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

his trouble. He can’t read and neither can I, so say what you need to him. He has a good memory for words, which is why I sent him.’

The boy doubled over in relief when he finished.

‘You forgot to tell me who the message is from,’ laughed Nicole. ‘Let me guess. Xavier?’

The boy beamed. ‘How did you know?’

Nicole tapped her nose. ‘You must be hungry. I’ll show you to the kitchens and you can eat something.’

‘No time, begging your pardon, my mother packed me bread and cheese. My cart is waiting outside, it’s on a delivery and I have to go on the rounds, then travel back with him today. Ten thousand bottles on it, all to one address – Madame Champs-Ricard, the richest widow in Paris! They’re yours, Madame. Clicquot on every cork. Louis organised the order with Xavier. He said that you sold it together at a ball. Nice work, Madame. Never seen that much go to one place.’

‘Who’s your mother?’

‘Marie Jumel, Madame.’

Marie, a prostitute Nicole had seen a lifetime ago, hawking her emaciated self round the square on the day of the revolution. Marie was now one of her most loyal employees, thanks to Nicole’s trust in a ‘fallen’ woman who was simply trying to feed her children.

‘You send my best regards to your mother. And take this for your trouble.’ She handed him two gold coins, which he bit, sucked his breath at the authentic yield to his teeth, then shoved deep into his pocket.

‘I am not to leave without an answer,’ he said importantly.

‘You can tell Xavier of course I will come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can you remember that?’

The boy hissed in derision. ‘Easy.’

Perfect. She could escape Paris for a while, honour François at the parade, then put it all behind her in a deal with Moët.

The day of the St Vincent Fête des Vignerons was bright and cold. The patron saint of vintners was smiling on them, people said. Last year, there was hail and it was a terrible year. The bright January sunshine was a good omen and people crossed themselves as they stepped in time to the tambours and cornets, past the mairie with its tricolore snapping smartly in the breeze.

Nicole’s bonnet and scarlet Bouzy robe gave her a kind of anonymity and importance. The town was in festive mood, all whispers about François forgotten, at least for today. The vintners had actually given her this position in the parade to honour his memory, so perhaps she’d been a little hasty in condemning the whole of Reims as her enemy. The first woman ever to lead the parade – François would have been so proud. He would have delighted, too, at their triumph over tradition.

Girls held ribbons sewn to floats piled with barrels, wine bottles, winter flowers and vines. The tasting committee smiled in greeting, wearing robes coloured according to their villages, or leather aprons and caps depending on their status. She pictured Thérésa laughing at their earnest country ways, but Nicole was surprised to realise that she felt at home, even without François at her side.

When the swirl of Natasha’s brass shop handle glinted at her in the sun, she strained to see her face at the counter. To her delight, Natasha ran out of the shop, bolted the door hastily and fell into step with her.

‘The prodigal returns. Reims is glad to have you back, Babouchette.’

Nicole looked at her friend. So different from Thérésa, and with so much unsaid between them.

‘Those are the first words you’ve spoken to me since François.’

‘I’m so sorry. My heartbreak was so deep that I didn’t have the strength for a friend, and I can’t forgive myself. I hope that you can. It was like Daniel died all over again. The memories of cradling his head, blood on the street.’

Natasha fingered her horseshoe necklace with trembling hands and made a quick movement, like a figure of eight, in front of both of them. Nicole noticed a few tiny grains of salt form the shape.

‘We have both suffered,’ said Nicole. ‘What should have brought us together set us apart, it seems. But let’s not talk about it, I’m just glad you’re here now.’

Natasha linked arms with her and squeezed her close. ‘I’m glad, too. I’ve missed your rebellious ways. The town has been a little too ordered without you and your wild schemes. You are submitting to Moët, I hear.’

Nicole gasped. ‘Not submitting. How did you know?’ she whispered, not wanting her Bouzy guild to hear before the deal was done.

‘I have a way of seeing, even when you are far away.’

‘Giving away patisseries in return for gossip?’ laughed Nicole.

‘Let’s just say that sugar loosens the tongue.’

‘Nothing is settled. But you’re right, of course. You always are! I’m meeting him in a couple of weeks to discuss terms. I don’t have the heart any more.’

By now the parade was almost coming to a halt in the cathedral square and the band was deafening.

‘Your business is your heart. Meet me later, at this address.’ Natasha pressed a note into her hand and melted away into the crowd.

How wonderful to have her old friend back! But why this mystery?

As soon as the ceremony was over and she was safely at home, Nicole opened the note and grabbed her cloak. She was glad to escape the townhouse in Reims, where François’ ghost still lived.

She’d recognised the address immediately – Antoine and Claudine. There was rarely a time when she entered that house and something momentous didn’t happen… François standing by the fireplace with his violin, eyes full of mischief. She smiled to herself, then quickened her step. A good memory! A picture of him, so vivid, that she could smile at it without wiping away a tear.

She clattered up the stairs, two at a time. Claudine was waiting.

‘Hush, what a racket! You’re not ten years old any more!’

‘I was so looking forward to seeing you. Plus, two stairs at a time is tradition.’ She smiled