The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (31 page)

Now it was Raymond who nodded. Daniel had always been the best cellar master in the region—and to keep him, one might have to swallow a little pride, and gladly so.

“Daniel and Isabelle Feininger . . . ,” Raymond said, pondering. The idea did not please him.

Henriette looked at Raymond through narrowed eyes. “Do you really want to give Daniel free rein? In the past, you got any woman you wanted—could it be that you’ve lost your touch?”

“Could it be that you’re sticking your nose in where it really doesn’t belong?” Raymond shot back. “At the moment, I simply have no time to play the gentleman, not for Isabelle Feininger or any other woman. Business comes first—you’d understand that better than anyone, wouldn’t you?”

Again, she ignored his remark. “Just imagine . . . you and Isabelle, traveling together. You could show her the world and discover it again for yourself. You could feast on her youth like a bee on nectar. You’d have to sell the estate, of course. It would only be a burden. And you know I’m willing to pay the best price for the Feininger land. After that, you’d be free, and you’d have the sweetest life ahead of you. Oh, to fall in love all over again . . .” Her voice was as smooth as honey, her sigh covetous.

Raymond felt desire stir inside him. A smile crossed his face, alluring images playing out in mind’s eye. He would never lower himself to admit that Henriette was right, but it was not to be denied: the old coquette had shown him exactly how to add some fresh spice to his life.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Two different ways of life permeated the region, it seemed to Isabelle. Before the harvest, fear that poor weather or even one big storm could destroy a year’s work at the last moment dominated the mood. But now the harvest was over and the fear had dissipated. People were happy and liberated again. Ignaz and Carla Chapron invited Isabelle to a small party to celebrate the sale of the cooper’s new barrels. And at Ghislaine’s Le Grand Cerf, the vignerons sat, hour after hour, with onion tarts and new wine for lunch, leisurely reviewing the year behind them. A round of champagne, then a round of spirits—with the millions of gallons of grape juice stored in their cellars, the
Champenois
were willing to open their wallets wider than usual. The diners and drinkers gossiped to their heart’s content, spreading and then dissecting the latest rumors. A great deal of attention was given to the question of how high the price of champagne might go for the turn of the century.

At least as much attention, however, was paid to Daniel Lambert’s departure from the Trubert estate. It was said he left right after the harvest, more or less on the spur of the moment. And now he was working for Perrier-Jouët, a well-known champagne house in Épernay. But the hows and whys of it all were open to wild speculation. A scandal involving Daniel and Henriette Trubert? Or simply a good offer from Perrier-Jouët, one that Daniel could not refuse? That charge was disputed instantly. For Daniel, making champagne was an art, not a business. Others asked whether the vineyards of Hautvillers were perhaps no longer good enough for him.

Isabelle and her neighbors Micheline and Marie Guenin were also to be found in Le Grand Cerf on more than one afternoon. They ate grape cake and washed it down with champagne, and Isabelle listened closely to the talk about Daniel. Confessing his love for her in the vineyard had certainly been shocking, but had she been right to run away as she had, as if he were snapping at her heels? What if he left because he was upset by the way she reacted?

She turned her attention to Micheline and Marie. The sisters-in-law were busy knitting children’s clothes. “That will be lovely,” she said, pointing at the sweater Micheline was working on. “Claude is going to help me paint an old cupboard tomorrow. I want to use it to keep the baby’s things in later. Clothes and toys and such.” With every passing day, her anticipation grew, and with it, the preparations for the arrival of the new child.

“Why don’t you knit some clothes for my child while you’re at it?” said Ghislaine. She smiled as she came to the table with a pot of coffee in her hand. Her belly had grown considerably, and she carried her new curves with pride.

“Of course, my dear!” Micheline beamed. But Marie scowled—she would not knit a single row for a child conceived in sin.

“If you would like, Madame Feininger, I’ll put together a little cradle for you baby,” Ignaz Chapron called from the next table.

“Only if you promise that the cradle will look like a champagne barrel. They say the children here are born with wine in their blood, so a bed like that would be just the thing,” Isabelle replied with a laugh.

“Then why don’t I take a barrel and cut it down the middle? Then I’ll have two cradles, one for Ghislaine’s child, too.”

Everyone laughed, and the mood grew even brighter.

Wherever she went, whomever she met—Isabelle’s constant companion was the warm feeling that this was where she belonged. The people of Hautvillers were no angels. They had their rough edges, their weaknesses. But when it really mattered, they helped each other out of a tight spot, just as Daniel had done with her, several times now.

