The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (25 page)

The Americans had planned their reception for 2:00 p.m. At fifteen minutes before the hour, a pimply young man with a sparse beard appeared and asked the vintners to work out among themselves in which order they would appear before the Americans. In awe at the Trubert name, the vintners from the south let Daniel go ahead. Josephine and Clara immediately began to protest, but Daniel said, “If I am first to meet these gentlemen, then Madame Feininger will be next in line.”

The other two vintners accepted that, too. As they spelled out their names for the American, Daniel leaned close to Isabelle and, with an almost imperceptible wink, he whispered, “Believe me, sometimes starting second means finishing first.”

Isabelle frowned, then watched as he hurriedly crossed the hotel lobby and disappeared through a door in the back.

The three Americans had rented a salon designed for much bigger events. Transom windows that reached to the ceiling flooded the room with light, which was reflected by the stucco ceiling and red-gold walnut parquetry of the floor. In the rear third of the room, the Americans had set up a long table, behind which they sat in a row. Their young assistant sat off to one side. None of them stood when Daniel approached the table, where rows of champagne glasses stood ready for the tasting session.

After a brief, almost casual introduction of the Trubert estate, Daniel opened the first bottle of champagne while the Americans looked on with interest. One of their stomachs growled audibly.

“Damn, I’m hungry,” said one of the Americans with a laugh. “Croissants and coffee isn’t breakfast for a real man!”

“I could kill for a decent steak,” said the man next to him. “God, I hope there’s something besides organ meats on the menu tonight.”

The third man gave his colleagues an admonishing glare, then he looked up to Daniel and, in surprisingly good French, said, “As you know, we’re here to buy champagne for our fleet of steamboats on the Mississippi. We believe that, come the turn of the century next year, our guests will be in an especially ebullient mood, and we plan to be well prepared. What makes you believe that
your
champagne might be the right one?”

“Who says I believe any such thing?” Daniel shrugged. “You know, when it comes to champagne, it’s like the clouds in the sky.” He waved one hand toward the nearest transom window. “In a cloud, one sees what he wants to see or whatever his imagination can come up with. For one person, the clouds are heavenly figures; for another, they are no more than the heralds of bad weather.”

The three businessmen involuntarily turned toward the window. Daniel used this brief moment to add a swig of vinegar from a small flask to the champagne bottle. As he did so, he realized that he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Hadn’t Henriette herself doubted his loyalty? And wasn’t she always right?

“Enough philosophy! The proof of the pudding is in the eating—I’m sure you say the same in America.” With verve, Daniel swung the bottle back and forth a couple of times to mix the vinegar with the champagne, then he poured three test glasses. “A juicy steak and a glass of this champagne—is that what you had in mind?”

“My God!” cried the man who had been longing for an American breakfast, after the first mouthful. His eyes grew wide and he stared in horror at the glass in his hand. “What is that?”

“This sour swill with a steak? Not on your life!” cried the second, appalled. Daniel kept a straight face, but he was grinning on the inside.

The man who spoke good French said vaguely, “This champagne is beyond dry.” He looked even more confused than when Daniel had aired his thoughts about the clouds.

Daniel sighed. “I couldn’t agree more! If you ask me, a truly elegant champagne should be as sweet as the sweetest hours of love. But do you think my boss will listen to me? Every year he pushes me to make my champagnes drier and drier. ‘It’s the latest fashion,’ he says.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “Just between us—I think he’s just too miserly to add enough sugar to the champagne.”

The three Americans exchanged meaningful looks while their assistant frantically scribbled notes on his list.

“But perhaps your customers on the Mississippi are of the more sophisticated and modern type? Then a champagne this sour would be just right.”

The man still hungry for breakfast snorted. “You have no idea, my man! We Southerners are conservative to the core and proud of it.
You
might be able to hawk this to your customers as the latest fashion, but
we
certainly can’t.”

Daniel—who had, until today, been unaware of his acting talent—smiled innocently. “What can I say? Trubert isn’t one of the great names, so what can one expect from the champagne ?” He sighed deeply. He scratched his head absentmindedly. “My dream would be to work for someone like Bollinger or Feininger . . . or for the
veuve
Clicquot! To work for the
veuve
Clicquot . . . then I would have made it as a cellar master. You know, it’s the women—and especially the widows—who make the best champagne; it’s been that way for centuries. If I were to work for one of the
veuves,
then I would be able to create a champagne so delicious and sweet that one would happily drink a second glass. Which is certainly not”—he waved his hand vaguely toward the bottle he had opened—“the case with this vinegar. But please don’t tell my boss I said that!”

