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

‘The vintage of a lifetime. 1811 was a perfect year, for wine at least. I can taste the cool night sky when I first saw it in this wine. It was beautiful. Your men have guzzled at least half of it.’

She took in the braid on his coat, his straight teeth and glossy hair. There was a war-weary air to his demeanour, but he was clearly high-ranking, and she had seen him ride at the Tsar’s side on the Champs-Élysées.

‘If you want to prove to me how peaceful your invasion is and that you are in control of your thugs, the Russian army should pay me for it, fair and square.

‘I would happily buy a case from my own pocket.’

‘That would not do. I would like the Russians to acknowledge their actions against me, officially.’

He raised an eyebrow, amused but, she hoped, willing. ‘I do have a certain amount of compensatory funds I can draw upon. But why should it be directed to you? Every cellar within twenty kilometres of here has been looted, and not just by Russians.’

‘Because my wines are the most valuable and every vintner within twenty kilometres of here would like to see me fail. So far, I have refused to oblige.’

‘You’ve made it very obvious you can fight! How much would you say is fair, Veuve Clicquot?’

‘I doubt you can afford it. The war has made paupers of us all.’

‘Try me.’

‘Five francs a bottle.’

‘You’ll negotiate, of course.’

‘I never negotiate. I have workers to pay and mouths to feed.’

‘There will have to be some paperwork, but as a gesture of goodwill for Russian–French trade relations, I will see what I can do for at least some of the losses you have suffered, if you promise to go home now.’

‘I’m staying with my bottles. But thank you.’

Chapter 26

Luck from the East

April 1814

Natasha’s face swam into focus. Nicole sat up; where the hell? Oh, in her town house in the rue de la Vache. The room she’d lain awake in the night after François died. Too many memories. She had to leave straight away.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Natasha gently.

‘I can’t stay here. It’s haunted and I have to get back to the cellars.’

‘The cellars are fine, guarded by your new Russian friend. He had to ask me where you lived. You refused to tell him, apparently,’ she said, shaking her head proudly. ‘You’re not leaving; get back into bed. I’ll cast a spell to scare off any ghosts.’ Natasha sketched a figure of eight, turned around slowly three times and addressed the curtains. ‘What’s that, you won’t leave until she’s back in bed? You heard him, Nicole, get in and the ghost will leave you alone.’

Nicole stared at her.

‘Seriously. I’m making light because I don’t want to scare you, but he means it.’

Nicole got back in, just in case. Anyway, her legs had turned to jelly and her head was aching like it was clamped in a vice.

‘That’s better, my dear.’

‘Did they get the bakery?’

‘They wouldn’t dare cross a volshebnitsa, a Russian enchantress. They’re a superstitious lot, peasants, most of them.’

‘I could have done with you there last night.’

‘You have your own way of being enchanting, even when you don’t realise it. Could you manage a religieuse? It’s hard to come by the ingredients in these times, but I had a little chocolate hidden away for a special occasion and you coming back to Reims is it. I made them this morning.’

Natasha offered her the cake and Nicole broke a little off to be polite, though the pain turned it to ashes in her mouth.

‘Mentine’s growing up,’ Natasha observed.

‘Too quickly.’

‘You are lucky. She’s a beautiful girl, inside and out, a blonde version of François.’

He would have been a better father than she was a mother. She’d promised Mentine she would say good night and she’d failed her again. She’d failed the cellars too. She was spread so thin, she felt transparent.

Natasha opened the curtains, flung open the windows and the sun streamed in, the most beautiful spring day. A sudden gust of wind blew apple blossom into the room, which whirled around for a moment before it fluttered to the floor, like snow.

‘East wind. Apple blossom,’ said Natasha, narrowing her eyes. ‘A good omen.’ She scooped up the blossom and made confetti over Nicole’s head. ‘You could use some luck, and here it is from the east.’

‘You always say you make your own luck.’

‘Maybe.’

Mentine knocked and came in, hastily kissed Natasha, then threw herself on the bed. She waved an envelope at them. ‘They are so-o-o handsome!’

‘Who?’

‘The Russian soldiers. A whole battalion was outside the house and one came to the door to deliver this. Look, it says Nicole Clicquot on the front! How did he know your name? Maman, the whole town is on fire with stories of how you stood up to looters, with only your boots to save you. A quick kick in the—’

‘That’s enough!’ But she couldn’t help smiling at her daughter’s delight in her victory.

‘Well, is it true?’

‘Not entirely, though I did manage to escape from a sticky situation.’

‘You hurt your head, Maman?’

‘It’s nothing. Just make sure you don’t ever go out alone while they’re here. Stay with me and grand-mère and grand-père.’

‘But I’m so bored and there are all these new people in town and everything’s happening outside and I’m stuck in here. Josette doesn’t understand that I don’t want to play tea parties and kids’ games any more, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.’ Mentine thrust the envelope at her. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

Inside was a cheque. Nicole double-checked. Six hundred francs. Enough to cover every last bottle that had disappeared from her cellars.

She opened the note.

I hope you will take this as proof that Russians can be trusted. The amount will also cover my own personal crate of Comet Pinot. Your cellars are safe now, so you can sleep inside for the next few days; it’s cold out