The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (14 page)

It took everything Isabelle had to prevent herself from bursting into tears. A cheerful sentence, something to lighten that leaden moment . . . She was utterly unable to come up with anything.

“Keep your chin up, Madame Feininger. Perhaps there is still a chance to sell the wine in some less pampered part of the world.”

Isabelle sat there, stunned. Dear God, let this be a bad dream.

And she had suspected Leon of not doing his best.

“Would Russia be a possibility?” she asked, trying to sound as businesslike as she could.

The champagne dealer shook his head. “The Russians are certainly known for having a sweet tooth, but also for their appetite for the best of the best.”

“I see. Would it be all right if you also tested the other bottles?” Isabelle croaked. Her mouth felt as dry as sand.

Chapter Fourteen

“So much for a few necklaces!” Leon gaped at the pile of banknotes that Isabelle had tossed onto the table.

She smiled. “I certainly imagined I’d get quite a lot, but I was surprised that the jeweler in Reims gave me quite this much for my jewelry. In Germany, it would be more than four hundred marks.”

The tantalizing smell of a meat ragout wafted from the kitchen. Isabelle had paid a visit to the charcuterie in Reims, and she rode home with two pounds of beef, plus a whole pie and some ham. She’d found a suitable recipe in Clara’s cookbook and put the ragout on right away. That was good, for she had things to address with Leon, things for which he could certainly use a solid meal.

“Darling!” Leon jumped up and kissed Isabelle passionately. “This is absolutely fantastic! We’re saved. There’s enough here to pay Claude and Grosse and a few laborers besides. Feed for the horses, and we’ll need to take them to a smithy soon, too, Claude told me. It’s all easy, now! What a wonderful idea to sell off that old junk.”

Isabelle freed herself from his embrace. “To be honest, parting with that
old junk
was hard. The pearl necklace was a gift from my mother for my eighteenth birthday, and the chain was something she’d inherited from her own mother. My father gave me the ruby collier when I graduated from secondary school.” She sighed. “But now is not the time for sentimentality.” Her jewelry box was still well filled, and she would have to be happy with what she had. If they got down to it, she could always trade in more of her jewelry, though she hoped that it would not be necessary.

Leon’s pride and self-confidence were blazing in his eyes again. His depressed mood of the previous night had evaporated. “This is just the spur I needed! Tomorrow morning, I’ll head off toward Troyes. I haven’t tried to sell anything down that way yet. I’ll talk for what my life’s worth, and from now on, it will work. I can feel it! Then I’ll be bringing home money, too, even more than this.”

Isabelle nodded slightly, then she served the ragout. But while her husband went at the dish hungrily, Isabelle merely prodded at the food in front of her. How was she supposed to tell Leon that the Feininger champagne was no good? That
that
was the reason all his efforts had been in vain?

She waited until he had finished eating. Then, as calmly and objectively as she could, she described Raymond Dupont’s tasting and the crushing verdict.

Leon listened, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “Sediment? Mustard-colored brew? Poor craftsmanship, and doesn’t even taste good?” He angrily interrupted Isabelle. “What does this guy know? He could tell you anything. It’s an outrage!”

Isabelle shook her head. She had been waiting for this reaction. “I trust Monsieur Dupont’s judgment. I would not have gone to him otherwise. As a dealer, he has a lot to do with champagne—all kinds, all qualities. He knows what he’s talking about. If Dupont says that our chances of selling the champagne at a reasonable price are practically nil, then that’s how it is.”

“But we’ve got thousands and thousands of bottles down there. How do you know they’re all the same . . . bad quality?”

“Leon, please! I took Monsieur Dupont five bottles of champagne, and I selected them from five different parts of the cellar. All were equally bad.”

“So what are you saying? Should I pour it all out?”

Isabelle laughed helplessly. “Monsieur Dupont’s opinion is that we should look for a new cellar master. A young talent, someone fresh, someone who knows how to make champagne. A
chef de cave
who knows what today’s champagne customers want.”

“Oh, lovely!” Leon huffed. “And can you please tell me where we’re supposed to find such a sorcerer’s apprentice? All the cellar masters I’ve met so far earn their bread and butter elsewhere. And even if we found one looking for a job—what could we possibly offer?”

“There’s still some time until the next harvest. We’ll come up with something by then,” Isabelle said.

For a long time, neither said a word. Leon riffled through the banknotes, straightened the pile, riffled again, straightened again. He was making Isabelle so nervous that she wanted to snatch the bills out of his hands, but she knew that he needed at least a few moments to digest what he’d just heard. She herself had needed the entire journey back from Reims to come to terms with it.

After a time, Leon reached for one of the champagne bottles left over from his binge the night before and looked at it thoughtfully. “This stuff really is very sweet, isn’t it?”

