The French House, Helen Fripp [e textbook reader .txt] 📗

waved an acknowledgement, felt in her pocket for François’ note and ran her fingers over the embossed letters, François-Marie Clicquot. She whispered the words ‘Nicole Clicquot’.

Three sharp tugs were her signal to start winding in the tape. She turned the little crank, careful to keep it smooth, but the tape stuck and she dropped it. When she stood up, the figure holding the other end was close enough to make her heart leap.

‘Keep winding,’ said François.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d left her alone by the well and she’d imagined their reunion in a million different colours, he contrite, she gracious. But he was here now, and that was all that mattered.

‘I shouldn’t have left you, ma sauvage,’ he said.

‘I didn’t understand.’

‘It hurts to love you so much,’ said François quietly. ‘I have moments where I need time for myself. I know you will understand.’

‘Just kiss me,’ she said.

François trembled as he held her, resonating with the breeze. The warm autumn air smelt of woodsmoke and the heady perfume of grape harvest still lingered.

‘Grow vines with me,’ he whispered.

‘I already said yes.’ She smiled.

‘I’ll love you more than anyone else could, but you have to be brave. You know that?’

‘I’m marrying the cleverest, most handsome man in Champagne, that’s all I need to know.’

He swung her round until she was dizzy. ‘Here we are, being bought and sold like a couple of prize heifers,’ he laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have accepted you if this vineyard wasn’t part of the deal.’

‘I want wild strawberries every day, even in the winter.’ She pushed him away. ‘And no touching the goods until it’s all signed and sealed.’

She ran to her father, who was bent over a trestle table at the vineyard entrance with Philippe, François’ father. Both were noting down vineyard measurements like generals strategising for battle. Just a few papers signed, money and lands exchanged between the families to secure their children’s future, and no one could stop her marrying, not even Maman.

It had to be a fait accompli well before Maman’s planned arrival at midday and Papa had chosen the location carefully, here in her parents’ favourite vineyard, on the very spot he proposed twenty years ago. Perhaps here, remembering that day, her mother would relent.

She hugged her papa. ‘Thank you!’

‘Slow down, Babouchette, you’ll smudge the ink! Philippe, you remember my daughter?’

‘So this is little the thing that’s captivated my François, eh?’ said Philippe. Grey curls framed a kind, anxious face. ‘Bright and quick as a firefly, I see, as he described you. There’s a fire in those pale grey eyes that is more than a match for him. And hair the colour of a pale sunset, just before it turns red, I think were his words. Well, well, such is the poetry of young love, but I see in this case there is no exaggeration.’ He smiled at the pair.

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Monsieur Clicquot,’ Nicole replied, glowing.

He kissed her on both cheeks.

When the church bell struck the first chime of midday, Maman’s barouche turned the corner, scattering chalky white dust. As it settled, the driver jumped out, helped her down, and paced towards them so fast she had to run to keep up with him.

Nicole stopped short. Maman had brought Monsieur Moët with her! He was dressed even more formally than usual, in a high collar and dark suit which looked far too hot for the weather. He walked stiffly across to the two men bent over the table between the vines, and nodded an aloof greeting, manoeuvring himself to get a good view of the papers.

‘Mon Dieu, what’s this? Signing over your vineyards to the Clicquots? I trust you intended to pass this in front of the town council? All transfer of vineyards is null and void unless approved by the committee. Our Champagne region has a reputation to maintain, gentlemen, so I’m afraid this won’t be binding.’

‘Marriage makes it binding,’ said François.

‘Ah, then it all makes sense. But that is another contract that cannot be fulfilled, as she’s not yours to take,’ said Monsieur Moët.

‘I am not anyone’s to buy and sell. He is my choice,’ said Nicole.

‘Nonsense, Nicole. Girls don’t choose,’ interrupted Maman, flicking her fan in annoyance, the feathers wilting in the late-autumn sun. ‘We are very fortunate that Monsieur Moët has agreed to overlook any indiscretions and take you anyway. Just think, Babouchette, you could be married here next week, on your parents’ wedding anniversary. Everyone says the weather’s going to be fine, it always is on that day, n’est-ce pas, Nicolas?’

Papa was outmanoeuvred.

Monsieur Moët jumped in. ‘Your mother has persuaded me that the stress of our upcoming nuptials has perhaps caused you to behave out of character and so we agreed, out of respect to our joint arrangement, to bring the date forward.’

‘Chéri, isn’t that testament to Monsieur Moët’s generosity and affection, which deserves our utmost respect?’ Maman said to Papa.

‘As does Nicole,’ said François. ‘I left her alone and this misunderstanding is my fault.’

‘I have no doubt this mess is your fault,’ Moët replied, flushing with anger. ‘Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Ponsardin and her family cannot have the full picture of what it means to marry a Clicquot. In addition to all this money, and the prized grand cru vineyards they’re signing over, there’s a less palatable inheritance. Philippe, tell them. The bad blood that’s run through the Clicquot family ever since anyone can remember. And in the countryside, we remember a long way back.’

Philippe blanched visibly and Nicole could have struck Moët for his casual slanders.

‘We’d still be ducking witches if we took notice of old vineyard gossip. The only truth in all this is that I have more feeling in my little finger than you do in your whole bitter, greedy old corpse,’ snapped François.

‘You, François Clicquot, are a known dilettante, a dangerous radical and a melancholic.’ Moët swept the papers off the table. ‘These are worthless.’

Even Maman looked shocked.

‘How dare you, Monsieur! Enough!’ Papa exclaimed, colouring with anger as Philippe