His disappearance hit her harder than she liked to admit. On her walks, she often looked over to the more distant vineyards, hoping to catch sight of him. He wouldn’t spend all his time in Épernay, would he? He would have to visit his sister and his old home occasionally. But with every week that passed without that happening, her disappointment grew. She missed Daniel Lambert.

After weeks spent out among the grapevines, the wine cellars became her second home in autumn. Holding tightly to the handrail, she descended the steep wooden stairs every day and listened to the brisk bubbling in the giant vats. The fermentation of the juice was in full swing, and the gurgling sound made Isabelle think of a witch’s brew.

So it was all the more surprising when she went into the cellar one December day and was met by an uncanny silence.

“It’s finished fermenting,” Grosse explained as he threw open the enormous rear-opening gate of the cellar. “Now we’ve got to leave all the doors and windows down here open; the cold from outside will stop the process completely, so no bacteria can spoil the wine.”

Isabelle carefully climbed one of the small ladders and looked down into the large vats. Just a day or two before, all she’d been able to see was a cloudy liquid, and the fermented juice now had a silvery glow from the light pouring in and was as clear as glass. She let out a small enraptured cry.

“The yeast and all the sediments have settled. The champagne looks clarified! This is when you have to pump it into another barrel, isn’t it?”

“The
première soutirage.
Exactly.” Gustave Grosse nodded. “But a day here or there makes no difference. Let me do my job! Weren’t you going out in the vineyards with Claude today?” Without another word, her cellar master disappeared into one of the side passages.

Instead of following Grosse and accosting him about his attitude, she simply watched him walk away. She had to start looking for a new cellar master, and the sooner the better.

To calm herself, she walked along the main passage of the cellar, where dozens of large wooden barrels lined the walls. It was so quiet, like being in a cathedral. And she felt so safe, so sheltered down there in the darkness! Was it the same for the child inside her body? Tenderly, she caressed her belly.

She had read in Jacques’s books that the
assemblage
—the first blending of the wines—took place immediately after the
première
soutirage
, and that it was one of the most important moments of the entire year for a champagne maker. This year, the blend was even more important than ever. Her turn-of-the-century champagne had to be something different—elegant, not too sweet, but also not so dry that it scratched your palate. With floral nuances and a spicy undertone. It had to contain the multitude of aromas that Isabelle herself wanted to take with her into the new century. But her dream of a champagne was something she could only realize with a cellar master who understood her ideas and was able to put them into practice. A true master, someone like Daniel Lambert.

When she stepped out into the open air, she was so deep in her thoughts that it took her a moment to realize what had changed. Outside, it was at least as quiet as it had been inside the cellar.

The first snow of the year! Delicate flakes fluttered down from the sky, covering the land as if with a veil of the finest lace. Isabelle let out a small enraptured sound. The fields of vines looked enchanted, like a fairytale landscape. Her anger at Grosse was forgotten, and the unsolved problems were as well—for a few long seconds, Isabelle gave herself over completely to the memories rising inside her.

The first snow in Berlin. In her parents’ house, making preparations for Christmas. The huge tree they had, and all the countless presents. With the valuable jewels, the expensive porcelain figures and silver boxes, Isabelle often had the feeling that her father, far more than trying to make her or her mother happy, was trying to show off just how much he could afford.

And then there was the meager Christmas the year before, at Leon’s parents’ house, when she and Leon had crept away before the midnight mass to celebrate the “festival of love” in their own way. Leon . . .

Snowflakes settled on her eyelashes, where they melted and then the cold water trickled down her cheeks. Isabelle blinked. Christmas this year would be different. There would be no wonderful gifts, no magnificent tree. She would not be able to sink into Leon’s arms. Still, there was no reason to cry. She was not alone. Ghislaine had invited her over, and Micheline wanted to join them, too. Or she might just make herself comfortable at home, wrap up by herself, or rather with the child she carried. Leon’s child . . . wasn’t that as rich a gift as she could want?

A smile flitted across her face, but it was replaced a heartbeat later by a frown. Only two weeks to Christmas, and she hadn’t bought a single gift! She had new boots in mind for Claude; his old ones were falling off his feet. And she’d get some kind of sausage for his dog, of course. Micheline would love some red lipstick, she knew, and she could find some nice soap for Marie. She should give Ghislaine something for her child, and she wanted to buy something for her own child, too! If only she knew whether it would be a boy or girl . . . perhaps a rattle, then, to be on the safe side?

