The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Isabelle was woken the next morning by the crowing of the rooster. As she pulled on her heavy woolen socks and cardigan, Leon’s reclining figure caught her eye. She wasn’t surprised to see that he was still deep in sleep. Once again, it had been very late before they fell asleep.

Downstairs, the first thing Isabelle did was light the fire in the kitchen stove. A short time later, in the pale gleam of dawn, she sat by the window in Jacques’s library and browsed through a book entitled
Three Steps for Soil Preparation in Vineyards
. The writer talked about topsoil, midsoil, and subsoil. About homogenization and interchange. About vegetation layers and buffering capabilities.
This is something for Leon
, she decided after a few pages, and pulled another book off the bookshelf. It was in French and bore the title
Études sur la Bière
. The writer, a man named Louis Pasteur, described yeast as consisting of what he called microorganisms, which were crucially important for any fermentation process. While he wrote about beer, it would be the same for champagne. Without yeast, no fermentation would take place, Pasteur claimed, and he had apparently proved it in tests in his laboratory. When Isabelle came to the part where he described the different kinds of wild yeasts, she clapped the book closed. All she wanted was to find out a little bit more about the process of making champagne! But she had no intention of getting a degree in chemistry to do it.

Suddenly, she thought of Clara. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have her friend there now! Clara would have tips for Isabelle about running the house. And she’d certainly have a better grasp of what Pasteur was writing about than Isabelle herself did. Even as a young girl, Clara had longed to study pharmacology so that she could later take over her father’s pharmacy. She always had her nose in this or that medical textbook. After her wedding, there was no more talk of studying, but Isabelle assumed that Clara was continuing her studies in private.

Lost in thought, she took a sip of the herbal tea she’d made herself. She took it as a personal triumph that she had actually managed to light the fire in the stove. If she was honest with herself, she’d always laughed at Clara a little. In secret, she called Clara, whose parents had sent her off to a home economics school for prospective wives, “the little wifey.” Isabelle shook her head. How arrogant she’d been toward Clara, who was certainly far less helpless than Isabelle felt herself to be, at least when it came to cooking, cleaning, and everything else it took to keep a house running.

“I’m sure I could learn from Clara,” she murmured to herself. She missed her friends in Berlin so much! The closeness they’d shared, the trust that allowed them to reveal their weaknesses to one another, and the way they had always encouraged each other, too. In her mind, she heard Clara’s voice:
You can do it!

Isabelle nodded silently. Then she went to Jacques’s desk and began opening the drawers. In the second one, she found what she was looking for: writing paper and an envelope. She took them to the small table by the window.

Dear Clara
, she wrote.

I hope you and your family are well. A lot has happened since my postcard from Reims. Leon and I are now living in the Champagne region of France, on a vineyard estate. Everything is so new and exciting, but I’ll tell you all the details another time. Right now, I urgently need your help . . .

Half an hour later, satisfied with her letter, Isabelle put the pen and paper aside. At the same time, she heard Leon stirring upstairs. He’d soon come thundering down the stairs calling for a decent breakfast, just as he’d been used to at his mother’s house.

“Cooking an egg can’t be that hard,” Isabelle muttered, going into the kitchen. Until the cookbooks and household advice she’d asked Clara for arrived, she would have to make do somehow. Anyway, she did not have time to prepare elaborate meals or to give the house a thorough cleaning; far more pressing was the need to go through Jacques’s office files to try to get an overview of the state of the place. Apart from that, she wanted to spend some more time studying in Jacques’s library; though she’d stay away from the complicated science, she couldn’t remain as ignorant as she was about winegrowing forever. And how were they supposed to handle chickens and peacocks and horses? Well, there had to be a book about that in the library, too.

When her husband appeared in the kitchen in full cycling gear and carrying a few bottles of Feininger champagne, she impulsively threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Leon, I can’t tell you how happy I am,” she whispered in his ear. “You taking care of the champagne sales, me looking after everything else . . . the two of us, pitching in together. I’ve been dreaming of this!”

Leon pedaled off energetically. From Hautvillers toward the Marne, it was downhill between vineyards almost all the way. Then came the good, flat roads that followed the river; he estimated that he was averaging almost twenty miles an hour. There was little traffic, and to his regret, he saw no other cyclists at all. Occasionally, he had to overtake a wagon stacked high with wine crates. In summer and fall, when there was so much to do in the vineyards and wine presses, he guessed the traffic would be much heavier. He felt incredibly fortunate that selling champagne combined so well with cycling! As dearly as he would have loved to register for the races in Munich and Paris—with the excellent training conditions there in Champagne, he knew he’d be among the leaders in the spring races—his new life would leave him no time for that.

Content with himself and the world, Leon slowed his tempo, then turned into the courtyard of an idyllic restaurant beside the Marne. The owner of the restaurant, whom he had met the previous day, greeted him warmly. Then Leon produced one of the bottles from his backpack and set it grandly on the counter. “
Voilà
—Feininger champagne!”

The host opened the bottle skillfully, then he poured two glasses half full. After a couple of mouthfuls, he nodded in a way that made Leon rejoice. It was easy to do business with the people here. He grinned at the man. “Very drinkable, our champagne, wouldn’t you say?”

Instead of answering, the restaurant owner took out a pack of cigarettes, lit a cigarette, and inhaled with satisfaction.