Isabelle nodded. “Oh, yes.”

As they looked into one another’s eyes, they each recognized their own naïveté, stubbornness, and ignorance mirrored in the other. They began to laugh, and it grew louder and more hysterical.

Tears ran down Isabelle’s cheeks, and she realized that it was possible to laugh yourself dry in the same way that you could cry yourself dry, although she had little experience with either. But all the negative feelings that had been dammed up inside washed away. The tension and fear were gone. In their place, she felt a seed of confidence burst open.

She inhaled deeply, but this time without the oppressive weight pressing down on her chest. She was about to speak when Leon said, “And I was thinking that I was too stupid to sell it.” With a sigh, he wiped the tears of laughter from his own face.

“You’re not,” Isabelle replied firmly, meaning it sincerely. “I’m beginning to think that Jacques made this sweet brew especially for his American customers. He certainly found some success over there.”

“Do you know what that would mean?” Leon sounded doubtful. “A sales tour to America would take quite a few weeks, certainly. And it wouldn’t be cheap.”

“You don’t have to go to America. I’ve got another idea. The Americans come here, like the mountain to Muhammad,” she said enigmatically.

“I’m sorry?”

Isabelle smiled. “I told you about the party at the Trubert place, the one we’re invited to. They have customers coming from all over the world.”

“So that means . . . we’ll be meeting Jacques’s old customers?” Leon looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Now I get it! Ha! If the Truberts can do it, then turnabout is fair play. They stole our customers, and now we steal them back.”

Isabelle’s grin widened. “You with your charm and me in my prettiest dress. We make a good team, don’t we?”

Chapter Fifteen

Isabelle looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She had skillfully piled her hair high, pinning it in place with ruby-studded combs; the color of the jewelry perfectly matched her evening dress. She carried a beaded handbag and had picked out a colorful fan. The ruby necklace that she had sold in Reims would have been the perfect accompaniment, but . . .

She turned and, as well as she could, she admired herself from behind. She smiled. Who needed gold and gems when there was something much better? She had her slim waistline back, and she was in better shape—much closer to what she had been in her best days as a long-distance cyclist. All the hard work had done some good for her, too.

Her genteel, citified pallor had also vanished, and her skin had taken on a golden sheen. She even had a few freckles sprinkled across her small snub nose. In the past, she would have complained about them and tried to hide them with powder. Today, she liked the way she looked. Standing straight, her chin lifted boldly, Isabelle nodded to her reflection. Her green eyes sparkled provocatively as she said, “You can measure up to any Henriette Trubert around. Don’t let them tell you that you’ve lost!”

From a distance, the Trubert estate was impressive, and it was far more imposing close up. It consisted of a large two-story main building and several outbuildings, all massive, well-maintained structures. Freshly planted flower boxes hung beneath every window. The open courtyard between the whitewashed buildings was paved with cobblestones in a complicated pattern, and there were a number of halved wine barrels generously planted with spring flowers. Flaming torches stood between the barrels, illuminating the courtyard. The champagne cellars themselves were in the building to the right of the main house; a huge sign painted with “Champagne Trubert” in ornate silver lettering indicated as much. From the style, though, the building reminded Isabelle more of her father’s workshops than cellarage for champagne.

Leon whistled softly between his teeth. “Not bad, eh? Seems they’ve got a real champagne factory going here. Nothing like our little cellars.”

Isabelle furrowed her brow in doubt. “A champagne factory? I must say, that doesn’t seem very exclusive to me.” She pointed to the many guests waiting ahead of them to be greeted by their host and hostess. “Oh. It looks like we’re among the last to arrive.”

“This party seems to be a very big show,” Leon murmured, pulling his jacket smooth.

While they waited their turn, Isabelle looked at Leon and thought he looked very nice. Her husband could match any of the gentlemen present for elegance. He was wearing his black pants and his white shirt, which Isabelle laboriously scrubbed on the washboard and then even more laboriously ironed. Over the shirt, he wore a linen jacket that he’d bought himself in Berlin from his winnings—Leon had always had a good sense of fashion.

Their eyes met, and they grinned happily at each other.

Isabelle grew more tense with every minute they had to wait. There were only four or five other couples ahead of them. She tugged at Leon’s sleeve and whispered, “Let’s run through our plan one last time. First, we just look around. Then, once we’ve found the Americans—” She broke off when the woman in front of them turned around.

Leon smiled charmingly at the woman. “Don’t make me nervous,” he hissed. “We’ve gone through it all enough.”

Isabelle looked away from Leon. Only three couples ahead of them, now. To see more, she stood on tiptoes. The women in line were all dressed in the latest fashions and wore expensive jewelry. And the men, too, in their sportily elegant ensembles, were impressive. But the next moment, she almost fainted on the spot.

