The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  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.

  “I can see you’re busy,” said Isabelle. “I don’t want to disturb you. I’m sure we can chat another time.”

  “You’re not disturbing us, young lady. On the contrary,” said Micheline. “Perhaps you can even help us resolve a little dispute we’re having.” She glanced belligerently at Marie, then turned back to Isabelle. “If a woman is faced with an important undertaking—and I mean a very important undertaking—does she wear her hair in a stiff braid or pinned up neatly? Or does she just leave it loose?” She sounded very earnest.

  “First, your undertaking is not important. It’s impossible,” said Marie, and Isabelle could tell from her tone that this was not the first time that she had argued her point. “And second, Madame Feininger, don’t you think that a woman of Micheline’s age should never wear her hair loose?”

  “Well, I guess it would depend on what kind of important undertaking this is,” said Isabelle, trying hard to be diplomatic. “If it’s an important business matter, or something difficult to take care of, then I believe a tight braid that doesn’t get in the way would be in order.” She touched one hand to her own hair. “Unfortunately, I’m no expert in this area. My own braids always work loose far too fast.”

  Marie looked triumphantly at her sister-in-law. “A tight braid! What did I tell you? Madame Feininger, please, sit down.”

  “The young lady hasn’t finished speaking yet,” said Micheline petulantly. “So . . .” She nodded to Isabelle as if to prompt her.

  Isabelle sighed inside. She thought she’d managed to extricate herself, but no.

  “If a woman—of whatever age—were to have a rendezvous with a nice gentleman—of whatever age—then she would go to a great deal of trouble to pin her hair up as artfully as possible.” She indicated the hairpins. “I know a few very nice tricks, and I’d be happy to show you.”

  “You’d help me pin my hair up nicely?” Micheline popped another piece of cheese into her mouth excitedly.

  Isabelle, sensing the other Madame Guenin’s baleful look, smiled and nodded.

  “But only on one condition! Or rather two. First of all, I’d like to open the bottle of champagne I brought along, because offering a drink is also part of our German custom. And second, after that, I’d like you, dear
Marie, to show me how I can put together a decent braid.”

  When Isabelle left the house an hour later, she still did not know what Micheline’s “important undertaking” was, but she did have the feeling that she had made her first friends there.

  At the next house, there was an iron sign displaying a sewing machine and the name “Blanche Thevenin.” Isabelle knocked on the door, but no one answered. She shifted her weight impatiently from one foot to the other, then knocked again. She was about to leave when the door opened, and a pale middle-aged woman looked out. Her thin hair was pinned up into a bun, which drew attention to her pointy nose. She had a tape measure slung around her neck and at least a dozen pins were stuck into her jacket.

  Isabelle introduced herself and repeated her speech about the German custom.

  The woman looked at Isabelle from red-rimmed eyes. “Merci. But I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. No one’s given me a winery yet, and I have to work for my living.” She held up the ends of the tape measure as if that would explain everything.

  Taken aback, Isabelle put her platter of cheese and sausage away. “Could I maybe help you with something? I have time.”

  The woman laughed bitterly. “I wish I could say the same! But there are never enough hours in my day. And right now . . .” She sighed. “Three weeks ago, I was commissioned to tailor an evening dress for madame. And it’s supposed to be extraordinary.” The ironic undertone she used to talk about her customer suggested that she didn’t like “madame” very much. “I’m not usually at a loss for ideas, but this time, I can’t come up with anything!”

  Isabelle thought of the many hours she’d spent in different fashion studios at her father’s behest. After that, this ought to be a breeze! “Perhaps something might occur to me if I see what material you have. I’ve got a little experience when it comes to fashionable clothes.” She held up her champagne bottle temptingly. “What would you say to a glass of champagne first? That’s sure to inspire some ideas.”

  “Champagne?” The seamstress raised her eyebrows. She looked Isabelle up and down, then shrugged. “If we really must.”

  While Isabelle and Blanche Thevenin sipped their champagne, the seamstress told Isabelle that a big festival was to take place at the Trubert estate at the end of March. Madame Trubert and her husband wanted to celebrate the eightieth anniversary of their champagne cellars and invite all the important families in Champagne.

  As they talked, Isabelle inspected the rolls of fabric on a large cutting table. Fine Brussels lace in a rose shade, with matching borders in claret red. Mulberry-colored velvet. Lining material in a medium brown—all of it very dignified and expensive but also very boring.

  “What’s that?” Isabelle asked, pointing to a large basket beneath the window.

  Blanche Thevenin waved dismissively. “Oh, just old scraps.”

  Isabelle was already rummaging through the brightly colored leftover cloth. “I think I have an idea.” She took out a section of red fabric and laid it beside a bottle-green remnant, then joined a piece of gold-colored cloth along the edge.

  “What do you think?” she asked triumphantly, once she had laid out several lengths of material in the same way.

  “Lots of strips of colorful cloth to make a skirt?” Blanche sniffed. “That might be some kind of national costume in Germany, but it’s nothing for an elegant festival here in Champagne. It would be best if you left, madame. I really have more important things to do than waste my time with you.”

  Feeling disappointed and angry, Isabelle left the house. Her inspiration might well have missed the mark, but did the dressmaker have to act so ungraciously? Blanche Thevenin would probably never be a friend of hers. Isabelle again thought about the familiarity and intimacy of her friendships. Back in Berlin, she had taken Clara and Josephine for granted, only recognizing how much her friends meant to her after they were hundreds of miles away.

