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

‘You can’t afford to wait; Veuve Clicquot et Compagnie is on its knees.’

‘My new lodger is making an investment,’ said Nicole.

Louis held his head in his hands. ‘Ah, the fairy godmother, La Tallien, with her ill-gotten gains.’

‘The very one. And the more ill-gotten, the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘She’s a wonderful woman, but trouble is never far away when she’s around. Please tread carefully.’

Chapter 21

Rich Woman, Thief

September 1813

Thérésa’s house in Reims was the scandal of the town, but she was more than tolerated for her outrageous behaviour. These were austere times and she brought colour wherever she went. In Champagne, the shops were badly stocked. Napoléon had invaded Russia. His war ate up fresh young conscripts and spat them out maimed and broken. The returned were the lucky ones. Parents who had seen poverty take their loved ones as children before the revolution now saw their own children taken by war. Thérésa was a welcome distraction, their outrageous, glamourous local célébrée. She could dangle the great Napoléon from her little finger if she saw fit, bring mighty generals to their knees and, more practically, put in a good word for ambitious sons.

Nobody knew how she could afford such a lavish mansion on the rue de la Vache, but many suspected that Moët had a hand in it. Nicole never asked; she would rather not know. In the year of the comet, Thérésa’s money had helped her lay down the Cuvée de la Comète and her presence had also helped her through the birth of Louis’ first child, though she didn’t know it. Thérésa was a distraction from watching Louis’ eyes light up, first when he talked about his new little son, then at the sight of his increasingly confident new wife. She never met them together, but she saw them in town sometimes, or dropping Louis off at the press. They were quite the little family unit and Nicole hated herself for the bitterness she felt at their delight.

Louis was her business partner, they saw each other most days, and it would have been the most natural thing in the world to embrace the couple, to invite Louis and his wife to social occasions, or to give his son a tour of the vineyards in her pony and trap. But it was all she could manage to smile at Louis’ happiness and wish them well. Anything else was too painful. Louis seemed to instinctively understand and never pressed the matter, or mentioned them too often to her, and she was silently grateful to her warm-hearted friend for his tact and care whilst being ashamed at her own feelings.

Her precious comet champagne stood in her new riddling tables, deep in the cellars, away from prying eyes, going nowhere thanks to the trade blockades and the war. Her business, her livelihood, everything she had, depended on this champagne making it to market.

After all the years of war, business was bad for everyone. The harvest would be difficult to bring in again this year with so many men away at war. Thérésa started to spend more and more time back in Paris. Parties and salons were the only thing that brought back her sparkle and she was easily bored by Reims and its little gatherings. Nicole missed her lively friend. Louis came to work, but left every day promptly at five to rush back to his family, so she was delighted when Josette handed her a note elaborately tied in pale pink silk ribbon. Only Thérésa would throw away such an expensive thing on a prosaic note.

Darling, how lovely to be back in the old town again. Paris stifles me. I am sure I was meant to be a country girl, with all the sweet air and champagne and visions of fireflies and starry nights. Please join me for tea and gossip this afternoon. I have so much to tell you.

Nicole folded the note. As a rule, she avoided town. She preferred to keep a close eye on her lands and bypass the gossip and pitiful looks she inevitably got on each visit, but seeing Thérésa would be worth it.

She stopped at Natasha’s, feeling guilty as she grasped the polished brass handle of the boulangerie. It was a long time since she’d seen her. Natasha’s bakery had always been the epicentre of the Reims gossip machine and Nicole just hadn’t been able to face it, or, she had to admit, Natasha’s penetrating questions. Easier just to get on with her work than face up to anything else.

‘Babouchette. The prodigal returns.’ Natasha shuffled stiffly out from behind the counter and kissed her. Natasha’s cheeks were papery and her hair was more white than grey now. She pursed her lips. ‘You are thinner than when I last saw you. What do you do out in Bouzy all alone with no one to talk to?’

‘My vines are good company.’

‘Well, I can see that. You neglect your friends for them.’

‘Things are just so busy at the presses and out in the fields. My farming families are willing, but have their own land to keep up with so many lads away at war.’

Natasha put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. ‘Show me your hands.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t question your elders.’

Nicole reluctantly took off her gloves and held them out.

‘Just as I thought. You’ve been out there yourself, haven’t you? Digging and tying and pruning like a peasant.’

‘No shame in that.’

‘It’s why I love you.’ Natasha gestured to her counter, the shop, the ovens in the back. ‘You are more beautiful than me, and considerably more successful, but we are the same, you and I.’

Nicole smiled. She hadn’t realised how much she had holed herself away, reading Chaptal’s theories on wine growing, obsessively checking her ledgers, roaming the vineyards inspecting every last detail, turning bottles in the cellar when labour was short, verifying the fermentation and praying to St Rémi for a good harvest and to whatever God was out