“That dress! Look at Henriette Trubert’s dress!” A few heads immediately turned in her direction.

Leon gave her a reproving look. “Your dress is lovely, too,” he whispered. “You’ll be the belle of the ball this evening.”

Ignoring the compliment, Isabelle settled down again. It was too complicated to explain what it was about the dress, but she would get to the bottom of it. She would make sure of that! She breathed in sharply. Only a few more steps.

“Madame and Monsieur Feininger!” Beaming broadly, Henriette welcomed them to her estate. “This is the famous cyclist I told you about,” she said, turning to her husband.

Alphonse Trubert shook Leon’s hand happily. “You’ll have to tell me all about such an exciting preoccupation.” His salt-and-pepper moustache flicked with every word he said. When he shook Isabelle’s hand, his prominent stomach almost touched her body.

“May I introduce my son, Jean? He’s come in just for today’s party. He’s usually away at boarding school at a Jesuit monastery. Isn’t that right, Jean?”

The young man nodded unhappily. Isabelle reached out her hand to him.

“And our daughter, Yvette. She’s at a secondary school in Reims.”

Henriette must have been that pretty once
,
too,
Isabelle thought as she greeted Yvette. Then she turned to her hostess.

“You have a lovely dress there, madame. It reminds me of a colorful rainbow,” she said. She was still dumbfounded at the sight of it. When she had suggested to Blanche Thevenin that she sew together strips of different kinds and colors of fabric, the seamstress had dismissed the idea as pure nonsense even though she hadn’t been able to think of a design to impress her client:
“That might be some kind of national costume in Germany, but it’s nothing for an elegant festival here in Champagne!”
Isabelle could still hear the mockery in the dressmaker’s voice.

“A bespoke work by my seamstress. She discovered the model at the most modern couturier in Paris and copied it for me especially,” said Henriette, pursing her gaudy red lips proudly.

“In Paris? How interesting.” Isabelle tried not to let her wrath show. Blanche Thevenin, you miserable fraud!

“A dress can only be as lovely as the woman wearing it. You, dear lady, would look enchanting in a linen shirt,” said Leon flatteringly, and he kissed Henriette Trubert’s hand.

Henriette raised her eyebrows appreciatively. “You were right, Madame Feininger. Your husband is quite the charmer.”

Isabelle smiled tartly. She hated it when Leon flirted with other women. And as far as their plan was concerned, it didn’t help in the slightest.

“Something for you,” said Isabelle somewhat abruptly as she handed over the elegant box of pralines that Leon had bought using the money from the jewelry. The
chocolats
had been terribly expensive, and every franc they had cost caused Isabelle pain, but they agreed that skimping on a present would be a mistake. “One has to look rich and successful to become rich and successful,” Isabelle had said, quoting a nugget of her father’s business wisdom, and Leon had nodded.

“Well, then . . . let’s get on with it,” said Alphonse Trubert in a doleful voice, and he sighed deeply, as if the last thing he wanted was to spend the evening there. He gazed down into the valley longingly, which earned him a poisonous glance from Henriette.

Isabelle grinned with cruel pleasure. It looked as if the man would rather be with his lover at Le Grand Cerf than at his own party.

Henriette clinked at her champagne glass with a silver spoon. The crowd of guests fell silent and to Isabelle’s surprise, Henriette herself, and not her husband, stood up to address them.
“Mesdames et messieurs . . .”

After a few words of greeting, Henriette went through a seemingly endless list of names of those who had played a role in the eighty-year history of the company. The guests occasionally chuckled or murmured with appreciation.

A “little soiree”—ha! There had to be a hundred people gathered there! It all reminded Isabelle of the parties she had often attended in Berlin, although here in Champagne there was a lighter, more festive mood. At one end of the hall, a group of musicians had set up their instruments; there would probably be dancing later in the evening, which made Isabelle happy. She could not remember the last time that she’d been dancing. Perhaps, once they had successfully completed their mission . . .

Beside one of the magnificent mirrors, a familiar face, the first she had seen. She smiled and nodded to Raymond Dupont. The champagne dealer was wearing a black suit and was certainly among the most elegant men in the hall. Maybe she would have the opportunity to ask his advice about a cellar master.

“Of course I can create a
champagne brut
or
extra brut
! It’s just a matter of how much sugar you add, that’s all,” Grosse had pontificated when she raised the subject with him. “That said, the previous Monsieur Feininger preferred
champagne sec
, and I also like my champagne very sweet. But if you want a brut . . .” With a shrug of his shoulders, the cellar master had turned and walked away from Isabelle. As straightforward as the information sounded, his pompous manner had done anything but convince Isabelle.

