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

husband should meddle in wine? I bet you know just as much as he does. You grew up in this town, we all did. It’s in our blood. You must have tasted hundreds of wines, discussed the ins and outs with your husband over the years? He doesn’t have the inclination this year to attend my tastings. Perhaps you and some of the other wives would lend a hand?’

‘I’m sure my husband would never condone such a—’

‘The husbands need never know. English tea parties are very fashionable at the moment and you can tell them that’s what you are attending. We’d have more leisure to talk about what really happened on my trip to Amsterdam. There were some frantic moments, I can tell you!’

‘Marvellous idea,’ said Natasha. ‘Let the men pretend they’re in charge!’

There was a glimmer of admiration in Madame Olivier’s stare. ‘Yes, it’s always better to let them think that. It makes them so much easier to manage. In that case, I will accept, my dear.’

‘I will send an invitation with Emile. If you could prepare the ground with some of the others…’

‘You can count on me, Madame Clicquot.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry that you heard me gossiping. My mouth just opens and out it comes, with no thought. Please don’t take it to heart.’

‘I understand. A bientôt.’

Madame Olivier left.

‘How could you have let her continue?’ said Nicole, but she didn’t mind. Maybe bumping into Madame Olivier was what she had needed.

Natasha squeezed out from behind the counter and hugged her. ‘It worked out for the best, didn’t it? Hearing her gave you a little spirit. It’s been a while since I saw that spark in your eye. Don’t cry. Things will get better, I promise. I’ve seen it.’ Natasha delved into her pocket and sketched a figure of eight around her head, salt skittering on the floor. ‘Now, let me guess, two religieuses? I hear Mentine is back from Paris for the holidays. You’ll accept a gift to help you celebrate?’

Nicole hurried home clutching the cakes. Her first foray out to face the town and a minor triumph. Her heart was still beating when she shut the door of the house on rue de la Vache, a letter from Louis she had collected from the post office trembling in her hand. She opened it, tucked her hair back and smoothed it out, smiling at the careless splodges of candle wax.

My dear Nicole,

I made it and so did your champagne! I am safely in St Petersburg, but I found much to worry about as I crossed Saxony and Prussia. All the talk is war, spreading as far as the grand square I see out of my window. It’s a beautiful morning and the idea seems unbelievable. We’ll see.

Despite the beauty of my view, it’s you I see as I write. You’re smoothing the paper and tutting at the spilt candle wax. Don’t frown! I won’t go short of candles, so don’t fret about the waste, or about me. I have friends here, including one that will surprise you. Thérésa! Or La Tallien, as she is affectionately called here.

She’s my ticket to every fashionable happening in this town. And this is a very fashionable town. Acres of tulle, a mine’s worth of diamonds and gold. Even the men swathe themselves in chinoiserie. I’m very dull in my wolfskin coat and boots, which I like to think makes me exotic in Reims. Thérésa has persuaded me on a shopping trip tomorrow…

What? Was there no one she couldn’t bewitch? Louis, on a shopping trip, such cosy domesticity?

…but don’t worry, her superficial charms don’t penetrate my thick skin. It’s you I’m here for. The Empress Elizabeth is pregnant with her first child and I predict a tide of champagne to celebrate the birth.

That’s the good news. There is bad, too. The place is buzzing with Napoléon, his next move, his unstoppable desires on the world and on Russia. That makes being French here tricky. My German origins help me, and Thérésa is strangely immune to any danger.

Now business. Thanks to your charming friend’s connections, we were invited to a state banquet at the Great Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, a paradise away from St Petersburg. Thérésa was of course thoroughly bored by the whole thing. She only had her eye on the prize and, within half an hour, we were introduced to the Tsar and Tsarina.

She explained how Napoléon preferred Moët, but anyone of real taste in France preferred a glass of the Veuve. Created by a petite young woman, blonde ardente with shrewd grey eyes who talks to her bottles as if they were her children. The finest champagne on earth. The Queen of Champagne.

My advice to you is to save every single bottle you can from those I left stored in Amsterdam – do not compromise on quality…

As if I ever would, Louis Bohne!

…and ship them immediately to St Petersburg. Leave the rest to your faithful servant.

Nicole imagined him taking another sip of burgundy, warmed by his success, pulling his wolfskin coat around him, with that grin that charmed society hosts across Europe.

She picked up a bottle of Bouzy from the mantelpiece and hugged it. The cool glass against her hot cheek felt wonderful. Enough.

This news leaves me only to say, I make progress with the Don Quixote book you gave me and think of my patronne every time I pick it up.

Your Louis

‘Maman!’

Mentine burst into her office, and careered towards her. She stopped short.

‘You’re not sad again?’

‘Come here, ma petite. Did you know that you can cry with sadness and happiness? These tears are happiness. I have good news from Russia. Papa would have been proud.’

‘You mean they’ll buy all your golden champagne and drink it in their onion buildings?’ she exclaimed, bright with excitement.

‘Who told you about golden champagne?’

‘Thérésa. When she wasn’t all dressed up and going out to a ball, she came to the nursery and told us stories. Our favourite was