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

The soil didn’t age though; every year it looked the same, the pale crust turned over to reveal a moist underbelly full of worms as birds hovered, bagging a breakfast of wriggling meat.

‘Morning, Xavier, how’s the planting going?’

‘Forty centimetres apart. And I’ve been over that soil so many times I could wash my arse in it. You know it makes no difference whether it’s forty-five or thirty-five centimetres?’

‘Bon,’ she said, shaking out her ruler and working the length of a row, measuring for herself. ‘On est presque là. Move this a little to the left…’ She secured a stick at the exact point. ‘This one needs to move here.’

She carefully planted the vine, sprinkled it with sand and tramped it down with a little of the fumure – the ashes from the quarry. All being right, these grapes would taste clean, bright and creamy, a perfect accompaniment to oysters. She already had the right Paris buyer in mind.

‘Give me that,’ said Xavier, grabbing the ruler. ‘You have company.’

Moët, advancing towards her from the place where his vineyard abutted her own. It seemed wherever she looked he was always there.

‘Nothing is to be left to chance,’ she addressed the men, tugging a root out of the soil and sniffing it. ‘Horseweed. Give the new vines a chance! Each one of you is responsible for making sure they are in pristine soil. I will keep you all in jobs and pay every person here a bonus if we have a good harvest. War or no war, we will keep selling and that will keep us all in jobs. But it all depends on the vines. What you are doing now will lay the ground for Chardonnay, for our best vins mousseux. I am giving my best territory to it. Centre of the slope, facing south. I expect the best labour you can give in return. Between us all, our wine will be the best.’

‘I admire your confidence,’ said Moët as he arrived at her side. ‘But you know you’re wasting your time.’

‘It’s the best waste of time I can think of, n’est-ce pas?’

He pointed to a withered shoot down the line of vines. ‘Keep an eye on that one, you can’t afford to waste a single plant in this operation.’

‘Your advice is invaluable, Jean-Rémy. I imagine the day it’s not so forthcoming and dream of what might happen.’

‘A man sees the detail and the bigger picture simultaneously. I won’t disturb you further – there’s clearly a lot of work to do here.’

She saluted. Let him think what he liked. Thanks to her continued failures, she and Moët had reached an uncomfortable understanding. He’d even shared a few trade secrets and introduced her to a decent bottle supplier when hers went bust. An introduction from him smoothed any worries they might have had about opening a credit account with a woman, and it was easier to keep him sweet where she could. He enjoyed bestowing his superior wisdom and having it accepted, so for now things were stable and she even had some standing amongst the vintners as a tolerated curiosity.

He saluted back, spurred his horse and rode on by. Every small victory built towards a bigger one, Natasha said, but Madame Olivier had delivered bad news the day before. She had it on good authority that a banker’s cheque written by François’ father, Philippe Clicquot, had not been honoured. He still had his personal wealth, but the business account was running dry. Nicole resolved not to take another sou from him, and to pay him back everything with interest when things came right.

She joined the band of orphanage boys, grabbed a spade and helped with the digging. The responsibility of all these dependants pushed her shovel deeper. Louis disappeared, François… and poor Philippe. What would she do if it all fell apart?

She turned over another shovelful of earth. The only way was to push forward, create the finest wines, keep her team together. François had taught her that a vintner was only as good as his workers, and respect grew from working alongside them. After all these years, François’ face had faded, but every now and then her memory clarified, like ripples dissipating in a well, settling to a clear reflection. The reflection smiled and her stomach flipped.

Fragmented dust hanging in the sunlit, silent cloisters of her childhood school, the crimson of her woollen dress on the day of the revolution, the taste of the mellow harvest sun in a Muscat, François leading her on a wild polka in their walled vineyard at Villers-Allerand. Like a year in the fields, her life had come full circle and yet here she was, still completely alone.

When the trenches were dug, she headed for Natasha’s bakery. It felt like home on days like this, each patisserie a little celebration.

‘You are melancholy, my dear. Come,’ Natasha said, leading her by the arm to the kitchen and sitting her down. ‘No time for brooding. I’ll cast a spell that will make you happy.’

Natasha sprinkled salt at her feet and knocked the table three times.

‘Knocking and a bit of salt? Life’s pretty simple if that’s all it takes.’ Nicole took a sip of Natasha’s hot coffee and sighed.

‘You want to believe. And I know you can’t stay unhappy for long. It’s not in your nature. You just need a friend to tell you to stop.’

As she kissed Natasha goodbye, a bird smacked into the bakery window and fell, stunned, to the ground, its speeding heart pounding visibly. Natasha’s face darkened and she hurried inside, crossing herself.

Nicole shivered and paced across the square past the cathedral, where a tall figure standing by a loaded barrel cart beckoned. Moët again. It was one thing bumping into him out in the fields, surrounded by her workers, quite another to be trapped alone with him.

She held out her hand in place of a curtsey and he gripped it tight.

‘I’m afraid all the ups and downs of your little hobby business is the