“Feininger?” One of the Americans pricked up his ears. “Don’t we have that name on our list?”

Before the pimply assistant could hand over his list, Daniel said, “The
veuve
Feininger will grace you with her presence after me. Grace—a word to be taken literally with this woman. I don’t know what reputation precedes
you
”—he looked the three Americans up and down—“but it must be good, or Isabelle Feininger would never do you the honor of coming here in person.”

“Feininger? Odd that I’ve never heard the name before. I had actually counted on welcoming the representatives of such houses Moët & Chandon, Roederer, and Heidsieck,” said the American on the left.

The leader of the three immediately gave his colleague a denigrating frown. “My dear Steven, you are, and you continue to be, a Philistine. Practically every child knows that the widows Clicquot and Feininger are among the greats of the champagne world.” He looked solemnly at Daniel. “Thank you, monsieur, for allowing us to sample your product, but it would not meet with the tastes of our customers. If you would be so kind as to send Madame Feininger in.”

Just as Daniel exited the salon, Isabelle was powdering her nose. Early that morning, in their hotel room, the three women had helped each other with their makeup—kohl-lined eyes, rouged cheeks, and bright-red lipstick. If they wanted to make an appearance like elegant French women, then they had to do it right, Isabelle had insisted. Clara’s old-fashioned bun was transformed into an elegant French chignon, and while Josephine’s short haircut had to stay as it was, she topped it with a fashionable hat. All three wore dresses from Isabelle’s wardrobe, and they donned all the jewelry she hadn’t sold. They surprised even themselves: they looked stylish and self-confident, and almost like real Frenchwomen.

Ever since their departure from Hautvillers, Isabelle had been vacillating between a slender hope that there might still be a chance for her and the estate and a feeling of wanting to run away.

“
Bonne chance
!” said Daniel with a wink as he held the door open for them. For the blink of an eye, his gaze met Isabelle’s. Her heart thumped in her chest.
Don’t get nervous now
, she silently ordered herself.

“Let’s go,” she said to Clara and Josephine, her voice barely a whisper.

They had barely stepped into the room when the three businessmen leaped to their feet.

“Madame Feininger!” The man who’d been sitting in the middle strode around the table and approached her. “You don’t know what an honor this is for us!” He was smiling from ear to ear.

Isabelle’s forehead creased. “How—” she began, but was immediately interrupted by Clara.

“As you might appreciate, Madame Feininger’s time is limited—if we could get down to business immediately?” she said in French, then she smiled and fluttered her eyelids.

Isabelle and Josephine stared at their friend in surprise.

Josephine produced two bottles of champagne from the wooden crate and set them on the table. “Open these, please!” she ordered the assistant, who was on his feet as well.

Isabelle was about to say that she could take care of that herself, but then she thought better of it.

“Whatever you do, don’t be seen as needy!” Josephine had advised her earlier. “Customers can sense very well if somebody has to sell something because they need the money. And they will exploit that ruthlessly; they will knock the price as low as they can and wring every possible concession from the seller! You don’t want that, do you? We need to blind the Americans with self-confidence and a whiff of arrogance. You have to act like you don’t need any of it.”

Isabelle reminded herself of those words and, gesturing toward her friends, she said, “I’d like to introduce my two assistants, Clara and Josephine.” She stressed the French pronunciation of the two names. “With an operation the size of mine,
one
assistant simply won’t do.” She glanced sympathetically at the pimply young man for a moment.

The Americans nodded, awestruck. “Even in America, we’ve heard that it’s the women in Champagne who have the final word—and that it’s the widows who make the best champagnes of all.”

Isabelle lowered her eyes modestly. “I don’t want to exaggerate, but our customers in your American Midwest have never once complained about our wines. Quite the contrary; they keep asking for more! But where is it supposed to come from?” She shrugged helplessly. “The quantity of available champagne is limited, and that’s how it will always be. Unfortunately, I was unable this year to give our American customers the attention I would have liked. Otherwise, I would not be here.”

“Madame Feininger has spent a long time in mourning for her husband,” Josephine added. “That is the only reason she has any stock to offer at all.”

Once the assistant had finally filled the tasting glasses, Isabelle nodded benevolently to the three businessmen.

“Be my guests!” She heard Clara giggle beside her and gave her a furtive jab in the ribs. Then she held her breath. Would they like her champagne? She didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“Excellent!”

“Superb!”

