The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (35 page)

Thunderstruck, Isabelle could only watch as the window closed again. What in the world was that all about?

Daniel looked around the small room at the back of the house with satisfaction. It was just what he needed for the
assemblage
. In contrast to the dark, cold, stuffy wine cellar, the room was dry and bright, and it didn’t smell. There was no mold on the walls and no moisture that could have a negative impact on his work. Inside, he was not only protected from all kinds of weather, but he could also lock the room thanks to the large padlock that Claude had bought for him in Épernay. He didn’t believe that Henriette would go so far as to send her saboteur Grosse back to the Feininger estate, but better to be on the safe side!

In the center of the room, he and Claude had set up an enormous table on which almost three dozen bottles now stood—fresh wine from the recent harvest and samples of the various reserve wines that he had found in Isabelle’s cellars. There were also several bottles of finished champagne in a bucket of ice water, a small surprise that Daniel had prepared for Isabelle. He was excited to hear her reaction.

Claude had brought in a few chairs as well. On a sideboard, there were more glass containers; Daniel would use these for blending his new compositions. A large spittoon was at the ready—like any good cellar master, Daniel would not swallow the wines as he tasted them but rather spit out the mouthfuls.

He walked over to the window. The air glittered like crystal, and everything was silent and peaceful. Even the birds that hadn’t flown south were keeping their chittering to themselves, as if they knew the significance of the day. Now all that was missing was Isabelle.

Daniel already had a very good idea of the champagne he wanted to create for her. But he wanted to find out first if his own concept matched with what she had in mind. This would be their first mutual champagne, after all!

A wry, self-mocking grin appeared on Daniel’s face. What strange impulses were these?! All these years, he had prohibited Henriette Trubert and Jacques Feininger from sticking their noses into his work. Whenever they had tried, he’d turned downright cantankerous. And now here he was, anxiously waiting for Isabelle to appear, when he should have been well underway with the work by now.

His grimace turned into a broad smile when he heard steps outside.

“I’m in here! You weren’t looking for me down in the cellars, were you?” he called out, straightening the chairs. He wanted Isabelle to feel comfortable in the room. He opened the door. “An
assemblage
would have been impossible in there, so I set up everything here—” He broke off with a frown when he saw her distraught face. “Has something happened?” He looked into the pram and was relieved to see Marguerite lying inside, wide awake. He quickly pushed the pram close to the rear wall, where the temperature was warmest.

Isabelle sat down. Haltingly, she told him what had happened when she tried to find someone to look after Marguerite. “You should have seen the look on Marie’s face. For her, it was simply inconceivable that I would bring Marguerite to
her
—what did she mean by that?” Perplexed, she looked up at Daniel.

Daniel let out a heavy sigh. He crouched beside Isabelle and stroked a few strands of hair out of her face. How beautiful she was!

“Marie can be a little . . . strange, sometimes. Don’t take her words too much to heart. You know her sad story, don’t you?”

Isabelle nodded. “Yes, but that’s no reason for her to be so mean,” she said, crying.

Daniel looked at her earnestly. “When God created the grapevines, he didn’t make them all the same. Each one, in its own way, is unique and beautiful. Anyone who doesn’t understand that can’t hope to understand life.” He looked at Marguerite, who had fallen asleep again, then handed Isabelle a handkerchief.

“But what is so different about my child?” she whispered.

“Don’t waste too much energy thinking about it,” Daniel said. “Let’s get to work; we have a lot to do today.” He sat down opposite her. “Before I start with the
assemblage
, I’d like to hear what you imagine your champagne should be. A good champagne should make a statement that the person drinking it understands after a few mouthfuls. It has to have character, its own persona.” He leaned across the table as he continued. “I can create a light, bubbly champagne or one as elegant and rich as an expensive perfume. I can make a champagne that would appeal mostly to younger drinkers or one that older connoisseurs would enjoy, people who appreciate a woodier undertone and more mature nuances. Everything depends on the proportions of the different wines.”

Twisting the handkerchief in both hands, Isabelle listened attentively. Then she blew her nose so loudly and so indelicately that they both had to laugh. Then, it was as if the air had cleared. She was completely focused on the task ahead.