At the moment, however, another question was much more important to her: Where were the Americans?

A loud round of applause pulled Isabelle out of her thoughts. The musicians played a fanfare and several lamps came on behind Henriette, lighting up a high pyramid of champagne glasses from all sides.

Shouts of delights rang out, and more applause.

What a lovely idea! Isabelle clapped with the rest. But when she saw who was standing beside the tower of glasses, she felt a small pang in her chest. She squeezed Leon’s hand.

Daniel Lambert, Henriette’s cellar master, carefully set the last glass on the uppermost triangle of the pyramid. He was focused but at the same time seemed strangely detached. With a practiced hand, he then opened the first magnum bottle and poured the champagne into the glass. The liquid overflowed, frothing and running down to the lower levels of glasses, one after another.

Leon whistled, then whispered to Isabelle, “Did you ever see anything like that? Let’s hope we don’t have an earthquake.” He laughed a bit too loud at his own joke.

Isabelle did not reply. She was mesmerized at the sight. The glass pyramid in the golden light, the fine bubbles of champagne glittering, Daniel’s gold-blond hair, gleaming in the light of all the lamps . . .

When all the glasses were full, Daniel handed Henriette the topmost glass. With a triumphant smile, she held it up before the gathered guests.

“To you, my friends! I declare the buffet open!”

Some things are the same wherever you go
, Isabelle thought as she watched the guests descend on the buffet.

“Let’s grab something to eat, too,” said Leon. “It will help us negotiate.”

Isabelle’s own growling stomach agreed.

When they passed the champagne pyramid, Daniel Lambert held out one of the glasses, and she stopped. Their eyes met, and Isabelle felt a warm shiver inside. “The dress is better suited to this occasion, madame.”

It took a moment for Isabelle to realize what he was talking about. The first time she had gone out into the vineyards, the first time they’d met, she had been wearing this exact same dress. Completely inappropriate, she had to admit, looking back.

“I prefer to decide for myself when a day is to be celebrated,” she said, sounding rather stilted. Her hand shook a little as she brought the champagne glass to her lips.

Henriette, who was still standing beside the pyramid, followed the small scene as it played out in front of her. She looked puzzled and, pushing between Daniel and Isabelle, said, “If you will allow me, there are some important people you should get to know.”

Isabelle looked hungrily toward the opulent buffet, but said, “I’d like that,” and gave Leon, who was eyeing the buffet ravenously, a jab with her elbow.

“May I introduce Edgar Ruinart? This is Leon Feininger, the famous cyclist from Germany!”

Ruinart, who belonged to one of the most successful champagne houses of all time, shook hands politely with Leon, but did not seem particularly interested.

“And this is Henri Marie Lanson, the son of Victor-Marie. Since he took over at the renowned cellars in Reims, the fame of the Lanson name has grown around the world.”

“You do flatter us, dear Henriette,” said the handsome young man, and he kissed her hand with a smile.

“Henri, I’d like you to meet an extraordinary guest, Leon Feininger, an outstandingly successful racing cyclist. Leon’s triumphs are numerous: he has crossed the Alps on a bicycle, and last year, he took part in a twenty-four-hour track race—twenty-four hours on a bicycle.”

Isabelle was decidedly annoyed. What was Madame Trubert up to, completely ignoring her like this?

“You ride a bicycle? How fascinating,” Henri Marie Lanson promptly said, turning directly to Leon. “My daughter would like such a vehicle for herself. Perhaps, at your convenience, I might ask your expert advice?”

“Of course! Although I must say my experience with women’s bicycles is rather limited,” Leon replied. All four of them laughed; then Henriette steered them onward.

Henriette next introduced them to Louis-Victor and Léon Olry-Roederer, then the widow Clicquot’s business manager, and then Charles-Eugène Heidsieck. There could hardly be any more important men in the Champagne region, Henriette told them over and over. And every time, she introduced “the famous cyclist from Germany.” And while Leon innocently, cheerfully recited anecdotes from his cycling exploits, Isabelle tried in vain several times to steer the conversation around to the Feininger estate. Every time, Henriette interrupted her attempts.

After half an hour, Isabelle was on the verge of exploding. She had realized what the
vigneronne
was up to: from that evening on, no one would see the Feiningers as vintners at all. They would be no more than the “cyclist and his wife.”

When Henriette wanted to introduce them to Raymond Dupont, Isabelle said, in the iciest voice she could muster, “We’ve already met.”

Raymond smiled. “Madame Feininger managed to impress me immensely at her very first champagne tasting. She has a fine nose and a wonderful sense of the nature of a champagne. Unless my estimation is completely mistaken, we are looking at a future
grande dame de Champagne
.”