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

rival. All there was to do was wait to hear from Louis.

She was sitting outside on the veranda looking idly at the rows of lavender and trying not to think, when Madame Olivier came bustling up the path, waving two letters.

‘I promised Thomas at the poste I’d deliver them as I was coming this way. I wonder who they’re from?’

Nicole grabbed them from her. ‘Not who you’re imagining, but thank you for coming out of your way, Madame Olivier.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Madame Olivier, straining to look at the contents. ‘Unless you’d like me to wait for you to reply? I’m going back that way.’

‘Very kind, but I can manage, thank you.’

Nicole hurried to her office to open the letters in private. One was from Louis, and the other’s authorship presaged by the trademark expensive ribbon – Thérésa!

She opened Louis’ first.

He was already in Paris, which apparently was packed, with barely a hotel room to be had. He was sleeping on a pallet at a friend’s hotel, he said, though she suspected he didn’t have the funds for anything else. The little she had been able to give him for the journey was pathetic. British and Russian troops were everywhere, mustering for their homeward journeys, but the whole place was rejoicing at the restoration of order. He was going to see tomorrow if he could secure an audience with the Russian ambassador, and to that end, he’d managed to find a place to hang his only remaining decent suit, slightly threadbare and out of fashion now, but respectable, nevertheless.

She thought of the first time she had met Louis – ruddy cheeks, shock of ginger locks, shaggy wolfskin coat and knee-high galoshes, exuding warmth and fellowship. Now his hair was thinning and all he had to his name was a threadbare suit and hope. Hope that rested on her shoulders alone. She prayed that his faith in her was not misplaced.

The ribbon on Thérésa’s letter was slippery and smooth; it was a long time since she’d felt such fine material. She pooled it carefully on her desk – Mentine would be delighted – and opened the letter.

I’m here in Reims, back in your little country backwater! Paris is teeming with soldiers and so much boring politicking, so I have escaped to tranquillity. Are we friends again now? Come and see me straight away in the rue de la Vache.

As ever, etc.

Your Thérésa

It was an irresistible invitation.

Nicole hesitated by the mirror, tidied her hair, pinched her cheeks and hurried to Thérésa’s grand mansion in town. The last time she was here was with Xavier, in the dead of night. Wherever Thérésa was, the sickly-sweet whiff of scandal was never far away and it would be a welcome distraction. What poor man had fallen foul of her charms this time?

‘You came! So we are friends again?’ exclaimed Thérésa and hugged her so tight her bun fell out. She fixed it back up.

‘Of course. You know no one can resist you for very long.’

Nicole knew that she could never be as careless with Thérésa again. But she was too much fun. When Thérésa was in town, she brought colour and an edge of danger and she couldn’t bear to cut her out of her life completely.

‘Oh, don’t be silly. Come along.’

She hurried her through the house, arranged them both on the sofas in the orangery and called for fashionable English tea. Thérésa looked as fresh as the first day she’d met her nine years ago. She couldn’t even count how many husbands ago that was.

Thérésa took her hand. ‘The last time we met, you and your lovely Mentine were making a dramatic flight from Paris. You say your life is dull in comparison to mine, but there’s always something gloriously portentous happening. You must tell me all the latest gossip.’

‘Oh, just the usual. My business is on its knees and the whole town is delighting in my demise. It’s only what they think I deserve for having the temerity to work for a living.’

‘Tsk, darling. Do I detect the spark has left my country firefly?’

‘I’ve had my successes, but disaster is never far away.’

‘You mean your friend General Marin?’

‘Not you as well, listening to the town gossip?’

‘I’ve heard all about how you single-handedly fought off ten Prussian ruffians, were rescued by their general and since then he’s been buying your wine like it’s water and following you around like a puppy dog.’

‘You’ve got that very wrong.’

‘I don’t think so, chérie. I heard it all from the man himself.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s another in your long line of victims?’

‘Alexei! He’s been a friend since I can remember. Don’t look at me like that, not that kind of friend. Of course, one has to try, but he was too bloody honourable for any of that.’

Despite everything, Nicole was flooded with relief.

‘Can we change the subject?

‘So you are a little in love with him. And he with you, though he’s done his best not to show it. Listen, I know him. He’s married and, unlike most other men, he’s loyal to the end, whatever the temptation. His wife needs him, and he won’t have her taken from his home and put in an asylum, though God knows, it would be the best place for her. She’s never been the same since their son died in Alexei’s arms on the battlefield. He watched him bleed to death, helpless. I hear he cried like a baby and his wife collapsed when she heard and is like the walking dead, alive but lifeless.’

Everything fell into place. He’d tried to tell her in so many ways. The day in the square when he saw her with Mentine on the way to the dress shop, the drawing of the missing duckling, the constant look of pain in his eyes.

‘He wanted to help you, but he didn’t want you to know.’

‘I don’t understand. There’s no one in France who wants me to fail more than Jean-Rémy, and Alexei has done