The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Work, work, work, never time for anything else.

  And my love life is in the doldrums. Not the slightest sign of a liaison, he thought grumpily as beautiful Manon sank into the arms of de Brétigny.

  As the curtain fell and a melodic gong rang for the thirty-minute intermission, Raymond sighed. With a friendly smile at the other guests in his box, he fled to the champagne bar, awaiting the onslaught of the guests in the gaily lit foyer.

  He ordered a coupe de champagne and gazed at the other opening-night visitors. Everyone was there: the Ruinarts and the Moëts, Maurice and George Roger from Épernay, Louise Pommery’s son Louis, Joseph and Georges Bollinger. Each of those esteemed men was escorting an elegantly dressed woman . . . couples, wherever Raymond looked. He frowned; so this was where all his hard work had taken him—instead of a beautiful woman at his side, he was standing at the bar like something ordered but never picked up. It would actually have been up to him, then, to approach one or another of the winemakers he could see around him. A compliment here, a quick chat about the next tasting session there. But instead of turning on his usual charm and working on his contacts, he stood there with his smile frozen in place and hoped that everyone would leave him in peace. What is wrong with you? he asked himself. He needed a rest, some time to turn his thoughts to other things.

  He probably would have sunk even deeper into his gloomy musings if he had not seen Alphonse and Henriette Trubert walking in his direction just then. Raymond was taken aback; he had not expected to see them together in public like this. Every sparrow in every bush was whistling about how Alphonse’s lover, Ghislaine Lambert, was expecting his child. But it looked as if Henriette didn’t care at all; with her back straight and her head held high, she strutted through the foyer, greeting friends and acquaintances on every side.

  “Raymond, my dear!” She stopped in front of him, a predatory smile on her face. Returning her smile, he kissed her on both cheeks and did his best to ignore the red lipstick smeared on her teeth. He could no longer remember what it was that had once attracted him to this woman. Her husband seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because as soon as Henriette spoke to Raymond, Alphonse took the opportunity to escape.

  “A ravishing production, don’t you think? I find the composition both ingenious and refined, and with a distinctive atmosphere to boot.” Henriette rolled her eyes in feigned rapture.

  Since when did you become an opera expert? Raymond wanted to ask his erstwhile lover, but he suppressed the urge. Like Raymond, Henriette only went to the opera to see and to be seen; the play beyond the stage was far more interesting to both of them than the efforts of the professional actors. In the past, on several occasions, they had laughed about this common ground.

  “Cat got your tongue, or is it something more dire?” Henriette gave him an unladylike jab in his ribs. “Talk to me. Your silence is gradually getting embarrassing. People are starting to stare.”

  Pull yourself together, Raymond warned himself, and not for the first time that evening. He was depressed, and it was not a mood he was familiar with. It scared him, and it made him angry. But instead of uttering either a moody quip or the kind of compliment women like Henriette liked to hear, he sighed deeply.

  “I think I’m getting old,” he heard himself say, to his own horror.

  Henriette, who assumed he was making a joke, laughed brightly. “Won’t we all be sooner or later? I know exactly what you need, my dear,” she whispered in his ear.

  “How can you know that when you yourself are still in the bloom of youth?” he said, finally managing to conjure up his usual charm.

  Henriette raised her thin, plucked eyebrows coquettishly, then she hooked her arm into his.

  “Let’s take a little walk,” she said, and strolled off with him toward one of the two terraces that framed the opera house. Every gas lamp along the marble balustrades was lit—the operagoers wanted to show off their splendor wherever they went, after all.

  Outside, they set their glasses down, and Henriette immediately said, “I’ve heard that Isabelle Feininger has also managed to get her harvest in, albeit only at the last moment and by getting over some serious obstacles.”

  Raymond laughed. “And who was behind those obstacles, I wonder? None other than you!”

  Henriette did not dispute his claim but merely waved her hand in casual dismissal, as if Raymond had mentioned a trifle. “One way or another, she will lose her estate. Am I supposed to wait for the next charlatan to come along?” she said, then went on without waiting for Raymond to reply. “Jacques Feininger was not cut from the right cloth to run a winery, nor was Leon Feininger, and Isabelle Feininger most certainly is not. It is high time that the estate found its way into the right hands.”

  “And the right hands would be yours?” Raymond asked drily. Why was she telling him this?

  Henriette looked at him confidently. “I’m not trying to disguise the fact that I would like to have the Feininger lands. I look out my window every morning, and when I see the Feininger vineyards, I am overcome by a desire to own them. They would, so to speak, set the crown on my holdings.”

  Although it was nothing new, Raymond suddenly found Henriette’s habit of talking about “her” property, as if she alone owned the Trubert estate, extremely disagreeable. In fact, he was finding this entire discussion disagreeable!

  “At the same time, I am not ignoring Isabelle’s well-being for one moment,” Henriette continued. “She’s still young. She should marry again. A well-to-do man would lay the world at her feet, a world where she could be a princess instead of a drudge who slogs away from morning to night. The kind of life due to a fine young lady from imperial Berlin—that’s what I would wish for Isabelle Feininger. Wouldn’t you?”

  “What do you want, Henriette?” Raymond asked impatiently. He picked up his glass and drained it in one draught, then turned as if about to go back inside.

  “Only what’s best for you, darling,” she replied with a saccharine smile. “It’s clear to me that being alone all the time isn’t doing you any good. You look tired and somehow . . . joyless. A new love would buck you up! A young woman who would appreciate a man as mature, clever, and attractive as you are. A woman like Isabelle Feininger would breathe new life into your dusty bachelor existence. There’s more to life than work, my dear!”

  “I won’t argue with that,” he noted, his voice sarcastic, but at the same time he was trying to hide his surprise. Could Henriette read thoughts? A beautiful woman, desire, excitement—there was nothing like that in his life; he’d become as flat as champagne left to stand. But it was almost humiliating that one of his former lovers should rub salt into the wound. “But you really don’t need to worry about my love life. I’m discreet, that’s all,” he added.

  “Discreet or not, my eyes and ears miss very little, as you are well aware. I’ve observed on several occasions that the widow Feininger appeals to you—at our own annual soiree, for one, and at the festival in the village. The way you look at her, the way you hang on every word she so much as mutters.”

  He laughed then. “Don’t you have anything better to do than spy on me?”

  She went on, unperturbed. “The German is a highly desirable woman. My own dear cellar master also seems rather taken with her, though with Daniel I’m not sure what’s got him more fired up: Isabelle Feininger the woman or the thought that he might finally be able to take back control of his forebears’ estate. He wouldn’t be the first man to marry for money!” She sniffed in disgust.

  A tangle of thoughts filled Raymond’s head, and he had trouble sorting them all out. “Daniel Lambert has his eye on Isabelle Feininger?” he pressed, realizing how stupid the question made him sound.

  Henriette nodded. “And because of that, he’s undermined me several times. I’d toss him out on his ear for his disloyalty, believe me, but I’m afraid I’d never find such a talent again for my cellars.”

  Now it was Raymond who nodded. Daniel had a
lways 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 a
ir, 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?