“I am honored that you are asking me for my opinion, but I honestly have no idea about the making of champagne. For me, it’s not just a science but also an art form.”

“Art or science or whatever, I’d still like to know what comes into your head when you think about the coming century, what you see in your mind’s eye.”

Isabelle sighed. “If you’d asked me that before Leon’s death, I would probably have answered you wholeheartedly, talking about freedom and a new feeling for life and about great opportunities ahead.” Her voice was full of irony. “That the new century would bring with it a fresh wind, something new especially for women—it’s something that Clara, Josephine, and I have always longed for and talked about. Our turn-of-the-century wind was supposed to sweep aside all the prejudices about women as the weaker sex.” Her gaze had drifted, and Daniel sensed that her thoughts were far away. After a long moment, she looked at him again.

“When I was a child, the adults often said ‘Men plan, fate laughs,’ and I never understood what they meant. Now I know that it isn’t necessary to always be making plans down to the last detail.” She sniffed softly. “Of course, it’s always been important to have a goal, and that won’t change. A person with no goal is like a piece of flotsam, pushed back and forth by the tides of life. My goal is to preserve Jacques’s and Leon’s legacy for my daughter. But recent months have also taught me not always to be thinking about tomorrow but to enjoy the moment. To take pleasure in life, to laugh, and to be lighthearted, because everything can change tomorrow.” A little embarrassed, she waved off her own words. “I can talk some rubbish, can’t I? But that’s what you get for asking.”

“It’s not rubbish, none of it! With champagne, all that matters is the moment; what you just said was exactly on the mark.” He jumped up, went to the bucket of ice water, and came back with one of the champagne bottles. Its temperature was perfect. With practiced ease, he opened the bottle and poured two glasses, then handed one to Isabelle. The champagne had a delicate rosé tint, as if a rose petal had been floating in it. It was topped with a thin white foam that was visibly disappearing—a sign of the highest quality.

“Everything in life is as ephemeral as bubbles of champagne. What counts is to make the most of every moment, to take life as it comes, as it is. When you open a bottle of champagne, you’re not waiting for the magnificent moment. You making sure that
this
moment is magnificent. That might well explain the great allure of champagne.” He swung his glass expertly to awaken the liquid inside it, then he raised it to Isabelle. As she took a mouthful, he did not take his eyes off her. The green of her irises was even more vivid than usual as her expression turned to one of rapture.

“This is simply delicious! Countless tiny bubbles exploding in my mouth . . . it’s as if it’s trying to make me laugh!” She smiled, then took another big mouthful and rolled it around in her mouth before she swallowed it. “Incredibly fresh and invigorating. I can taste a little strawberry, vanilla, and there’s a very slight sweetness to it, like fine sponge cake.” She shook her head in confusion, then put the glass down. “What in the world are we drinking?”

Daniel smiled. Raymond had told him that Isabelle had an exceptional palate when it came to picking out the nuances of a champagne. The man hadn’t been exaggerating—Daniel couldn’t have described his champagne better himself.

“Feininger champagne from 1892,” he said, as casually he could. “The third level down in your cellar is full of this
assemblage
; I’d say several thousand bottles. They’re from the time when I worked for Jacques. I created it back then so that several years to mature would do it good; now’s the perfect time to drink it.

“You’re kidding! I’ve had this in my cellar all along?” Isabelle blinked in disbelief. “This wonderful rosé color! I’ve never seen a color like it.”

“It reminds me of your hair with the morning sun shining on it.” Daniel quickly looked away, wanting to hide the deep feeling Isabelle aroused in him. Then he refilled the glasses. “Jacques wanted to conquer the European market with this champagne, but it never got that far. It seems he preferred to sell Grosse’s sweet brew over this exquisite champagne.” Daniel shook his head in bewilderment. “But so be it. For us, it’s pure serendipity that I rediscovered these bottles.”

Isabelle reached across the table, took Daniel’s right hand in hers, and squeezed it. “Can’t you make an identical rosé champagne for the new century? Then we’d have something really very special to offer, wouldn’t we? I’ve never tried anything like this, not even with Raymond.”