  She took a deep breath and knocked at the third door. The image of a wine barrel on the iron sign told her that it was the home of a cooper.

  “So you’re from Germany? Berlin . . .” Carla Chapron, the cooper’s wife, sighed rapturously, as if she were picturing Berlin at its loveliest.

  Isabelle sipped just as rapturously at the café mocha that the woman had immediately offered her. They were sitting in a sunny living room, and on the round table in front of them was a plate of confections finer than anything Isabelle had ever tasted. Macarons parisien, they were called; apparently, they were a favorite of the French king and one of her, Carla’s, specialties, the cooper’s wife explained.

  “Isn’t it true that emperors and kings are always meeting in Berlin?” Carla asked, leaning inquisitively toward Isabelle.

  Isabelle wiped a crumb from her lips. “That’s true. Once, my parents and I were even invited to a ball at the emperor’s palace.”

  Carla listened intently as Isabelle put her heart and soul into one story after another.

  In the past, the Berlin party round had often been a horror for her. Having to take care with every word, every gesture, and always having to look perfect, not giving her father anything to reproach her for . . . it had all been so exhausting. But now she positively raved about it, and an hour passed before she stood and said with regret, “I’d love to tell you more, but it will have to be another time. I really must go. I want to visit at least one more of our neighbors before my husband gets home.” She pointed out the window to a small and rather untidy looking house on the other side of the street.

  “You want to visit la maîtresse? Then you should check first that Ghislaine doesn’t have a man in the house,” Carla said through pursed lips.

  “A maîtresse? Somebody’s mistress? On our street? I don’t understand,” said Isabelle with a frown. Instead of leaving, she sat down again on the wine-red sofa. “Maybe there’s time for you to tell me about some things.”

  Chapter Ten

  The sun was already beneath the rolling hills of Montagne de Reims when Leon got home. Isabelle, hair flying, ran out to meet him and flung her arms around his neck.

  “How many crates of champagne did you sell? Do we have a little money again?”

  With a laugh, Leon extricated himself from her embrace and propped his bicycle beneath the eaves. His stomach growled as he headed for the kitchen, hand in hand with Isabelle.

  “Couldn’t have gone better.”

  Isabelle grinned. “I knew you’d be a good salesman! I’m sure they must have been fighting each other for the champagne. Tell me!”

  “Later, sweetheart. I’d much rather hear about all the good food we’ve got for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Isabelle squeaked. “Honestly, I didn’t manage to get anything cooked at all. But you’d be amazed at all the things I learned today—we’ve got an actual maîtresse living in our own street!”

  Leon kissed her on the tip of her nose. “You can tell me all your gossip another time. Let’s go out for dinner. Le Grand Cerf. Claude told me yesterday that they do good, plain food in there.” He was already pulling on his jacket. “According to him, the whole village meets there in the evenings. We can get to know a few people.”

  Isabelle hesitated as he held her coat for her. “I thought we had to save. Can we afford it?”

  He waved off her misgivings. “Surely I can take my wife to dinner to celebrate our first sales. Really, darling, you do ask some questions!”

  Leon had been inside many village taverns. Most of them were dingy, joyless places where a few permanent sots drank away the hours and where the air was sour with the smell of spilled beer and tobacco smoke. Most of the time, he’d only stopped in briefly to take a break from cycling and eat a cheap meal, if there was even something edible being served. So he was all the more amazed when he pulled open the door of the village inn of Hautvillers and stepped into a welcoming atmosphere. Instead of long tables and benches, there were small round cloth-covered tables with green-lacquered chairs around them. The walls were decorat
ed with pastel artwork; the bar was white, with brass-colored taps for the beer.

  At the bar, there was a group of elegantly dressed men, all drinking champagne and in high spirits and enveloped in a cloud of aftershave and cigar smoke. Among them was a tall gentleman with impressive muttonchop sideburns, who—with an equally impressive gesture—seemed to be in the middle of proposing a toast.

  Leon said a general greeting to the group, which one or two of the men answered with a nod. From their appearance, he thought they had to be champagne barons. Should he join them or sit with Isabelle at one of the small tables? He had not yet made his decision when the man with the muttonchops spoke to him.

  “Are you Monsieur Feininger, by any chance?”

  Leon nodded, happy to see that, even here, they would recognize him as a cyclist!

  The man said something to the others in the group, who laughed quietly in response.

  “Why not come and have a drink with us?” said one of the men, handing Leon a champagne glass.

  Leon turned to Isabelle. “Darling, Claude Bertrand is just back there. You can sit with him, and I’ll come join you in a minute.”

  Isabelle, somewhat put out, walked off in Claude’s direction.

  “I’m Simon Souret,” said the man with the muttonchops as he shook Leon’s hand vigorously. “Sales agent for Champagne Trubert. This is my fellow agent at Trubert, Stephane Manot. Then we have Silvain Grenoble from Pommery & Greno, and beside him our man at Piper-Heidsieck.”

  Leon happily shook hands with one agent after another. Champagne barons! He couldn’t have been more wrong! These were the famed sales representatives he’d heard so much about in the last two days—experienced, globetrotting men with a talent for selling and an even greater knowledge of champagne. And at least as big a thirst for the stuff, he thought with a grin, while the hostess opened another bottle for the group.