Isabelle would have loved to believe that were true.
After dinner, Claude and Micheline began to sing Christmas songs, and Marie and Ghislaine joined them. When Claude’s dog began to howl along, the singing dissolved into laughter.
Isabelle knew neither the lyrics nor the melodies they were singing, but she hummed along, struggling all the while against a deep disappointment. She had been looking forward so much to seeing Daniel.
When he did not appear for dinner, Ghislaine remarked, “No doubt he’s found some new lover in Épernay and is celebrating the evening with her.”
That only made Isabelle gloomier.
The walk to the church and back had exhausted her, and although she had only eaten a little, the hearty food was sitting heavily in her stomach. She longed for her bed, to be able to stretch out, lay her hands on her taut belly, sleep, and get the last days of her pregnancy behind her as well as she could. The midwife had come down with whooping cough, which ruled her out for the birth, so Isabelle had decided after all to go into the hospital in Épernay and wait for the birth there. If only it were already behind me, Isabelle thought—not for the first time—as she kneaded her fingers into her aching back.
By eleven, she’d had enough. Yawning, she stood up and said good night. The others were in such a happy mood that they only nodded briefly in response.
The hot water bottle was waiting for her beneath Jacques’s old eiderdown. A candle was burning on the night table, and beside it lay a French copy of Madame Bovary, which Isabelle had read years earlier in German. A few more pages before I fall asleep, she thought, as she looked out the window: outside, the gentle sprinkle of Christmas snow had transformed into a considerable winter storm, and the snow was falling so heavily that she could no longer see the houses across the street. That was probably the reason Daniel had stayed in Épernay.
Isabelle had just pulled on her nightgown when she felt something warm and wet between her legs. She looked down in shock at the huge pool spreading around her feet. No! Please, not yet, she thought. The child wasn’t due for another twelve days!
She had not even finished the thought when a cramping pain shot through her. Whimpering, she gripped the foot of the bed to hold herself upright. After a few deep breaths, the pain receded, but it came back again the next moment, red as fire and with razor teeth, tearing at her insides and robbing her of air. Helplessly, Isabelle looked around the room. If she managed to make it to the window, she could open it and scream for help. She knew for certain that she wouldn’t make it back to Ghislaine’s.
Never would Daniel have thought that it would take him so long to get from Épernay to Hautvillers. Everything had started out so well: a vintner visiting relatives in Épernay had offered him a ride back to Hautvillers, and Daniel had been happy to accept. But not long after setting off, the one-horse chaise bumped heavily over a stone in the road. The next moment, it began to wobble alarmingly. A broken wheel! On Christmas Eve. And no one close by who could help them out. The vintner had elected to stay with his young and inexperienced horse, so it fell to Daniel to walk back into Épernay in the increasing snowfall to try to chase up a replacement wheel. It annoyed him to know that, in the time it took him to find a new wheel, he would have made it back to Hautvillers easily on foot. Two hours later, they were finally able to drive on.
By the time they arrived in Hautvillers, it was snowing so heavily that he could hardly see the horse in front of him. He hoped that Ghislaine had saved something for him to eat; his stomach was growling audibly. But it was not only his hunger that was causing such a strange sensation in his stomach; it was also the thought that he would once again see Isabelle Feininger.
The vintner dropped him at the bottom of the street. There was still a light on inside Ghislaine’s house, Daniel realized as he drew closer, but most of the neighbors’ houses were already dark. When Daniel looked across to Isabelle’s place and saw a light there, too, his heart sank. She had already gone home.
Without warning, a piercing scream cut through the night, so raw and penetrating that not even the heavy snowfall could muffle it. The scream had come from Isabelle’s house. Daniel felt hot and cold at the same time. He threw his bundle on the ground and ran to her door. He banged and shook at it, but nothing stirred on the other side.
“Isabelle!” he called out, and threw himself so hard against the solid oak that the iron fittings groaned loudly. But the door didn’t budge.