Daniel laughed, then. “And there’s a good reason for that. Hardly anyone would even attempt to make a rosé champagne, because they’re extremely difficult to produce. Even with the most careful
assemblage
, there’s no telling how the color of the blend will develop in the months ahead. In the worst case, you don’t get a rosé tone at all, but a dirty blue or green. And then the entire cuvée would be lost. Most cellar masters who try for a rosé champagne add cochineal to a white wine. Cochineal is a red coloring derived from beetles. But I personally would never use something like that; for me, it’s tantamount to fraud. The color has to come from the skins of the grapes.”

Isabelle nodded rapidly. “Adding color to champagne—that’s just another kind of adulteration!”

“That’s exactly it,” said Daniel. “But to come back to your question, yes, I am certain I could produce another champagne of this quality. But to do that, the champagne would have to mature until at least the summer of
next
year, and ideally longer.”

“But we don’t have that much time. The turn of the century would be over!” Isabelle cried in horror.

“But you can sell the 1892 cuvée as your turn-of-the-century special. It certainly has the class. And it would make you quite rich in the process. I’m sure of that,” Daniel replied calmly. “And then you can sell the wines I’m making today in the future.”

“I thought the juice we got from last year’s grapes would go into the champagne for the end of the year. Now I’m not sure.” Isabelle was completely confused.

“I know that with the twentieth century approaching, some winemakers are selling everything they’ve got. But a champagne so young is still too rough, not rounded enough, and for the great celebrations ahead, it would simply not be good enough. I’d feel like a swindler if I sent you out with that in your hand. But if that’s what you insist on . . .” Daniel shrugged.

Isabelle looked at him in consternation. “And I thought I understood at least a little about this business.” The next moment, she jumped to her feet, embraced Daniel, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “What would I do without you? Thank you for your good counsel. I will sell your mature rosé champagne, and I will do so with pleasure and pride. Against our turn-of-the-century Feininger, every other champagne will look anemic!”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

When Clara awoke, she did not immediately know where she was. The chirping of birds outside her window, the lavender scent of the bedclothes, the weight of the blanket . . . everything sounded and felt unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Almost unwillingly, she opened her eyes and found herself back in Isabelle’s guest room, where she had slept for the previous five nights.

She turned and looked out the window. It was only the end of February—another of Gerhard’s engagements had kept her in Berlin longer than planned—but there was already a hint of spring in the air. Around Isabelle’s house, winter jasmine and witch hazel were in bloom, exuding a warm, matchless perfume.

Clara’s brows furrowed as she thought of the horrible stench that plagued Berlin’s streets. The stink of the ever-increasing number of factories, the gray smoke rising from the chimney of the smithy, the sharp odors from the shoemaker workshops—and on top of it all, the waste produced by humans and animals alike in the confined spaces of the city. When the fog from the hinterland around Berlin closed in, it was so hard to breathe that Clara worried about the health of her son. At three, Matthias was still a delicate child; a puff of wind was enough to give him a cough or cold.

“That comes from you coddling him all the time,” her husband always said disdainfully. “A cold rubdown morning and evening, that would toughen him up!”

Clara sighed. Gerhard didn’t have to put up with Matthias’s shrill screaming if the washcloth was just a shade too cool.

She wondered how Matthias and her parents were getting along. Sophie and Anton Berg pampered their grandson exactly as they had pampered Clara as a child. They were probably spending wonderful days together without giving a thought to what she, Clara, was up to.

She rolled to her side and sighed. How lucky she was to have such a cheerful, healthy son, notwithstanding his tendency to catch colds! The thought that not every mother was blessed with such happiness saddened her.
Don’t dwell on it
, Clara chided herself.
Don’t think. Just be
.

Lying in bed longer than necessary—what a luxury! It was impossible at home. Gerhard wanted to see a perfectly set breakfast table every morning and a no less perfectly prepared wife. To manage everything to his satisfaction, Clara had to rise an hour earlier than he did, for she still had no one to help her in the household.

Thoughts of home were so exhausting that Clara closed her eyes again.

When she woke a second time, Isabelle was standing beside her bed. She was carrying Marguerite on her right arm and a cup of tea in her left hand; she set the cup down on Clara’s nightstand. It smelled of hay and wildflowers.

