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

her behalf, whilst politely enquiring exactly who these females were. That their identity was top secret brought even more derision, but there was no way that Nicole could reveal Madame Olivier’s involvement to her violent husband. Whatever they thought didn’t matter. The indisputable fact was that her wines were far superior to any of her competitors’. Everyone knew that, and sometimes, at the markets, or at the feast of St Rémi, when Monsieur Moët and Monsieur Olivier were otherwise occupied, the kinder members of the committee would seek her out and tell her so, even ask her advice on the finer points of the blend or fermentation.

The dedication of the women’s tasting committee to the craft was unstoppable, undertaking blind tastings and studying varietals in the privacy of their own homes so as not to arouse suspicion, then swapping tips and discoveries in Natasha’s bakery on a daily basis. As a result, their instincts were honed and reliable. Nicole was still the ‘super nose’, but if she was unsure, they were ready with an informed verdict, taking pleasure in a colourful turn of phrase… There’s a north-slope dreariness to the top note… The tannins are as bitter as my granny’s recycled coffee dregs… Bright and breezy as a walk by the sea.

They also brought her invaluable insights from her competitors. Madame Olivier was married to a stalwart of the Reims vintners’ cabal and Mademoiselle Var was so shy and retiring that no one thought for a moment to suspect espionage when she asked a pointed question about the latest goings-on with a simpering smile.

A glimmer of light. The winter had been harsh, but the black vines had fought off the frost bravely and now, in March, Nicole fretted about the fresh little shoots and how much time she had left before Moët’s deal matured. Still no news of Louis. It was nearly five years since his arrest, and she had to believe that he was dead. She buried herself in work to stop the thought. If he was gone, he took what was left of her heart with him, and all her hopes of a legal split from Moët when the contract was due this autumn.

All she could do was keep going.

Nicole picked out a bottle from last year that she had marked. She had refined the blend with her committee and they agreed, all being well, this young champagne would taste of white flowers, crisp white bread and mint. She held it to a candle and smiled at the froth.

‘The moon has done its job,’ she whispered to it.

She imagined Monsieur Moët’s response: ‘The second fermentation is in process. Attention to detail, meticulous care. All this talk about the moon is superstitious nonsense amongst peasants.’

By now, she and François would be waltzing through the cellars in celebration, with the workers laughing behind their hands. All the best wines were made with love.

Her sister was happily married and a rich housewife. Why could she not just be satisfied like her? Her parents worried about her constantly, but knew better than to try to persuade her off her course. Besides, they understood her responsibility to the business and her workers. And what about Mentine, studying hard at boarding school? Her daughter herself had asked to go to the top establishment in Paris and was showing a great appetite for learning and study. How could she just give up and teach her that a girl couldn’t have the same dreams of success as men? She just had to keep going.

Putting the bottle back carefully, she trudged up the cellar steps, locked the door and went out into the evening to complete her lonely routine. She didn’t sleep well nowadays, so she tramped the borders of her vineyards every night, to try to walk off the worry.

Through the vineyards, clods of clay and chalk weighed her boots and the dew wet her ankles as she hitched up her skirts to walk the familiar chalky paths. She paced until the lights of the press and cellar were no longer visible and she was surrounded by vines. When she reached the roofless shelter, she lay on the ground to watch the stars. The earth was cool on the back of her neck, gritty in her hair. She smoothed her hands over the sticky, pale soil and looked up at the velvet sky.

A shooting star crossed, just above the horizon, and she waited for it to shatter and die before she made a wish. The thing kept going. She stared at it, so long her limbs stiffened with cold. It stayed hovering, a bright sphere with a tail, fizzing away. She checked the constellations. All in the right place. Orion, her knight, reminded her of François, cold and brittle up there in the night sky, but undimmed. The tail was forked, and around the bright sphere was a cascade of shattered light, like a sparkling veil. The points of light rushed in a cordon of fine bubbles away from the central sphere. She imagined her ideal champagne, the first nose: orange peel, brioche, wheat, peach. The second nose: milky toffee, honey, walnut and vanilla.

A twitch of movement in the corner of her eye drew her attention away from the skies. She glanced around to see a sackcloth in the corner moving. She froze, then crouched, ready to run. It shifted, fell sideways and revealed a filthy man barely able to sit himself up.

‘Wondering what the fuck that thing in the sky is?’ he said. He had wild eyes, mud-caked skin covered in sores.

She’d know that voice anywhere. A slight German lilt, sewer mouth. Her heart soared.

‘Louis! You’re here, you came home. Oh, Jesus, you’re alive.’

He was skin and bones, fragile as a chick in a nest. She wanted to hug him but she was afraid she’d hurt him.

‘Any chance of getting a drink and something to eat around here?’

‘My God, I thought I’d lost you! You’ll have a feast and vintage champagne and everything you need.