“As sweet and light as love itself.” The man in the middle beamed. “This is exactly what I imagine a truly great champagne to be! One would gladly drink a second glass.”

“Or a third or fourth,” said the man on his left, raising the glass to his mouth once again.

“Certainly no shortage of sugar here. Absolutely delicious.”

“With cornbread and fried chicken.”

“Or a juicy steak.”

The assistant, standing slack-armed by the table, licked his lips thirstily.

Isabelle let out her breath, which suddenly made her so dizzy that she had to support herself on the edge of the table. The pimply assistant was immediately at her side. “Madame, are you all right?”

It’s just the relief
, thought Isabelle, then she sat on a chair that Josephine had pulled up for her.

“The widow Feininger has been through a great deal in recent months,” said Clara as the Americans looked at Isabelle with concern. “We already mentioned that her husband passed away . . . suddenly, in the spring—” She broke off, biting her lip.

The leader of the visiting delegation looked at Isabelle sympathetically. “Considering the circumstances, we see it as an even greater honor that you have come here today, Madame Feininger. It looks as if most of the vignerons did not consider it necessary,” he added, shaking his head in annoyance. “But who wants Moët & Chandon when one can have Feininger? Your champagne will be the perfect thing for our beautiful Southern belles and their gentlemen!”

The men on either side of him murmured their agreement, and their spokesman cleared his throat.

“My dear
veuve
Feininger, I do not want to put any unnecessary demands on your time, so without further ado: How many bottles of champagne would we be able to purchase, and what price would you ask?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

They had not touched a drop of alcohol, but the women were drunk—drunk with happiness.

“Ten thousand bottles—oh, just the number makes me dizzy!” Clara laughed hysterically.

“That’s the deal of the century!” Josephine squealed.

“This could be my salvation,” Isabelle sighed. Tears of relief ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her dress. Deep inside, she felt the lid that had been screwed down tightly on her feelings over the last months begin to loosen. Was there hope?

“Could be? This
is
your salvation! With this one deal, you’ve become a rich woman.” Josephine was radiant, as if a bucket of gold dust had been poured over her.

“From here, things can only go up,” Clara agreed.

“You’re really the best friends anyone could ask for. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Isabelle embraced Clara and Josephine so wholeheartedly that all three of them nearly fell.

“The way you ordered those men around!” said Isabelle to Clara. “And you mean to tell us you play the good housewife at home? Either you’re a better actress than the players we see on stage or . . .” But she had run out of words and waved it off.

“I’ve got some hidden talents! Maybe I should become your real-life assistant,” Clara said, giggling.

Their high spirits were so infectious that more and more travelers on the platform at Troyes glanced in their direction, envious but smiling, too.

If only you knew
, Isabelle thought, well aware of the people’s looks.

The melancholy that thought brought with it was swept aside by the sweet taste of victory. And she could do little more for now than savor the taste, because instead of celebrating the deal in Troyes, she had to get back to Hautvillers as fast as she could. The Americans had made clear the size of their order and the terms of delivery: Isabelle had to have ten thousand bottles of champagne ready to ship that week. The question of how to pack the bottles for such a long trip put her on the verge of panic again, but only for a brief moment.
That
was something the three of them could manage; she was sure of it.

It was already late in the evening when they arrived in Hautvillers. While she did not know exactly
what
Daniel Lambert had told the Americans before she entered the room, he had clearly laid the ground for her success. It had been too easy! Should she seek him out in Hautvillers and ask him? Isabelle had kept her eyes open for him at the station in Troyes and on the train, but she hadn’t seen him. She at least had to thank him.

They were all tired from the journey and the excitement of the day, but none of them even considered going to bed. After the oppressive humidity in Troyes, it was surprisingly chilly inside the house, and Josephine lit a fire in the open fireplace. Clara went to the kitchen to make some sandwiches—they had brought back two large hunks of cheese with them from Troyes—while Isabelle went down to the cellar and returned with three bottles of champagne in a basket.

Josephine looked at her doubtfully. “Can you spare them?” she asked.

“A normal bottle of wine or a nip of liqueur would be more than enough,” said Clara, setting the plate of sandwiches on the table.

Isabelle fetched glasses from a cupboard and said, “Don’t worry. My cellars are so full that I could have sold the Americans twenty thousand bottles. Who knows, perhaps they’ll order more?” As she spoke, she opened one of the bottles.