So many plans, so many ideas. Feeling on top of things, Isabelle turned and walked around to the house entrance. She had to go to Reims urgently, not only because of the Christmas gifts but, more important, to ask around about a new cellar master. But first, she had to attend to the vineyards.

An hour later, she was wearing her warmest jacket and three pairs of woolen socks inside her boots when she headed out. When she reached the manure pile, Claude was already waiting for her—along with the horses and a wagon filled with manure.

“Madame, what we have ahead of us today is really too strenuous for you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t do too much.” She would really have preferred to spend the day indoors, baking cookies or knitting the baby blanket she’d been working on.

“Of course, madame. Also, the vines need to be untied, and we have to dig drains, too; we don’t want the winter rain to wash away all the good soil. But I have to ask, why don’t you let Grosse do these things? For a woman—and especially for one in your condition—it’s too hard, far too hard.”

“Oh, Claude,” Isabelle said. “You know better than me how our wonderful cellar master is with hard work. I could chase after him from dawn to dusk, but that would take just as much out of me as if I did the work myself.” She sighed. “I’m just so sick of the man.”

“What are you doing about it?” Claude asked.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t just conjure a new cellar master. You know as well as I that experts like that don’t grow on trees. But don’t worry. I’m keeping my eyes and ears open! I know things can’t go on as they have, and as soon as I’ve found the right man, you’ll be the first to know. Now let’s get started, before I freeze to death.”

Claude’s expression grew grimmer. “Three hours,” he said. “After that, you go home and rest; I don’t care how far along we are. And all you do is shovel. I don’t want you carrying any buckets. If you feel ill, even a little, we stop.”

“Aye, aye!” said Isabelle, then she climbed up onto the wagon.

“When are your friends from Berlin coming back?” With a cluck of his tongue, he set the horses in motion.

“Josephine isn’t coming anytime soon. Her husband is in America on a business trip, and she can’t leave. But Clara would like to come again at the start of the year.” The midwife that Carla Chapron had recommended and with whom Isabelle had first met a few weeks earlier had estimated that the child was due around January 5. It eased Isabelle’s mind immensely to think that she would not be alone then.

“High time for someone to watch out for you,” said Claude Bertrand, and he muttered something else that Isabelle didn’t catch.

She glanced fondly at him. “Thank you,” she said, and squeezed his arm. “You’re an old grouch, but I’d be lost without you.”

The work was both hard and boring. A shovelful at a time, Isabelle filled the buckets with manure, which Claude then spread at the base of the vines. After three hours, they had completed no more than three rows. The snow had stopped, and an icy wind now whipped across the land; still, the sweat trickled down Isabelle’s weary back. She hoped that she would not catch a cold.

Finally, she said to Claude, whose face was as gray with exhaustion as her own, “We’re getting nowhere. I never imagined it would be this much work. We need help from the village; we’ll never manage it alone.”

The overseer nodded, relieved, and promised to ask around for a few helpers. They drove the horses back to the estate in silence and parted company at the stable.

What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath
, she thought, though it meant having to heat many buckets of water and haul them down to the bathroom.

Her visions of a relaxing bath burst like soap bubbles, however, at the sight of two men with the olive skin of more southern regions, unloading sacks of—what?—from a cart in front of her house.

“What are you doing? What is that? I didn’t order anything,” she said, perplexed.

“Bonjour, madame,” said the two men simultaneously. “Cork delivery, just like every December. The finest Catalonian cork. Monsieur Jacques knows about it. Perhaps you could call him?”

“Monsieur Jacques is dead,” she said. “Corks for the champagne bottles?”

The two men nodded. “Monsieur Jacques always paid cash. Who’s going to pay us?”

The cork dealers’ cart had just disappeared around the first curve when another cart came into view.

Isabelle frowned. What now? She crossed her arms and waited for the driver to turn his wagon around in front of her house and park it.

“Bonjour, madame!” the man cried with a tip of his hat and a smile that revealed several missing teeth. “Another year gone, can you believe it? I’ve brought the bottles, just like every December. Three thousand of the finest glass bottles the Argonne has to offer!”

With a sinking heart, Isabelle watched as the man and his helper unloaded crate after crate, directed by Gustave Grosse, who apparently had been woken from his afternoon nap by the clattering of the bottles. She knew she should have been happy that Jacques had organized the regular delivery of the bottles and corks. But she could see the money she’d made from the Americans melting away like the first snow, and it made her nervous.