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

town that their superstitions were correct. ‘Let the wine speak for you,’ she whispered. It was something François had always said when he was teaching her at tastings. He told her it was like poetry and could tell the story of the land. That night, she dreamt of him in his good times. Moët’s actions had brought her that at least. The next morning, she was resolved. To work.

Crossing the press yard, she held her head high, greeting workers, exchanging brisk pleasantries about their families and the day’s work ahead as normal, whilst enduring sideways glances of sympathy or suspicion. This will pass, just another little setback, like a hailstorm or a difficult harvest, she told herself as she slammed the office door behind her.

Her hand shook with fury at Moët as she held her quill above the ledgers and buried herself in them. The figures were safe, neat, indisputable, unlike life or François or the chaotic vines, so vulnerable to disease, the weather, pests and whatever God chose to throw at them. And whatever regrets she might have had about the precious pawned necklace, it would protect her financially for a while longer.

That evening, after all the workers had left, she went alone into the cellars. The silence cocooned her and as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, the bottles gleamed reassuringly back at her. Every one of them was redemption. Every one the result of her management, her taste, her labours. Every one testament to François and her marriage and love for him and the vines. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, just her and the bottles and silence, but when she emerged, the moon was high and bright. She trudged across the yard to sleep, and dreamt of the moment that François died a thousand times over.

Chapter 18

Beginnings

September 1811

When she heard the explosions, Nicole thought she was still having nightmares. But no, she was awake, and the light streaming through the drapes brought the relief of morning. Was it the boom of thunder, perhaps? She looked outside. Clear blue skies. Where the hell was it coming from? Underground? Please God, no.

‘Josette!’ she called. Her maid came running. ‘Find Louis, wherever he is!’

Nicole flung a shawl around her aching shoulders and ran to the press. Workers scattered out of the cellars, holding handkerchiefs, rags, whatever they could, over their faces, coughing and spluttering. They couldn’t have read the notices in town yet if they were still with her.

Xavier came running. ‘It’s the whole 1810 batch, a river of wasted champagne. Glass everywhere. It’s all ruined.’

‘Those bottles? The ones we ordered from Moët’s supplier?’

He nodded. Nicole pushed through the workers staggering out of the cellars.

‘Don’t! It’s lethal in there!’ shouted Xavier.

She flew as far down the steps as she dared. Candles were too dangerous in this volatile place, so she waited for her eyes to adjust. Fumes choked her and the bottles were still blowing, spewing yellow liquid, glass knifing through the air.

All she could do was watch, stupefied, a scene straight from hell. At least ten thousand bottles ruined.

‘Disaster after disaster. When will she learn?’

Nicole’s eyes snapped open. Two women fussed around her. Blue sky, gravel, milkweed. She was laid out near the cellar door.

‘Shh, she’s come round.’

Nicole tried to sit up.

‘Don’t try to move, Babouchette.’

Thank God, Louis had come.

She closed her eyes to shut out the searing pain.

‘Someone run for a doctor and get me something to staunch the blood,’ he yelled.

He cradled her head and pressed on the wound, flung a blood-soaked cloth to the ground, and Josette handed him another. Her voice was a croak when she tried to speak and her fingers came away from her forehead smeared in blood.

‘You fell, right to the bottom of the steps. What were you thinking? Were you going to be a heroine and single-handedly save every one of your bottles? You could have been killed in there,’ he said gently, his anger subsiding. ‘Now, let’s get you inside.’

Xavier helped him lift her and, gingerly, they got her into her house.

‘By the window,’ she managed to croak. ‘I want to see the press and the vines.’

She drifted in and out of consciousness, losing track of the days. Often when she woke, Louis was there, a bottle of burgundy by his side and Don Quixote on his lap. She had given him the book five years ago and he still hadn’t finished it. He pretended to be reading when she opened her eyes.

‘Bring me a mirror, will you, Louis?’

‘What for?’

‘I’d like to see. How long have I been here?’

Louis knelt by her bed. ‘This is the first time you have spoken in three days. How do you feel?’

‘The bottles that exploded were the ones from Moët’s suppliers,’ she whispered.

Louis darkened. ‘Don’t add that to your worries. It’s happened to every vintner in Champagne at some point in the careers. Moët’s a slippery, greedy bastard, but it would have been difficult for even him to arrange for an explosion. The mistake you made was to go into the cellars while they were still volatile. You need to rest.’

‘Help me up. I need to see the damage to my cellars.’

She hauled herself up and the room swirled. It seemed she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘The doctor said at least a week. I’ll run things until you’re better. Mentine is being well cared for with her friends, so you have nothing to worry about. Just trust me.’

‘With my life,’ she said, sinking into her pillow.

‘I’ll sit here with you and tell you some stories if you promise to stay where you are.’

Smiling hurt. ‘I’m listening.’

Day turned to night as the sun crossed the sky, beating down on the vineyards, turning the grapes sweet. Larks hovered just above the vines, amongst them poppies blazed and wilted and through the open window, birdsong punctuated Louis’ stories. He told her about François before she knew him. The smallest incident was a tall tale, from a Norwegian innkeeper with a France-shaped wart on