“Well, sleepyhead! Did you forget that we’ve been invited to visit Raymond Dupont today? If we want to make it to Reims by lunchtime, you should drag yourself out of bed.”

Isabelle was so cheerful these days! It was such a contrast to Clara’s previous visit, in the aftermath of Leon’s death.

“Good morning, you two.” Clara stretched languidly, then smiled and tickled little Marguerite’s feet. Instead of kicking her legs as Matthias would have, Marguerite just rested her head against Isabelle while she looked at Clara with her large eyes.

Outside, a cloud crossed the bright winter sun, and inside, Clara’s mood darkened a little. When she thought of the terrible task ahead of her, she came close to tears. How would Isabelle react when she told her that? She pushed herself to a sitting position and forced herself to think of other things.

“Are you really sure that I’m supposed to come with you to this birthday party? I don’t know anyone, and I don’t even have a gift for Mr. Dupont. Maybe it would be better if I stayed home and looked after Marguerite.”

Isabelle dismissed her doubts with a wave of her hand. “I probably don’t know anyone there, either. And when Raymond heard you were visiting, he expressly invited you along, too. It’s important for me to see him; I need to get his advice on marketing our new champagne. Besides, Ghislaine is already looking forward to watching Marguerite. Now climb out of bed and make yourself beautiful. If you like, we can do each other’s hair, and you’re more than welcome to borrow one of my dresses. No doubt Raymond has invited only the
crème de la crème
of Reims society.”

Clara felt a nervous twinge in her stomach. She hoped she’d be able to behave herself appropriately in such a smart crowd.

Sensing Clara’s insecurity, Isabelle said, “Don’t worry. We won’t stay out too late. I still have to pick up Marguerite from Ghislaine later tonight.” She gave her daughter a kiss on her forehead.

Marguerite . . . The sight of the child awakened a deep sadness in Clara. Maybe it would be good to spend the evening in Reims. Elegance and luxury all around instead of a conversation that she would rather put off until the end of time.

Raymond Dupont looked around with satisfaction at the guests seated at his birthday table. The mayor of Reims was there with his wife and daughter, and they were accompanied by other honored guests from the city. Louis Pommery had come from the eponymous wine estate, and his sister and brother-in-law, Guy de Polignac, sat beside him. Then Joseph Krug II, Maurice and George Roger with their wives from Épernay, and Henriette and Alphonse Trubert—the champagne-making elite of the region were gathered at his table. The only one missing was Edgar Ruinart; the old man had an audience with the czar of Russia—something Raymond had accepted as an excuse for missing out on
his
party.

Apart from the champagne barons, Raymond had invited a prima ballerina from the Paris Ballet, with whom he had spent an exhilarating night on one of his journeys, as well as a breathtakingly beautiful actress from the theater in Reims. Both women seemed spellbound whenever he opened his mouth to speak. The title “Madame Raymond Dupont” for both of them seemed to promise as much prominence, wealth, and fame as any
comtesse
or baroness. In the light of the chandeliers, their fake diamonds glittered across their revealing décolletages and in their elaborate hairdos. The scent of their excessive perfume drifted across the table until, in Raymond’s exceptionally sensitive nose, it congealed with the delicious odors of the fine food into a florid mess.

But even if they had smelled as delightful as a May morning, for Raymond the two women were only there to decorate his table, like the long-stemmed roses and the napkins fringed with Brussels lace. A hunter like himself did not appreciate the rabbit throwing itself in front of his rifle—if the women did not know that, then they had a great deal to learn about life and men.

The woman sitting to his right, however, was of a completely different kind! Isabelle Feininger. She, too, wore jewelry. She, too, had her hair elaborately braided and pinned. But with Isabelle, it all seemed more natural, a more casual elegance. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The same was true of the way she handled herself in such illustrious company. With her wit and her stimulating observations, one was happy to overlook her occasionally stumbling French. It was quite usual for the nobles of Europe to speak fluent French; it was
the
language of court, after all. But for an ordinary citizen of another country to speak French so well was remarkable; that, at least, was the unanimous opinion of the men seated around the table. The women, however, regarded Isabelle more dourly. The ballerina, especially, cast baneful glances in Isabelle’s direction whenever she could, but Isabelle ignored them.