Another scream. Shrill. Fearful. Kicking in the door was an impossibility. Did Claude Bertrand have a key to the house? Or the Guenins? A long, lamenting wail, like that of an animal caught in a trap, jerked him back to the moment. Damn it, he had no time to lose. He tore off his jacket, wrapped it around his right fist, and smashed in one of the windows beside the door. Glass shattered, falling into the snow and inside the house. Daniel knocked away the shards of glass still caught in the frame. Then he climbed through.
Breathing heavily, he stood in the entry hall in which he and Ghislaine had spent their childhood.
“Isabelle?” he called out.
It was pitch-black on the ground floor, but he knew the house inside out. Without hesitation, he charged up the stairs to the second floor, where he could see some weak light.
He found Isabelle curled up on the floor of her bedroom.
“Daniel . . .” Her eyes were glassy, and she whispered, “The baby . . .”
Then Daniel was next to her on the floor. He slipped his hands under her arms and pulled her up. “Come on, let’s get you onto the bed.” Isabelle screamed again, so full of pain that Daniel paused for a second, then heaved her onto the mattress. His heart was beating hard as he stroked her pale face. Her eyelids were fluttering so fast that he was afraid she’d fall unconscious at any moment. How many hours has she been in such agony? he wondered, deeply worried. And why wasn’t anyone with her?
His eyes quickly scanned the room where, many years ago, his parents had slept. No bowls of hot water, no clean sheets or towels, no scissors or knife to cut the umbilical cord—there was nothing to show any sign of preparations for a birth. The contractions must have taken Isabelle by surprise.
Daniel could not remember ever having felt so helpless in his life. In a wine cellar, he could handle any crisis that emerged, but when it came to giving birth, he didn’t have the first clue what to do.
“Isabelle, I’m here. You have to tell me what to do!”
He tried to get her to look at him, but Isabelle’s body arched in pain again.
“Get Ghislaine. She can—”
Her cry rang loudly in his ears. The thought of leaving her alone, even briefly, was horrifying to him. But he turned away and, taking the stairs two at a time, sprinted from the house and along the street, running as if his own life depended on it.
Ghislaine kneeled between Isabelle’s legs. Sweeping her hair out of her face, she said, “Daniel, sit behind her and prop her up. I can already see the head. One or two contractions, and the baby will be here!”
Isabelle, overcome by a new surge, screamed. Then she felt Daniel’s arms around her. He held her head in both hands and stroked her sweat-soaked hair tenderly out of her face.
“You can do it, Isabelle. You’re the bravest woman of them all. You’ll be through it soon, soon!”
His words, spoken so close to her ear, soothed her. But the next moment came the irresistible urge to push. She felt the baby’s head slide out of her along with a rush of liquid, then the rest of the body followed. But the baby didn’t cry immediately.
“You have a girl,” said Ghislaine, and sniffled a little.
“But she’s not crying. Why isn’t she crying?”
“Not to worry. She’s breathing. She’s just a quiet one.” Ghislaine’s hands shook as she wiped down the small smeary body with a corner of the soiled sheet and handed the child to her mother. Daniel pulled open a cupboard and rummaged inside for a clean blanket. When he found what he was looking for, he tenderly wrappe
d Isabelle and the child in it.
Isabelle smiled gratefully. “A Christmas child.”
Ghislaine was standing beside the head of the bed, her hands folded as if in prayer. But then she suddenly called out, “Scissors! I need scissors to cut the umbilical cord. And hot water. I hope Micheline has all that ready.” She ran down the steps toward the kitchen.
Exhausted but happy, Isabelle looked down at the tiny creature in her arms. The girl had eyes set far apart, tiny ears, and a small bud of a mouth. She looked at least as exhausted as Isabelle herself felt. Apart from the red shimmer of fuzz on the child’s head, Isabelle could see no resemblance to either Leon or herself.
“But you’re still too small for that. Isn’t that true, my Marguerite?”
Marguerite. For weeks, she had been wondering what to call her child. A boy would have been Leonard, of course. But for a girl, making a decision had been difficult. Now the name had come to her out of nowhere. Marguerite. What beautiful eyes she had, with their long lashes, and those perfect rosy lips . . .