“Something that I was really interested in when we met yesterday: your bicycle out there looks so sleek! Do you really race with it? Tell me about it. Until the first guests arrive, I’ve got time.” As he spoke, he generously poured champagne for both of them.

Feeling on top of the world, Leon left the restaurant two hours later. He was off to a good start—the man had promised to buy half a dozen bottles.

The next stop on his sales round was just three miles downstream, a restaurant called Chez Annika. Annika, the owner’s wife, was a pretty thing with large breasts, long legs, and a rear that she flaunted with every step. He could well imagine that the proprietress’s charms, for some of her guests, were reason enough to pay a return visit.

He had hardly stepped inside the restaurant when Annika hurried over to meet him. “Monsieur Leon, how lovely to see you again!” She led him to a small table by the window where two glasses and a plate of pastries were already set up. Leon grinned. The view over the shimmering green river was gorgeous, but the view of his hostess’s revealing cleavage was far more interesting.

“A champagne as thrilling as love, don’t you think?” he said when they raised their glasses, and he looked into Annika’s eyes as he said it.

She returned his gaze with a flutter of her eyelids and murmured, “After two or three glasses, one would probably be up for anything. Perhaps I should think about buying a few extra cases.” Beneath the table, her knees brushed against his.

The next moment, he felt a heavy hand on his left shoulder.

“If I might kindly ask you to leave, monsieur.”

Leon’s smile froze. The gruff baritone voice belonged to Annika’s husband.

“To the kitchen with you! You’ve got work to do,” the man growled at his wife. A sharp exchange of words in French followed. Annika turned and swept away, pouting.

Leon cleared his throat. “Monsieur, I came here to present my Feininger champagne. Perhaps you would like to sample it in your wife’s place? I—”

“I choose the champagne I serve here. Always have and always will.” He picked up Leon’s backpack and pushed it into his chest. “Scram, fast!”

Outside, Leon mounted his bicycle angrily. Everything had been going so well. He would certainly have been able to sell a lot of champagne to Annika if her husband hadn’t shown up.

“Feininger champagne? Never heard of it. As long as I can remember, we’ve served Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. But you can leave one or two bottles.”

“Feininger? I lost to that old man at dice, once. I wouldn’t drink his champagne.”

One more restaurant
, thought Leon as he opened the door to Chez Antoine, then he’d go for a longer ride. Making a sales call to a restaurant during the busy lunch period would not be a very good idea.

“Feininger? I didn’t think that sweet stuff was still around,” said the proprietor, busily setting a table.

Leon spread his arms wide. “Of course it’s still around! You’re looking at Leon Feininger, in the flesh. And this . . . is our superb Feininger champagne!” he said as he pulled out one of the now lukewarm bottles still in his backpack.

“You can put that away,” said the proprietor. “I can’t serve a sugary brew like that to my guests. Around here, all they want is dry champagne, like the kind that Trubert makes.”

“Well, each to his own,” said Leon, putting the bottle in his backpack. He was about to leave when something else occurred to him.

“We sell eggs, too. Excellent eggs. Could you perhaps use a few for your cakes?”

Resolutely, Isabelle carved one slice after another from the dried sausage she had found in the pantry. She laid the slices in a semicircle on a plate along with a piece of hard cheese and some dried fruit.

It was true they had no money for a party, but she could go and visit her new neighbors, even if it meant having to invent a German tradition. With a smile, she set the platter in a basket in which she had already arranged two bottles of champagne and several glasses. She glanced at herself in the gold-framed mirror, adjusted the pearl necklace around her neck, and stepped into the daylight.

An older woman with gray-blond hair, gray eyes, and a severe expression on her face opened the door at the first house Isabelle came to. She wore an apron and her hands were wet.

“
Oui?
” she said curtly.

Isabelle instinctively curtsied, as she always had for the teachers at school.

“My name is Isabelle Feininger. I’m your new neighbor, and I’ve come to introduce myself.” She held out the plate of cheese and sausage to the woman. “Please, help yourself!”

The woman stared at the platter. “You’re bringing something to eat?”

“It’s a German tradition. It’s something we do to get to know our neighbors,” Isabelle lied. “Of course, we will also be throwing a party, but we have to find our feet first and then . . .” Her smile began to fail; suddenly she felt ridiculous, standing there with her offerings.

The older woman wiped her right hand on her apron, then held it out to Isabelle. “I’m Marie Guenin. It’s not exactly a good time, but I suppose you’d better come inside.”

There was another woman in the kitchen. She was sitting on a chair in the center of the room and had a comb in her hand. On the table next to her, there was a plate of hairpins. Her dark-brown hair was streaked with gray and hung over the back of the chair like a tattered curtain.

“This is my sister-in-law, Micheline. She’s the sister of my husband, Albert, God rest his soul,” said Marie. “Now we keep the Guenin estate running together.” Turning to Micheline, she said, “Our new neighbor’s come to introduce herself.”

Micheline smiled and helped herself to the proffered food. “What a lovely custom, don’t you agree, Marie?”

Isabelle guessed that both women were in their early sixties. But in contrast to willowy Marie’s weatherworn face, Micheline’s face was plump and unlined, almost like that of a young girl. And while Marie came across as the no-nonsense type, Micheline seemed a little dreamy. The two sisters-in-law lived under one roof, to be sure, but they could not have been more different.