Since her arrival in Champagne, Isabelle had taken part in various tastings, not only with Raymond in Reims, but also with Micheline and other vignerons. And every time, she had been fascinated by the almost sacred ritual of opening the bottle. Now it was she who removed the cork so carefully that no more than a light hiss escaped, without the slightest trace of a pop. “Like an angel’s fart,” Micheline had described it once.

“Anyway, these three bottles are not from Feininger at all. They were a gift from my friend Raymond Dupont. He’s a champagne dealer in Reims. The first time I tasted champagne properly was in his shop, and he actually said I have a good palate, if you can imagine that.”

Both Clara and Josephine nodded, impressed.

“A man gives
you
champagne? Isn’t that a bit like taking coals to Newcastle?”

Isabelle laughed. “If only it were! Raymond only ever sends me his most carefully chosen wines. Feininger champagne, I’m sorry to say, is far from that class.” She held the bottle so that Josephine and Clara could see the label.

“Millésime Bollinger . . . all right,” said Josephine, not sure what she was looking at.

Isabelle laughed mysteriously. “Tonight you will taste the very best that Champagne has to offer!”

“Can you smell the vanilla? And that touch of linden blooms?” Luxuriating in her senses, Isabelle kept her nose over the glass for a few more seconds, then drank a mouthful of the delicious Bollinger. “And the flavor of a freshly baked brioche . . .” She sighed almost rapturously.

“Now that you mention it, the champagne really does taste a little like pastries,” said Clara in surprise. “But how is that possible?”

“It comes from the yeast during the fermentation. It leaves traces in the taste, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker,” Isabelle explained. She closed her eyes and let another mouthful of the cool golden liquid flow down her throat. It was simply delicious!

“Every champagne is made of the same ingredients. There are three kinds of grapes—Chardonnay, Pinot Meunier, and Pinot Noir—and a bit of sugar, but really not much. So you’d think that every champagne would taste the same, right?”

Josephine, who had so far said nothing, nodded.

Isabelle smiled. It felt good to share her knowledge with her friends. “The fact that they don’t taste the same comes down to the art of the cellar master. He decides on the proportions of the three grapes, how long the first and second fermentations last, and how much yeast is added for the second fermentation. The cellar master also decides how many different years he’ll use for a cuvée. Sometimes he’ll mix together as many as fifty different wines. Can you imagine?”

Clara looked almost reverently at the glass in her hand, and she and Josephine shook their heads.

“The only condition for a cuvée is that all the wines have to come from the Champagne region,” Isabelle continued. “Some people call blending the wine ‘marrying,’ which I think is a much better expression.”

“You really know a lot about this,” said Josephine and gave Isabelle a little shove.

“You’ve become a real expert; well done!” said Clara, with admiration in her voice. “And you haven’t even been here a year.”

Isabelle shrugged. “I just find champagne interesting. So I try to learn as much as I can about how it’s made.” Her words sounded hollow in her own ears. What she truly felt, deep down, about the making of champagne was far more passionate, more all-encompassing, but she could not find the words to capture those feelings.

A silence fell over the three friends for a long moment.

“What now?” Josephine asked after a while, looking at Isabelle. “Where do things go from here?”

Isabelle put her empty glass down noisily on the table. Then she started to open the second bottle from Raymond Dupont’s gift basket. She needed to send him a thank-you card for all his attentions over the last few months. How impolite of her to have neglected that.

Thinking about the champagne dealer, she recalled the sense of being protected that she had always felt when she was around him. Raymond Dupont knew so much, and he was so experienced, moved in the best circles—perhaps he would be a good adviser for her when it came to deciding about her future?

“Well, first of all, I have to get the Americans’ order done. After that, there’s the harvest to take care of and buyers to find for my grapes.”

Just a few weeks earlier, she had been overwhelmed by panic just thinking about the future, let alone actually speaking about it as if it were a real thing. And now here she was, making concrete plans, she realized in amazement.

“And what about that woman that Micheline told us about, Madame Trubert? She wants to buy your place come hell or high water, apparently,” said Josephine, and pulled her legs in comfortably underneath her.

“She’ll be waiting a long time!” Isabelle let out a harsh laugh. “I admit that when I was at my lowest point, I thought about selling and not just once. If Henriette had not been so horribly greedy, I might have actually signed in a weak moment. She certainly held her contract under my nose often enough. But she’s like a shark, eating everything that crosses her path. Sometimes, when she was sitting on my bed and pretending to be sympathetic, I was waiting for a shark fin to push out through her tight-fitting dress and reveal her true character!”