“Marguerite? It’s a good name. She is an exceptional beauty,” said Daniel, as if he could read Isabelle’s mind. “Like her mother.”
Isabelle held Marguerite’s tiny wrinkled left hand in her own and said with a smile, “You’ve hardly been in the world a minute, and you’ve already learned your first lesson about men: don’t believe a word of their smooth compliments. The way we both look right now is very far from attractive.”
Before she knew what happened, Daniel’s lips touched hers. Isabelle had never felt so much empathy in a kiss, so much warmth and tenderness. With her eyes closed and the infant’s warm body pressed close, she gave herself over to Daniel’s lips. They only separated when they heard the clatter of feet on the stairs and Ghislaine’s and Micheline’s excited voices.
“You’ve saved my life yet again,” said Isabelle, with tears in her eyes. “I’d been looking forward to seeing you again so much. But when you didn’t come to Ghislaine’s, I—” She swallowed, then said, “I thought you were spending Christmas Eve with a new love in Épernay.” She rocked Marguerite lovingly in her arms as she spoke.
“A new love?” said Daniel gruffly, and shook his head. “You’re the one my heart longs for, and you know that well enough. Whether you like it or not, I’m staying here to look after you. I don’t want to be saving your life every minute, but I’m sure I can get your cellars and vineyards in order. I know my way around here a little, after all.” He grinned mischievously.
“But what about Épernay?” asked Isabelle in disbelief.
He waved it off as if it were nothing.
Then my greatest wish would come true, Isabelle thought. But just as a huge weight lifted from her heart, a sense of trepidation came over her. Daniel Lambert as her chef de cave, could that work out at all? What if he wanted more than she was prepared to offer? She liked him very much. She could trust Daniel, and she knew that. He was a man of character and principles. It often felt as if they thought and felt the same way. If she were to be honest with herself, she had missed him a great deal during his time in Épernay. Even so, the birth of her child only added to her worries and obligations, and she could hardly add a new love on top of everything. Besides, she would feel like she was cheating on Leon.
“I don’t know if I can afford a cellar master as famous as you. Besides—” She broke off when Marguerite made a small whimpering sound. Isabelle looked first at her child, then at Daniel, and a frown crossed her face.
“Is she hungry?” For a moment, she felt panic. She had been hoping that the nurses in Épernay would show her how to breast-feed. Now she would have to find out for herself.
As she unbuttoned her sweaty dress, Daniel turned away and went to the window. Isabelle sank back into the pillows, then she lifted Marguerite to her right breast. The baby’s small mouth closed hungrily around her nipple, and her daughter began to suck. The moment was so deeply affecting for Isabelle that a tremor shook her body and tears came to her eyes.
Hesitantly, Daniel turned back to her. Looking at the mother and child, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He smiled gently and said, “It looks like little Marguerite will be putting some demands on her maman for quite a while. That makes it so much more important for you to have help in the vineyards and in the cellar. Together, we can turn the Feininger estate back into one of the great estates, I promise you!”
She narrowed her eyes a little. “You would really give up your job in Épernay to help me?”
He nodded. “What I do there is so dull I might as well get a job in a factory.”
“And . . . if it doesn’t work out, after all? Daniel, please don’t get your hopes up too high,” she said softly, talking about far more than just the business.
