight, the tang of cheated suitors, a top note of scandal and debauchery. A heady elixir to treat her grief. She was Thérésa’s doll. Hers to dress up, take around, show off and play with whenever she felt like it. No decisions, no responsibility. All she had to do was effervesce to Thérésa’s bidding and everyone was delighted.

She didn’t love Thérésa like she loved François, nor how she loved her sister or friends. She knew that her friendship with her was unique, that the way they kissed and kept each other warm at night transgressed what society would call right or normal, but somehow with her, it didn’t matter. In fact, it made her see how anything was possible, how the narrow confines of society could be smashed, in any way she wished. To Nicole, that was captivating.

These were her conclusions in her rational moments, but whatever she thought was, in reality, useless. Thérésa was irresistible, heady, intoxicating. If Thérésa chose to seduce you, it was impossible to resist her, soul and beautiful body. Their nights together had a dreamlike, illicit quality that suited her grief and allowed her to abnegate all responsibility.

‘Maman!’ Mentine burst through the door, trailing a brood of little ones diminishing in height, and in varying states of dishevelment. ‘Can I go riding? Monsieur Bohne is here and he said he’d take me with him to the Tuileries. I’m going to wear my new muff and blue dress and all the ladies will see me and think how fashionable I am and the officers will turn their heads and I’ll be grown up and the talk of the town and the belle of the ball like Thérésa and the whole of Paris will remember the name of Clémentine Clicquot.’

Nicole was not the only one in love with Thérésa.

‘Stop. You’re going so fast you’re making me dizzy! Come and kiss your maman. Of course you can go.’

Mentine jumped onto her bed, followed by two more of Thérésa’s girls. Their silky hair and perfect foreheads were exquisite, and her stomach lurched. All her happiest moments were tinged with sadness, wishing François could be there to feel it with her.

‘Right, now shoo. All of you. Go and get ready and tell Louis I’ll be down before he goes.’

She was dreading the meeting. He was not going to like what she had to say, but she owed it to him to tell him straight.

Louis’ smile warmed the room.

‘You’ve been difficult to get hold of, Veuve Clicquot.’

‘I’m sorry, Louis, it’s just I’ve been so caught up in Thérésa’s social life. There never seems to be a moment for anything else.’

‘So I gather. I’m starting to hear your name in some of the most elevated company,’ he said darkly.

‘Don’t tease me. I’m just Thérésa’s escort for a while. I like it. It helps me forget.’

‘Don’t forget too much, sauvage.’

‘Let me be, Louis, just for a while.’

‘I’m not sure I like what I hear, the way people talk about you, in connection with her. She’s a one-off, a curiosity, a beautiful, walking scandal from another world, immune to society. But that’s not you, it’s not what you are. The vineyards are crying out for you. When are you going back to real life?’

‘Don’t be such an old prude, Louis. You’re as bad as all those small-town gossips I left behind.’

His hurt look made her angry for the guilt, gave her the steel she needed.

‘I’m not going back – ever. I know we had fun at the ball, selling up my champagne to those old widows. But I have a new life now.’ The last whirling weeks had convinced her that she could make a new life here.

‘But that’s what I came to tell you. You remember Madame Champs-Ricard, the night of Thérésa’s ball? She’s buying! She thought you were charming – you’re quite a curiosity in wine sales. She’s cancelled her order with Moët and placed it with us. Ten thousand bottles! It’s the best start to a new year we could wish for. How can you run the press from here, Nicole?’

The mention of Moët’s name gave her a stab of conscience. She still hadn’t finally concluded with him, but she had promised him a trip to Reims to sign as soon as she could face going back.

‘That’s just it, I can’t stomach it. I’m happy here, Mentine’s happy. Why would I want to go back to that little town?

‘That’s not you talking, it’s her.’

‘You can work with Moët. He’ll be delighted with the order. It will make the business easier to sell as a going concern, and you with it, my top salesman.’

Louis flushed. ‘That’s how you see me. Something to sell as part of your business?’

‘No! It’s just I have nothing left to give. I just want to forget, Louis…’

Thérésa swept into the room. ‘Darling, what have you done to him? He looks like he’s seen a ghost.’

Thérésa held out her hand to Louis. He kissed it, reluctantly.

‘You can’t hog her forever, I’m afraid. She’s very much in demand. Nicole, darling, you must get yourself ready for our little gathering. What is that hairstyle? I’ll have my hairdresser come to your room in half an hour, then you’ll be ready to scintillate Paris,