All three of them giggled at the notion, then Clara said, “You’re finally starting to sound like the Isabelle we used to know,” and she raised her newly filled glass. “To you and your glorious future without Madame Shark!”

With a crystalline clinking of glasses, Isabelle and Josephine joined her in her toast. Isabelle took a swig of the Ruinart champagne, an outstanding drop, then she looked at Clara and Josephine seriously.

“I never would have made it without you.” Tears of gratitude and hope brimmed in her eyes.

Clara just shrugged, and Josephine raised her free hand, dismissing the thought. “Oh, don’t go getting all sentimental,” she said, feigning imperiousness, but her own eyes were shining traitorously. “I’d much rather talk about the future of your winery. What’s next on the list once the Americans’ order is on its way?”

Isabelle sighed. “Then I have to see to the vineyards urgently. We should have been trimming leaves around the bunches of grapes to let more sunshine reach the fruit, but it’s incredibly time-consuming work and too much for Claude to manage alone. And until now, I haven’t had the money to take on any helpers.” But it wasn’t only the money; it was also the state she’d been in!
How many times had Micheline begged her to do more about her business in the last few months?
she berated herself.

“You don’t sound particularly happy about it,” Clara murmured.

“Does that surprise you?” Isabelle said. “When I first came here, I would never have dreamed that one day I’d be forced to sell the grapes. I wanted to make champagne, really
good
Feininger champagne! One with character, like this Ruinart.” She held up her glass. In the flickering light of the fire, its contents shone golden. “
That’s
why I read all the books in Jacques’s library;
that’s
why I was out in the vineyards from dawn to dusk: to see and smell and learn.” With a steady hand, she refilled all three of their glasses.

“It’s like liquid gold,” said Clara admiringly. “I can understand very well how a drink like this could fascinate you so much.”

“Champagne . . . just the word is enough to make you smile,” said Josephine with a grin.

Isabelle nodded fiercely. “That’s exactly it! But to manufacture a perfect champagne, it takes more—a first-class cellar master, for one thing, and that is something I lack, I’m afraid.” She sniffed. “Right now, I don’t even have a second-class one, because Monsieur One-Eye still hasn’t reappeared. I’m slowly starting to fear that he won’t be coming back at all.” She shrugged. “But in any case, Gustave Grosse is not the man for what I have in mind. Nobody wants the kind of sweet champagne I have in my cellars. The Feininger champagne I want to make should ring in the new century in its own way: untroubled and as light as a feather!”

Her friends nodded, but Isabelle was not sure whether they had really understood.
Am I talking nonsense?
she wondered. “Without the right cellar master, I might as well forget about it. Do you see now why I have no other choice? Why a ‘grape farmer’ is all I can ever be?” She could not keep the disgust she felt out of her voice.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Clara, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had momentarily settled.

Isabelle and Josephine turned to her immediately.

“You could open a guesthouse!”

“A guesthouse?” said Isabelle and Josephine together.

Clara seemed to relish the puzzled looks on her friends’ faces. “Yes, think about it—Isabelle, this house is so beautiful, and I’m sure there are many travelers who would love to stay here. On the train here, we met an actress who spent a few months down by Lake Constance to regather her strength for her work. You could rent out rooms to people like her. You could introduce your guests to the delicious cuisine of this region, you could take them strolling through the vineyards, offer champagne tastings . . .”

“A place of calmness, a place to relax and recuperate,” Josephine murmured, more to herself, then she looked up. “I’m sure you could earn good money like that. Clara and I could advertise for you in Berlin.”

“Please don’t!” said Isabelle, horrified at the thought. “No disrespect to your idea, Clara, but a guesthouse like that is something you would really need to have a passion for, and I just don’t have that. I cherish my privacy far too much to even consider it.” She sighed with regret when she saw the disappointment in her friends’ eyes.

“A country hotel like that would be more something for you, Clara, but for Isabelle, it’s probably not right,” Josephine agreed. She turned to Isabelle. “Just now, you were talking so ardently, so urgently, about making champagne that it gave me goose bumps. If making an excellent champagne is truly your great dream, then do it!”

It isn’t as simple as that
, Isabelle was about to reply, but the words stuck in her throat. Suddenly, she was sick to death of her weakness, her angst, and her internal discord. She wanted to be like she once was—audacious, brash, brave. She wanted to be like Josephine, who talked about passion and about turning dreams into reality and who did just that. And she wanted to be like Clara, who could transform herself from Miss Mousy to Lady Lioness when it really mattered, when she had to tell Isabelle how she really felt. Her magnificent friends.