Likewise, Isabelle paid her old nemesis, Henriette Trubert, no attention. When, earlier, she had become aware of Henriette’s scrutiny, Isabelle had nodded to Henriette with a gesture at once chilly and regal.
Bravo!
Raymond had silently saluted her. In the Champagne region, it was impossible to avoid one’s enemies, so it was all the more important to encounter them with your head held high.

“Well, how’s the suitor business going?” Henriette had asked him earlier that evening. He had been on his way to the kitchen to give his cook final instructions for the meal when she intercepted him. “I really hope that wedding bells will soon be ringing for you and your young bride. You’ve been lonely far too long.”

Raymond had asked himself countless times what he had ever seen in this woman. The nosy way she pried into his life, and—even worse—the way she was now making him a pawn in her own game repulsed him. The only thing that mattered to Henriette was adding another precious stone to her crown with the Feininger estate.
And why not?
he had still thought the previous autumn, when she had spoken to him the first time about Isabelle.
Let her get her claws on the Feininger lands, if they mean so much to her.
But he had changed his mind. He could find a buyer for the Feininger estate anytime he liked. It would serve Henriette right if
he
took
her
aside at his wedding to tell her they wanted to sell the estate to someone else. Or that they already had.

“Don’t worry on my account, my dear. With all my work, I have no time left to be lonely.” He had said nothing of the progress he had been making with Isabelle. And even if he had wanted to, it would have been hard for him to put it into words. He was reasonably sure that Isabelle liked him, or she would not always ask him for his advice. Or did she see him only as an adviser, the avuncular friend? Were there deeper feelings there? It was time for him to find out, before someone else got in ahead of him. He did not like that Daniel Lambert was now Isabelle Feininger’s cellar master. He would much rather have been her only white knight in her time of need. But why think about it? Daniel might be the best cellar master in the entire region, but he didn’t have Raymond’s ways and means for courting a woman. If everything went as he imagined it would, Isabelle Feininger would soon be melting like ice in his hands.

Watching over his champagne glass, Raymond frowned. Joseph Krug was openly ogling Isabelle Feininger. And George Roger could hardly take his eyes off her. But hardly anyone so much as glanced at Isabelle’s friend. Poor nondescript thing.

For a moment, Raymond didn’t know if he should be happy or upset at the attention Isabelle was attracting. But it consoled him to think that a single word from him would be enough to have her all to himself again.

The five courses of his dinner were absolutely sumptuous, the champagne sparkled in fine crystal glasses, and the conversation around the table was just as light and sparkling without turning superficial. Everyone knew everyone else, and they certainly had enough to discuss for the next few hours. His physical presence as their host was no longer an absolute necessity. It was entirely up to him when he left the room with Isabelle.

It seemed to him to be a good sign that the widow had come to him to ask him for his professional advice, despite the fact that she had Daniel Lambert working for her. Daniel might well be a genius in the wine cellar, but he had no idea at all about selling champagne. Which fitted in nicely with Raymond’s plans . . .

How delicious she smelled! Of soap and mother’s milk. How good it would feel to lower his lips to her breasts and—aroused, Raymond shuffled a little in his chair, then turned to the woman he was imagining.

“My dear Isabelle, you still had a question or two for me, didn’t you? If you like, I’m sure we can excuse ourselves for a little while and dedicate ourselves to your concerns.”

“Daniel created this champagne when he was still Jacques’s cellar master. I had no idea I had such a treasure in my cellar.” Isabelle laughed excitedly while Raymond Dupont opened the bottle that she had given him.

Clara could see from the fine film of condensation that had formed on the bottle that the champagne had now cooled sufficiently. She smiled and thanked Raymond for the glass he had poured for her. But she had no idea how to taste champagne properly. This was Isabelle and Raymond’s field; she was happy enough just to escape the exhausting company at the table, especially because she hardly understood a word any of them said. And she had put so much store in her good school French, she thought rather downheartedly, while the champagne dealer took a large mouthful from his glass.