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

the weariness came over her like lead. She could go to sleep now, right here on the docks. A coil of rope would be a featherbed, but there was no time. Back home it was harvest and she belonged there.

The journey home was exhausting, but at the final leg before Reims, her faithful Pinot was waiting for her, fresh and watered. Xavier’s dire predictions about her travelling alone had come to nothing and, as she jolted into the vineyards, the morning mist clinging to the vines, the sky was soft with sunrise and the field hands were already out picking, small dark figures moving purposefully. Thank God again for Xavier.

She jumped down and bit into a grape. The hot summer was in the sweetness, mixed with the taste of the chalky earth that had nurtured it. A good harvest. Borrowing a knife from a picker, she sliced off a bunch and placed it with the others in the basket.

‘For you,’ she whispered to François. He had planted these vines with his own hands.

Chapter 14

The Women’s Tasting Committee

November 1806

September and October were seared with lack of news from either Louis or her bottles. Every time a letter was delivered, or a post horse churned up the dust, Nicole’s stomach lurched, and every time disappointment burned. What a relief to find hope in the arrival of the women’s tasting committee, who she would teach to help with the blends, and even replace the men who refused to help her. She also congratulated herself, developing allies at the epicentre of her detractors. When the horses kicked up the gravel in the press yard, she ran out to greet the carriage.

‘You’re early, but please come in. Xavier’s setting everything up for the tasting. Just the two of you?’ asked Nicole.

‘Just us. Quality, not quantity, my dear,’ said Madame Olivier.

Nicole stooped and picked a piece of milkweed from the gravel to hide her disappointment and took them to the tasting rooms. They’d been set up for at least five more people, with tall stools and tables, neatly laid-out spittoons, starched white napkins and polished wine glasses, all beautifully arranged in the simple brick room attached to the press for the purpose. She directed Xavier to take away some of the tables and chairs and his face darkened in sympathy.

‘May I introduce Mademoiselle Var,’ said Madame Olivier.

‘Please, call me Joelle,’ she said shyly. ‘How exciting, to be mistress of all you survey!’

‘It’s my life,’ said Nicole. ‘We’re waiting for Natasha, then we’ll be four. Still enough to make up a little tasting committee. Please, sit.’

‘Before Natasha arrives, is there time for advice from an old lady?’ said Madame Olivier.

‘And a sympathetic old maid?’ said Joelle.

‘Oh?’

‘They should just come out and say it, or it’s not fair,’ said Madame Olivier.

‘Who?’

‘Pretty much every woman of standing in this town.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear this.’

‘You have a right to know. And a right to reply,’ said Madame Olivier. ‘They’re saying that you bring shame on your father.’

‘How? My father is more than capable of fighting his own battles, and I can definitely fight mine.’

‘Why fight battles? I am saying what you don’t want to hear, but your little daughter – Mentine, I think?’

Nicole nodded.

‘Mentine didn’t ask for her mother to bring shame on her little head. Rumour has it that your salesman is in Russia – a dangerous place for him to be in these times. Philippe Clicquot partly bankrolls your endeavours and all this risk – for what? For you to indulge yourself in this hobby, acting like a man?’

‘Mentine’s reputation is in danger because of people like you! I am running a business nearly every family in this town has a hand in. You blindly follow old rules and traditions, what for?’

‘Rules are made for a reason. Men do business, women look after the home, unless they have no choice, like your friend Natasha, for instance.’

‘Has the revolution changed nothing?’

‘Not for women.’

‘If you believe that, then why are you here?’ said Nicole, exasperated. ‘Did you just come for more fuel for your idle gossip?’

‘Come, come, my dear,’ said Madame Olivier. ‘I’m sure it’s escaped no one’s notice that I do like to know everyone’s business. But the way you spoke to me in the bakery did alter my opinion of you, and I must admit, we were intrigued. We came here to find out more about you, but also, who else in this town could teach us about what has always been a man’s domain? No one has ever singled me out for anything as interesting as this.’ Madame Olivier gestured to the wine-tasting accoutrements.

So she was a mere curiosity to be stared at. Nicole began to regret her invitation to these ladies.

‘I’m late, my apologies.’ Natasha stood in the doorway. ‘This is the first time I’ve closed the bakery in thirty years and it was difficult to leave.’

Xavier appeared carrying bottles. ‘Welcome to the coven,’ he growled.

Natasha sat up at the tasting tables with the others.

‘Now. You all look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ Natasha fished out some parcels from her bag and put them on the table. ‘Recognise these?’ Natasha said to Madame Olivier, revealing a key wrapped in velvet and an icon of Saint Rémi.

Madame Oliver didn’t reply.

‘You gave them to me when Daniel died. No one was kinder than you.’

‘The key to the bakery,’ said Madame Olivier quietly.

‘And Saint Rémi. You gave me the key to my new bakery and the rent has been far below the market value ever since, thanks to you. You said that the Saint Rémi meant I belonged to the town, when everyone else thought I should go back to Russia. You told me your husband was cruel and you wish he had died instead and that you had my freedom.’

Madame Olivier went pale. Natasha clasped her hand and pushed up her sleeve. The outline of a purple hand-shaped bruise revealed her story. Madame Olivier yanked down her sleeve, ashamed.

‘Still, after all these years?’