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

about a handsome man and a beautiful woman who could taste the land and the sky and make it into magic champagne. It made me think of you and Papa. Now you are sad!’

‘No, I’m happy again now. That’s a lovely story. Look here, I bought us a treat from Natasha.’

Nicole unwrapped Natasha’s religieuses and Mentine ate quietly.

‘I much prefer Thérésa’s stories to Mireille’s.’

‘Who’s Mireille?’

‘Mireille Olivier. I play with her in the square. Her grandpa is Monsieur Olivier, the wine taster.’

‘What stories does Mireille tell?’

‘Oh, boring ones. It’s better when she shuts up and I beat her at hopscotch.’ Mentine looked away.

‘That runs in the family. The Clicquots have always been good at hopscotch. People tell all sorts of stories that aren’t true. Tell me what Mireille says, and we can play a game. True or false.’

‘Papa was weak-minded.’

Her heart careened with grief and anger, but she was careful not to show it.

‘False. He was the most poetic, kindest, cleverest man in Reims. Next.’

‘You should stay inside and wear pretty dresses and stop meddling.’

‘False. Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you should stop doing anything you want to. Some girls like to stay in and wear pretty dresses. I don’t. I want to do lots more things. Sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes people don’t like other people doing things that are unusual. But that should never, ever stop you. Next.’

‘You dig the soil with your own hands, like a peasant.’

‘She got one right! True. There’s nothing like the feel of the soil in your hands, knowing it will grow the grapes that make the golden champagne. It’s magic. You can’t make champagne without knowing every single thing you need to do to make it good. You can tell her that. Her grandpa would agree.’

‘I will,’ said Mentine in a small voice.

‘Let’s not talk about Mireille any more. She does sound a bit boring. You have a bit of cream on your forehead. How could such a tiny amount of cream end up in so many places?’

They giggled.

Conniving, small-minded, pious, gossiping, two-faced snakes the lot of them. Nicole was going to Amsterdam to save whatever Louis couldn’t take the first time round and send it overland to him and his Tsar and Tsarina. She’d scrap the rest and start again.

Chapter 13

Praying for a Miracle

August 1806

The moon was in her favour, bright and crisp. The stables smelt of hay and sweat. Nicole took off her riding glove to feel the bay’s soft muzzle, then slipped on the harness, buckles jangling in the darkness, the horse stamping at the imposition.

‘I’m not doing it,’ said Xavier, folding his arms tight.

Nicole led the horse out and thrust the reins at him. ‘Then I’ll have to do it myself. Hold these.’

She lifted the carriage shafts, her arms barely reaching between the two, and heaved. The cart didn’t budge.

‘I’m going, so you might as well help me.’

‘You look like an ant trying to shift a rock. Here.’

He gave her back the reins and she dropped the shafts. Xavier had it fixed up in seconds. She jumped up.

‘Lift up my trunk and tie it down. I’m not going to be stopping much.’

‘You’re stubborn, but I never thought you were stupid.’

‘It will only take about a week to get to Amsterdam if I’m fast. Don’t worry, I’ll change horses on the way. Listen, Louis won’t leave Russia until the new consignment arrives. Things are desperate there since Napoléon’s advance – anyone French is under suspicion. I’m so worried about him; he’s already been robbed once. He says if I get everything to him in the next month, he promises to leave.

‘You know how it is. If I don’t go to Amsterdam alone to rescue my bottles, the whole town will write my business off, and I can’t afford another race to the border. Not with Moët – or any of the other vintners for that matter. Just tie up my trunk and wish me luck. Mentine is safe with my parents, and don’t forget to tell Madame Olivier I’m visiting Thérésa in Paris for the end of the season. That way, the whole town will know within hours. They’d much rather I was sifting through potential husbands in Paris than sorting my bottles in Amsterdam and earning an honest living.’

‘You’ll need a bloody miracle if you think you can do this alone,’ said Xavier, securing the ropes on the trunk.

‘Miracles happen every year, right here in my vineyards, and I’m not letting any of it go to waste.’

‘Do what you bloody well like then. Just don’t come crying to me when you get robbed or raped on the road, or break a wheel in a rut, or get kidnapped by one of those cheese-breathed, foul-mouthed Dutch sailors.’

‘I can’t come crying to you if I’ve been kidnapped,’ she retorted.

Xavier tutted, but with a glint of pride he grumbled, ‘Go, while it’s still dark. And don’t worry, I’ll pick up the pieces here while you’re off on your wild goose chase.’

She cracked the whip. The cool night air stung her cheeks; the road ahead was bright and moonlit. She flew as fast as the bay was willing until the vineyards turned to farmland and the sun introduced the new day with a blazing show of mackerel clouds.

Amsterdam was sultry; the docks were deserted again, the air so thick it was like breathing cotton wool. Her black widow’s dress clung to her and a bloated sun lolled on the horizon. Sailors and dock workers sprawled outside the taverns, still up from the night before, too much time on their hands with no ships sailing in or out, drunkenly catcalling clusters of prostitutes. Some of the girls were very young, emaciated and sallow, collarbones protruding above pushed-up breasts. Someone’s baby, now a dead-eyed skeleton. Fortunes rose and fell fast in war. At least she was keeping her own employees in work.

Nicole hurried past, grateful that the prostitutes rendered her invisible. When she reached the warehouse where Louis had