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

all saw her as a curiosity from the country, a peasant girl in Paris, only as good as the fashions she chose. Thérésa had hardly noticed when she said goodbye. And Mentine was happily installed with the other children at rue de Babylone for now.

‘For you. For your mother. Let’s try it.’

Natasha narrowed her eyes. ‘For you, too, Babouchette. For us both. And I have found a less demanding partner for you than Monsieur Moët. It seems the whole town think I have your ear. Dear Philippe Clicquot has asked me to petition you on his behalf. I know you’ve always refused his money, but you should let him help. Your father-in-law is desperate to have a stake in the future of the business on behalf of his son and it’s wrong of you to refuse him. You see, the decision is out of your hands.’

‘It seems it is and rather than submitting to Moët, it seems I must submit to you.’

She could blame Natasha, or convince herself she was doing the right thing for Philippe Clicquot and his son’s legacy, or the temptation of the fifty-thousand-bottle sale, but she knew this feeling had begun at the Fête des Vignerons when she had taken her place amongst Champagne’s finest producers. New shoots of hope and ambition, whatever the odds. The excitement of the sale, a chance to beat the competition, new customers to taste the subtleties of her finest creations.

She picked up the sale bill again and studied it for the buyer’s name on the order slip, mentally sifting through her ledgers to make sure they were good payers and would be worth the effort.

Natasha met her hungry gaze. ‘Finally you’re seeing sense.’

Claudine bustled in with a tray of coffee. ‘All settled?’

It was a conspiracy of kindness.

Chapter 8

Contraband

February 1806

Republican date: Revolutionary calendar abolished

Nicole took the same route to Moët’s as she had the day she first met François. It was good to be back amongst the vines, even on this bleak February morning. As the carriage sped through the landscape, she saw in her mind François, a stranger then, pointing out the larks hovering over the poppies. It had been difficult to concentrate on what he was saying with those blue-green eyes smiling into hers, a mellow harvest sun melting the air. He’d explained about the terroir and the different grape varietals, ripe and heavy. Today the vines were dormant and black, the larks were long gone and the meeting with Moët filled her with dread and loneliness. She breathed in the musty smell of damp soil. No matter, the black vines would sprout fresh shoots again soon.

The meeting was at Moët’s own Petit Trianon, the replica Versailles summer house built especially for Napoléon’s visits, an incongruous wedding-cake of a place. Her watery reflection in the mirror pool looked much more sure-footed than she felt as she strode along, gulping in cool air fresh as Vinho Verde.

Moët was waiting, beckoning impatiently at the doorway.

‘Follow me, ma chère, it’s all arranged. You have made a very good decision, one that will benefit your whole family.’

Moët shepherded her like a demented sheepdog, ushering her along with his hand on her elbow. He found time to admire a gallery wall.

‘Just a few miniatures by Isabey,’ he prompted.

Isabey was the darling of the fashionable Paris set. He painted miniature portraits for disproportionately large amounts of money and Moët had a whole wall of them. They were of himself, his family, Joséphine, Napoléon – the most influential man in Champagne and in the business. A word from Napoléon meant thousands of francs’ worth of sales. Monsieur Moët meant to demonstrate that his pockets were deep enough to ruin her, but she wasn’t about to add her vineyards to his riches.

Nicole gave him what he clearly wanted from her by way of response. ‘Very impressive,’ she conceded. ‘Before we go any further, I—’

‘You have been through enough, chère Nicole. I have taken care of every detail for you,’ Jean-Rémy said, handing her a package. ‘Not another word until you’ve opened it.’

Out of politeness, she untied the ribbon. It was a wrapper of fat bulbs.

‘Grapevines are such a bore, and require an awful lot of skill, but these are irises, the highly scented ones. You adore them, I hear. Indulge your growing hobby and plant them yourself, appreciate the soil under your fingernails if you must, but you’ll find these so much more feminine than vines.’

She scrunched them up in their wrapper and handed them back. He had always got her so wrong. How could he think that she would be satisfied with such things? What was she thinking when she even considered marriage, or selling up to him?

‘So thoughtful, Jean-Rémy, but I came to tell you I’m not selling after all.’

‘I don’t expect anything in return. Your feelings have already been made clear to me on that score, but I insist on helping a bright young widow in need. One last thing, and you are free. Please open it and I think you’ll be persuaded.’

He handed her an envelope and she tore it open. It was a cheque for the business and the vineyards, double what they were worth.

‘I’m not selling,’ she repeated, unsure whether he had genuinely not heard her, or was merely pretending.

‘The vineyards will go to rack and ruin, and it will be such a waste – and for what? To play at business when you have no head for it? You’ll find other distractions after the terrible tragedy of losing your husband. This amount will make you an independent woman of means. I present you… your freedom,’ he said with a flourish.

‘Jean-Rémy, I don’t think you can have heard me…’ This man really was a self-regarding pompous arse who was incapable of listening.

‘Take it. Not another word.’

‘I don’t want it. I’m not selling the vineyards. I came back to Reims to run them myself.’

His eyes hardened. ‘Of course you’re selling. You have already agreed and you must understand that a