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.
“Our bill, madame! And could you spare us a bite to eat and a bit of water and hay for the horses?”
Once the bottle merchant and his helper had eaten a chunk of bread with butter and the horses had been tended, they set off toward the next of their Hautvillers customers.
“Until next year, madame!” the driver called cheerfully from his seat atop the wagon.
She nodded vaguely. Who knew what next year had in store? Drained, she wrapped herself up in a blanket on the chaise longue in the living room, where a warm fire crackled in the tiled stove. A hot bath? She was too tired to even think about it!
When she awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to realize where she was. The fire had long since burned out, and the room was chilly. Had she really spent the entire evening there, with nothing to eat and wearing dirty clothes? Shaking her head, she set off for the kitchen. Claude was right. She really had to start taking better care of herself. To make up for it, she prepared a hearty breakfast.
Afterward, she left the house and took her kitchen scraps out to the chickens. It had begun snowing lightly again, but this time Isabelle had no eye for the beauties of nature. After she had collected the eggs, she headed straight for the wine cellar, where she needed to give Grosse a talking-to. He could at least have told her about the delivery of corks and bottles so she hadn’t looked like an idiot!
She already had one hand on the solid handle of the main door when a sharp but muted roar from inside the cellar made her jump. Cannon shot? In her cellars?
Isabelle put down the basket of eggs and pushed the door open, at first just a little, then wider. Good God, what had that been? An explosion? Isabelle looked around helplessly. No sign of Claude anywhere near. What if her cellar master had been hurt and needed help? She didn’t want to put herself or her unborn child in danger.
“Monsieur Grosse?” she shouted through the open door. “Gustave? Is everything all right?” When she heard no answer, she gingerly stepped inside and took a few steps toward the stairs. A new detonation sounded, and she stopped in her tracks.
“Monsieur Grosse! What’s going on down there? Say something!” Her heart was beating hard and her knees were shak
ing as she leaned over the railing.
“Everything’s fine,” she heard from one of the lower levels.
Isabelle’s relief almost made her dizzy. As quickly as she could, she descended the stairs to the floor below. On the second to last step, she trod on something soft and round, and her foot slipped out from under her. She automatically clenched both hands around the railing—a fall would be all she needed!
Angry, she looked down to see what she had slipped on. A cork! What the devil was a cork doing on the steps? With her lips pressed together and her eyes on the floor ahead of her, she went on in the dark.
The next moment, she almost fell over in shock. Big, pointy shards of glass; smashed necks and bases of bottles; dangerous little glass slivers; and more corks covered the floor and some of the steps. Champagne was spreading over the ground and collecting in puddles; white foam was sticking to everything.
“Dear God—what is going on here?”
Grosse, in the low light of a gas lamp, was halfheartedly at work with a dustpan and broom. He glanced up at her only momentarily.
“A minor mishap, madame. A few bottles exploded. It happens sometimes. I’ll clean it all up immediately, and then it’s done.”
“Minor mishap? Have you gone completely insane? This is hundreds of bottles! A small fortune just went to waste here!” Isabelle was screaming so loud that her voice broke.
“Now don’t go getting so upset,” said Grosse, and it seemed to Isabelle that he was trying to hold in a smile. “It’s only last year’s champagne, and you don’t like it anyway.”
“Oh, so that means it’s all right for the bottles to explode? You . . . you are the clumsiest oaf I have ever laid eyes on!” Shaking with fury, Isabelle snatched an unbroken bottle from a rack on her left and threw it at Grosse’s feet in disgust. “If that’s the case, then here’s another one! And another! And another!” She pulled out one bottle after another and smashed them before the astonished eyes of her cellar master, who was now standing up to his ankles in champagne froth.
“Is it a major mishap yet?” she asked, her voice icy. “Now get to work and clean it up!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
With tears of anger—at herself, especially—streaming down her cheeks, Isabelle threw some clothes into her suitcase. Why hadn’t she sent Gustave away on the spot? Taken away his key to the cellars and said, “Go! And don’t come back!” She slammed the lid of the case closed, picked it up and, groaning, carried it down the stairs. Then she took a deep breath and asked Claude to harness the horses and take her to Reims. He did as bidden, and when he helped her into the coach he asked, “Is everything all right, madame?”
“Nothing is all right, but that will change soon enough,” she muttered.
“How long do you expect to be away?” he asked.
“Perhaps one night; perhaps longer. I’ll be doing some Christmas shopping and otherwise just looking at different things . . . because I’m so sick of some of the things I have to look at around here!”
Reims was at least as lovely in the winter as it was in the springtime. The crystalline chill that blanketed the open countryside lost some of its bitterness among the buildings and city streets. And the people of Reims knew how to look after themselves in winter, as attested to by the luxurious coats of the women and fur-lined hats worn by the men.
