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

‘No good. Reject,’ pronounced Monsieur Olivier when he tasted her best Pinot Noir.

The scaled-down committee nodded in agreement.

‘Are you sure?’ protested Nicole. ‘Last year was just right for these. They’re from my prime spot on the Côtes des Bar. It would make a wonderful blend.’

‘You’re losing your touch, Madame Clicquot, I cannot agree,’ said Monsieur Olivier. ‘Gentlemen?’

‘Just a little too acid,’ said Monsieur Var, spitting.

‘A couple more weeks on the vine and it would have been perfect, but sadly…’ added Monsieur Faubert with a delicate cough.

Nicole took another sip. They were wrong, but she moved on to the next. And the next. Each one was rejected.

Monsieur Olivier patted her hand. ‘Standards must be maintained. My humble advice is to wait until next year. Patience is the greatest virtue in the wine business. Undue haste and risk-taking just don’t pay off, I’m sure you understand that now. We must all stand together to maintain the reputation of the Champagne region, put aside individual profit for the greater good. I sincerely hope you have better luck with this year’s crop, Madame Clicquot.’

The men shook her hand and left so quickly she didn’t even have time to ask after their wives. When they passed Xavier on the way out, he spat at their feet.

‘Xavier, what was that for?’ asked Nicole.

‘I suppose they rejected all your blends?’ he asked, glowering.

‘How did you know?’

‘That running sore, Moët, put them up to it. The whole town’s buzzing with it, like wasps round jam. You’re a disaster. You’ve lost everything. Pissed Philippe Clicquot’s investment against a wall, consorted with a high-class prostitute from Paris whilst making a mad dash for the coast with a fortune in champagne. He says it’s no surprise, with madness in the family.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The rumours are back again, fertilised by Moët’s own brand of stinking manure. They mean François. They say you’re like him. You take too many risks and when the going gets tough you fold. There’s not a man within a hundred miles of you who’ll do business with you. He’s made sure of that.’

Chapter 12

The Arrogance of Women

July 1806

Another stifling day, with the water troughs as dry as Nicole’s heart and the grapes withering on the vines. The news of the failed shipment spread like wildfire. What better way to pass the long summer evenings than discussing the failure of the arrogant Veuve Clicquot? At least her beautiful little Mentine was home from Paris and she was her world, but even that was difficult, trying to protect her from the gossip in this little town.

She scraped her fingers across the rough trough to feel something. Her world was getting smaller. The window of opportunity had been narrow and she had failed spectacularly. The blockades could last for months, years even. French exports, particularly anything as wonderfully French as champagne, were vilified and blocked. Her best trading countries – the Holy Roman Empire, along with Britain and Russia – had formed the Third Coalition, cutting her off, and she was trapped in the tiny world of Reims, in a sea of hostility and humiliation. And she hadn’t heard a word from Louis since the day they’d said goodbye on the docks. What had she been thinking, sending him back to Russia?

She steeled herself as she crossed the square in front of the cathedral. The gargoyles shimmered in the heat, mocking her. Maybe she was going mad.

The wholesome smell of baking caught in her throat as she hastily smudged away a tear. Madame Olivier was gossiping at the counter with Natasha and her heart sank. She needed to speak to Natasha alone.

‘Still stuck at Amsterdam?’ Madame Olivier asked Natasha.

Natasha acknowledged Nicole with a glance and gave Madame Oliver a purse-lipped nod in reply.

Madame Olivier pressed on, oblivious to Nicole’s presence. ‘She’ll ruin poor Philippe Clicquot with her wild schemes, that one, as if he hasn’t suffered enough. I can’t believe she dragged you into it too, when you’ve worked so hard to build your reputation alone in this town…’

The wine taster’s wife was an enthusiastic gossip, with far too much time on her hands. How dare she! Nicole opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha stayed her discreetly with a raise of her hand, and let Madame Olivier continue.

‘And Monsieur Bohne, left in poverty, consorting with an aristocrat on the run from the authorities. It’s all right for her. She won’t starve, her parents will make sure of that. She’ll have to learn. Leave it to the men. Monsieur Moët tried his best to help, I believe? How could she have possibly refused his kind offers, a woman in her position?’

‘Perhaps you could ask her yourself.’ Natasha nodded in Nicole’s direction.

Madame Olivier swung round. ‘My dear. Here’s me gossiping as always and you’re right there.’

‘Indeed I am. Monsieur Moët is not the saint you imagine, you know.’

‘Oh?’

Nicole could see that the chance of some unique knowledge of the Veuve Clicquot situation clearly grabbed Madame Olivier’s attention. She forced herself to suppress the need to tear her down a strip or two for her unkindness.

Despite the town gossip’s pinched lips and gimlet eyes, there was something needy and vulnerable about her, and Nicole had heard the rumours about her controlling husband. A germ of an idea began to form.

‘The truth is, he tried to stop me in the most underhand way,’ said Nicole, mustering up as much of a tone of friendliness as she could. ‘And me, a widow, just trying to continue my late husband’s legacy. François lived for those vines. He almost loved them into life. Unfortunately, Monsieur Moët respects my business enough to want to try to stop me. I can’t believe this town doesn’t see right through him. I understand he had the temerity to override some of your husband’s blending decisions recently, n’est-ce pas? He’s powerful enough already, isn’t he?’

‘Really? What happened?’ Madame Olivier was completely hooked.

‘You think a woman isn’t capable? That only her