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

His cheeks were ruddier and fuller. She thanked her lucky comet. It might take time, but he’d make a full recovery.

‘All those years in the jail, I thought of you, your shipment mostly ruined, business dead. For all we tried, Babouchette. Nothing but a cell full of cockroaches.’

Nicole nodded, hard times for all of them. Why had Thérésa not written to her to tell her about all this? Maybe she had and the letter was lost, or perhaps she didn’t want to risk news of her using her contacts to release a French ‘spy’. Thérésa lived and died by her ability to obfuscate and she always ensured she appeared to be on the winning side.

Louis recovered in the little hostel where Thérésa had left him. The winter was so severe that he had to wait for the spring melt before he could think of leaving. He got to know the family who ran the hostel. The father was German, like him. Thérésa had chosen well – he sympathised with his countryman more than most Russians would have. As he got stronger, he collected eggs and ran repairs, sitting by the range in the evenings, chatting to the bubble of the samovar, paying his way with his hands. He knew he didn’t belong there, but he was afraid to strike out again into the unknown. The few visitors they had were hostile to the French, the bag of coins Thérésa had left him was long gone and he had not a franc to his name.

‘You should have sent for money, Louis. I would never have left you stranded…’

‘How could I ask you for money when things were going so badly for you? I was no longer your salesman. Besides’ – he sat up straighter – ‘I had a lot of time to think in that jail. I wanted to return to you as an equal.’

He eventually left the hostel with the spring melt, gingerly striking out on a horse that he would pay his hosts for in better times.

When he saw the port at Königsberg and a Dutch frigate waiting to sail, he cried for the first time in his adult life. He secured a job as a cook to pay his passage, tasted his first champagne since his arrest at the party with the hundred candles at St Petersburg. He poured himself a thimbleful and sliced a sliver off the foie gras and it tasted like heaven as the ship cut the foam, salt spray on his fingers, speeding home. With the lights of Reims finally in sight, he didn’t have an ounce of strength left in him, and he’d collapsed at the first shelter he could find, in the hut. That night two miracles had happened. The first was the comet, and the second was Nicole arriving at the hut and flinging herself on the ground to watch the stars. In his delirious state, he thought he was dreaming.

Louis was changed. Faint lines marked his smile, his eyes were flintier. He had lost the childlike way he had about him, lost some of his enthusiasm. He was more serious. She liked the change.

By April, the comet had disappeared and the time to disappoint Monsieur Moët with Louis’ appearance loomed. He couldn’t hide in Antoine and Claudine’s spare room forever.

In the fields, the April sun was unusually strong and bud burst came early. She rode out every day to watch the leaves grow acid green once more, sending out curling tendrils to cling to the training ropes, supervised as the plants were trimmed and trained, ensuring all the energy from the thick stems could be transferred to the fruit when the time came.

Another month passed and the vines grew so fast that if Nicole stood for long enough, she could see them grow under the beating sun: warm but not too strong, caressing the plants and encouraging fruit. She could not remember a year where the conditions were so perfect you could have taken them from one of Chaptal’s Art of Wine Growing pamphlets. She checked her roses, vigorous and free of blight or insects. By June, the comet had brought a good omen at least in this, and Louis was well enough for the dreaded meeting with Monsieur Moët.

She invited Moët to the press at Bouzy for one of his beloved ‘inspections’ of his future property. God only knew what he’d do when he saw Louis had returned and their contract was null and void, but at least it would be on her own territory, surrounded by her own workers.

She heard the carriage draw up on the gravel, the gruff orders to the stable boys to water the horses and the brisk march to the office door.

‘You need to get that gate fixed, it gives the wrong impression,’ he ordered as he stepped inside. When he saw Louis, he didn’t miss a beat. ‘Monsieur Louis Bohne!’

The men shook hands.

‘The very same,’ replied Louis as Moët slapped him on the back and drew him in for a manly embrace.

‘You old rogue, you’re back and looking hale and hearty. Collaborating with Russians has done you the power of good.’

‘If you think collaborating with Russians involves lying half-starved, forgotten and filthy in a godforsaken hellhole, then yes, it’s been a blast.’

‘Madame Clicquot, no doubt you have invited me here to spring the return of your star salesman upon me with no prior warning to ensure it’s as delightful a surprise as it has turned out to be. Wonderful.’ He beamed, taking a seat at her desk. The man certainly had nerve.

‘So, just to be straight, this means…’ Nicole began.

Monsieur Moët held up his hand. ‘Spare me the explanation. The situation is very clear. Our little agreement is rendered null and void with the miraculous return of the prodigal Monsieur Bohne. I’m very pleased for you.’ He turned to Louis. ‘You’ll take over the reins alongside Madame Clicquot and I’m very happy she is in safe hands. I wanted to do everything I