Suddenly, the many pieces of the mosaic, the small stones she’d been stumbling over in recent months, came together to form a single picture. The missing pickers. The exploding bottles. His disgusting adulteration of the wine. Why hadn’t she put two and two together? How could she have been so stupid? Stupid and blind!
“He’d better brace himself! I’ll pull the truth out of him like a carrot out of the ground,” she said dourly. “And then I’ll go to the police and—”
Daniel interrupted her with a gesture. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do the same. But it wouldn’t work. Grosse is stupid, but not so stupid that he’d admit anything to you. There’s no proof, which means we can’t make a move against either him or Henriette.” His eyes flashed with suppressed anger. “But if the man ever crosses my path in the night, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
“You wouldn’t get your hands dirty on someone like him, would you?” said Isabelle, shocked. The fierce look in Daniel’s eye worried her. “In Germany, we say that revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. After a moment of silence, he said, “You’re right. Let’s focus on what really matters. Let’s make a champagne unlike any other! A success like that will hit Henriette harder than anything else will. We have a saying here in France, too: success is the best revenge!”
Two days before the new year, Raymond Dupont drove out to Hautvillers with flowers in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other to invite Isabelle to a New Year’s Eve party. She invited him in, and they spent a pleasant hour chatting together by the fire. But she turned down his invitation. Traveling to Reims in the middle of winter with an infant, even one as quiet as little Marguerite, seemed an impossibility.
Ghislaine and Daniel also invited her to spend New Year’s Eve with them—and Isabelle was tempted to accept. In the end, though, she decided to spend the last night of 1898 alone with Marguerite. She wanted to reflect on what a year it had been, the most turbulent she had ever experienced. So much had happened, both good and bad. People had let her down, and people had pleasantly surprised her, too.
As the hands of the clock ticked toward midnight, Isabelle shed a few tears. There was still a chasm inside her that had once been filled by Leon. She thought of her parents, too. They were grandparents now and didn’t even know it. It probably makes no difference to them, Isabelle thought bitterly. She wondered whether the day would come when she and her parents would make contact again . . . perhaps a letter, one day . . .
And how were Josephine and Clara? The three friends wanted to celebrate their turn-of-the-century wind together the following year, but would they manage it? The transformation of the nineteenth century into the twentieth—what a great moment that would be. The notion frightened Isabelle. After everything she had been through, she hardly dared to even speculate about what the next few weeks would bring.
At the stroke of twelve, she opened a bottle of Feininger champagne. She looked over at Marguerite, who was sound asleep in her cradle. Her daughter was quite a beautiful Christmas gift. Daniel was right: she thought too much about things. Wasn’t it better to enjoy the moment?
The weeks passed, Isabelle regained her strength, and the day of Clara’s arrival drew closer. Isabelle cleaned the house until it sparkled. She wanted everything around her clean and beautiful. A new life. A fresh start. She wanted to see it in every vase filled with evergreen, in every polished silver platter, and in every dust-free volume on her bookshelves.
“Now the jacket and the cap, and you’re nearly done!” Isabelle pressed a kiss to Marguerite’s head. How fine and fuzzy her hair was! First, she put the baby’s arms into the sleeves, then she carefully buttoned up the heavy woolen jacket. The entire champagne region had been covered in frost since the New Year. Now, added to her concerns for what the unusual chill would do to the vines, she had her concerns about Marguerite. For a child so small, catching a cold could end badly, and it was better to avoid the risk altogether. She added a warm cap and a scarf made of angora wool. As always, Marguerite let Isabelle dress her without crying or swinging her arms, which Carla Chapron had told her was common among other children.
“So little and you’re already a fashion plate, aren’t you?” Isabelle smiled, picked her daughter up, and laid her down in the pram that she had ordered through a department store in Reims. In the entry hall, she pulled on her own warm jacket and scarf, which she’d especially need later on, down in the cellars.
Today was the day of days. Today, she and Daniel would begin blending the champagne. In recent weeks, Daniel had tasted the contents of every barrel in her cellars and had selected the wines that he wanted to use for this year’s cuvée. Now she would get to see the cellar master’s art. Daniel’s concentration had to be complete and all his senses alert to be able to imagine what the final result would taste like when he blended the wines. Even though Marguerite hardly ever cried, what if she did today and disturbed Daniel at such a crucial point in the process? Besides, it was far too cold in the cellars for an infant.
Although Isabelle had thought Clara would watch Marguerite, her friend’s arrival had been delayed until the end of the month. Luckily, Ghislaine always offered to look after Marguerite when Isabelle had something to do. “It’s good practice for me,” she said. And Marguerite was already accustomed to Ghislaine. So they set off for Ghislaine’s, but when Isabelle knocked, she found Ghislaine dressed in her best clothes. “Alphonse has invited me to Paris for a few days!”
Isabelle nodded. She understood. Time to spend with her lover was a rare commodity for Ghislaine.
She knew, too, that Micheline, whose duties included being the cellar mistress at Champagne Guenin, would be busy blending her own champagne. Isabelle pushed the pram over to Carla Chapron’s house, but the cooper’s wife was in bed with a cold.
What now? Would Claude be prepared to look after Marguerite? She had not even finished the thought when she remembered that her overseer was away in Épernay to buy new fencing materials for the peacock pen.
Coming up to the Guenin house, she paused. Maybe she could ask Marie Guenin? She hadn’t seen her elderly neighbor for weeks. While Micheline was her friend, the only connection Isabelle had with Marie was that of good neighbors, but neighbors could help each other out, couldn’t they?
Isabelle knocked on Marie’s door. But instead of the door, one of the ground-floor windows opened. Marie looked out. Isabelle had the sudden impression that the old woman’s face might break into a thousand pieces.
“Yes?” said Marie, her mouth tight.
“Good morning, Marie! I wanted to ask if you might be able to look after Marguerite, just this once.” Small white clouds appeared in front of her mouth in the winter air as she uncertainly put forward her request. “It would only be for two or three hours,” she added. “I have to go down to the cellars.”
As usual, Marie had her hair tied back in a tight braid, which made the skin on her face look unnaturally tight. A slight nervous twitch beneath her right eye quivered as she looked first at Isabelle and then at Marguerite in the pram. Her lips were pinched, and when she finally opened her mouth to reply, all the color had drained from her face.
“Isabelle, please don’t think ill of me, but . . . I can’t take your child. I would do any other favor for you, but bringing that child to me, of all people . . . no, I’m sorry.”
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 se
en 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.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 36