“And don’t you think too much about it.” He moved back to the bed, placed one arm around her shoulders, and pointed toward the window and the dark, snow-covered vineyards beyond. “Look at the vines in winter, the way they hibernate. Their branches are so thin, it’s hard to imagine that in just a few short months, they will come back to life. But they will, and that’s why we nurture them and protect them. There’s no security in it, certainly no guarantee of success, only the hope that something good will come from the work we do.” He looked at Isabelle. His eyes were full of love and confidence as he said, “I ask for nothing else from you, Isabelle. Give us the time to ripen together, and to grow.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Isabelle was the happiest woman in the world. The birth had exhausted her, but she could not stop gazing at her daughter in admiration. Only occasionally did she put Marguerite in the cradle that Ignaz Chapron had, in fact, built for her from half a wine barrel, which was now beside her bed. Whenever she could, she carried Marguerite in the crook of her arm or lay down with the baby on her stomach. The tiny fingers and fingernails, the little feet, her heart-shaped mouth, rosy skin, and red fuzz—Marguerite was simply perfect! And she was an exceptionally quiet child; she slept a lot and rarely cried. At the same time, feeding her required all of Isabelle’s strength and patience. Sometimes, Marguerite acted like she was hungry but then turned her little head away the next moment. At other times, she suckled for a few moments, then fell asleep at Isabelle’s breast. Making sure she was well fed sometimes took hours.
“Is it normal for an infant to drink so poorly?” she asked Ghislaine, worried.
Ghislaine shrugged. “Some children are big eaters; others are not. You have to be patient. She will probably start to eat better soon.”
“Marguerite is just a very special child,” said Micheline, though she looked a little sad as she said it.
Isabelle squeezed her friend’s hand compassionately; Micheline had remained childless.
Ghislaine and Micheline kept Isabelle well provided with good food, and the other neighbors also came by to see mother and child. They all poured out their admiration for Marguerite, except Marie, who remained somewhat reserved. At the start, Isabelle was a little taken aback by the behavior of her neighbor, but then she recalled a conversation with Micheline in which it had come out that Marie’s own child died shortly after birth. It probably still hurt the woman to be around a newborn baby, Isabelle sadly realized.
Claude and Daniel came by every day, and they kept her updated on the vineyard and cellars. Since it had become clear that Daniel would be the cellar master for the Feininger estate, the old overseer hadn’t been able to stop smiling.
“Finally, things are turning for the good!” he said, at every chance he got. And Isabelle nodded vehemently every time. Raymond had predicted that she would not be able to find a cellar master anywhere in Champagne. Now, she not only had her Christmas-born child, but also the best cellar master anyone could name! So much good fortune all at once struck her as a little uncanny. But more good news was to come.
“Things are, let’s say, rather chaotic down in the cellars,” said Daniel when he visited her two days after Christmas. “I’m spending most of my time
looking for things. Grosse neglected to mark most of the barrels, but I’ve managed to figure out what’s what by tasting. You’ve got good fundamentals, something we can really build from.”
Isabelle’s relief was palpable; in fact, she could have shouted for joy. And it got even better when Daniel said, “As far as I’ve been able to judge, the wines you’ve got after the first fermentation are clean, and the quality is good. Thank God you were able to stop Grosse from spoiling them. I’ve also turned up a few old treasures down there, things I’m guessing you don’t even know about. Mature champagnes and reserve wines, all about six years old. They come from the days when I was still working for old Jacques. If we mix everything together, we’ll end up with a very decent wine for the end of next year.” He grinned.
“Mix everything together? Don’t play modest for me!” Isabelle teased. She sat up expectantly in the bed. “When do we start with the assemblage?” Weak from the birth or not, she didn’t want to miss that important moment.
Daniel laughed. “Easy, easy! The still wines are in a resting phase, and that will last another five or six weeks, until mid-February. We’ll only start with the assemblage then. So you’ve got plenty of time to get back on your feet.”
“A resting phase?” Isabelle said with surprise. “Then why did Grosse want to start blending the champagne before Christmas, even though I’d told him mid-January?”
“No idea,” said Daniel grimly. “Though we’re better off waiting a few more weeks.” He seemed to be struggling with something. Then, slowly, he said, “I can’t prove it, but for a long time I’ve suspected that Grosse has actually been serving a different mistress altogether, one who certainly doesn’t have your best interests at heart. In any case, I’ve seen him talking with Henriette Trubert more often than I’d expect.”
“Henriette and Grosse?” Isabelle’s brain began to churn as if a dozen steam engines were turning at once. Grosse—a saboteur. A bungler, employed and paid by Henriette Trubert?
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 35