Isabelle watched a woman in a particularly fetching sable coat stroll past, but her reverie soon evaporated. God knew there were more important things in the world than beautiful clothes! She took in the magnificent white sandstone buildings, gleaming in the wintry sunshine. Instead of decorative flowers, garlands of ivy and fir now graced the entrances of the elegant shops. The air was filled with the smell of chestnuts and roasted almonds and the pungent odor of hot spiced wine sold by street vendors. Isabelle bought herself a small bag of almonds but decided to pass on the mulled wine—the midwife had advised her not to drink any more alcohol so close to the birth. So she ate the almonds and admired the window displays, which could hold their own with those in Berlin, Paris, or any other big city. The Champenois certainly appreciated the finer things in life.
After purchasing some of the Christmas gifts, Isabelle decided to treat herself to a cup of hot chocolate at one of the many cafés. While she was waiting for it to arrive, she felt the tension ease in the back of her neck. Hautvillers and all the worries of the estate were suddenly far away. It was so good to simply sit there and do nothing! On her previous visits to Reims, she’d always been in a hurry: visiting government offices, shopping for food or for supplies needed around the estate, the visit to the notary after Leon’s death. But today, all she had to do was take care of herself. She decided that in the future, she would come into the city more often and not wait until she was ready to explode. A bit more shopping after the café, a visit to the hairdresser, and she would be ready for the most important point on her agenda for the day.
“For a few bottles of champagne to burst like that, well, it’s nothing unusual, my dear Isabelle. The whole business of making champagne is unpredictable, and no winemaker really knows today what he will have to deal with tomorrow. If you ask me, the carbon dioxide content of the bottles that exploded in your cellar was probably too high; they were under too much pressure. Or you might even say the champagne was en furie,” Raymond Dupont explained with a smile. The moment Isabelle had entered his shop, he had put everything aside and locked the front door to give her his undivided attention. It flattered Isabelle a little that such a busy man would give her so much of his valuable time.
“When I saw all the mess, I turned into a fury myself,” she said, gritting her teeth at the recollection, but deep inside, her anger had evaporated long before. She casually looked around his shop; the atmosphere of wealth and excess enveloped her like a warm blanket.
“In the past, fifty or a hundred years ago, the bottles were not as good as they are today. The cellar masters and growers were so afraid of exploding bottles that they wouldn’t venture into their cellars without an iron mask to protect themselves. Haven’t you ever wondered why so many of them have scarred hands? Or why your own cellar master only has one eye? Accidents with flying glass were part and parcel of the business back then.”
“There’s really nothing you don’t know about champagne, is there?” said Isabelle thoughtfully. “But you’re talking about the old days. My supplier from the Argonne, at least, assures me that his bottles are of the highest quality. If something bursts in my cellar, then it’s because my cellar master is incompetent.”
Raymond laughed brightly. “I wouldn’t dare contradict you!”
“If the incident this morning had been the only one . . . but there have been so many.” She lifted both hands helplessly. “I feel like I’m marking time, going nowhere. The mountain of questions and problems is simply not getting any smaller.” And the cork and bottle deliveries put a considerable dent in my finances, too, she thought.
Raymond took her hand. “Keeping in mind that you are—and please pardon the expression—a foreigner, you’re holding up very well indeed. That said, looking at the situation objectively, the task you’ve set yourself is simply too much for a woman to take on alone. If you at least had someone to help . . .”
“How very true,” Isabelle sighed. “Dear Raymond, I need a new cellar master urgently. Would you happen to know someone?” She squeezed his hand, which was still holding hers, excitedly.
But Raymond could only shrug regretfully. “I wish I did. I began asking around on your behalf some time ago. It was clear to me from tasting that too-sweet champagne you brought that your cellar master isn’t any good. But so far, despite all my contacts, I’ve come up empty-handed.” After a momentary pause, he went on. “It seems there isn’t a decent cellar master for miles around in need of work.”
Isabelle slumped in her chair. “A skilled cellar master is the only thing that can save me.”
“I wish I could help you, Isabelle. But manufacturing champag
ne is a ruthless business. Nowhere else in the world can one earn so much money with wine. In 1868, around fifteen million bottles were sold. Today, thirty years later, you can double that number. Every vigneron knows that, and every one of them will do what they can to be top of that heap! Now, so close to the turn of the century, the whole game has taken on a new dimension. Anyone with a decent cellar master would be stupid to lose him now.”
“Then you mean I might as well pack my bags?” said Isabelle, discouraged.
“Not at all! I’ll keep asking around for you,” said Raymond. “You should not give up hope; greater miracles have happened.”
Miracles! Isabelle had given up on miracles long ago. The very thought of going back to her daily battles with Grosse was almost unbearable.
“Now try to think of something more pleasant. A woman in your condition shouldn’t be getting so worked up,” he said, then he nodded toward the light-yellow box embossed with the emblem of the children’s shop down the street. “I see you’ve bought some things for your baby. Wouldn’t you like to show them to me?”
Isabelle allowed herself to be distracted by the tactic, and after she had presented the woolen baby clothes and Raymond had admired them, she did, in fact, feel a little better. But then Raymond said, “Have you already found a wet nurse and a nanny for the baby? Through my customers, I know of a number of women here in Reims who come highly recommended. Young women from the Alsace region are said to be especially doting.”
“A wet nurse? What makes you think I would need someone for that?” Without thinking, she placed one hand protectively over her belly.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 33
