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

  Isabelle’s face darkened. It came as no surprise to see him at that house. Visiting a prostitute in the middle of the day seemed just like him.

  The postman followed her gaze, and said, “Ah, Daniel is visiting his sister, Ghislaine.”

  Isabelle looked at the man for a few seconds before she could speak. “What did you say? Daniel Lambert is the brother of la maîtresse—” She slapped her hand over her mouth, shocked at her own words.

  But the postman merely grinned. “Didn’t you know? He owns half of Le Grand Cerf, and he advises Ghislaine on what wines to buy. And should I tell you something else?” The postman leaned a little closer conspiratorially, and Isabelle automatically stepped back. “A long time ago, both of them lived here, in your house! That was when the estate belonged to the Lambert family, but it’s been many years now.”

  “I knew that Daniel Lambert had lived here. But that Ghislaine was his sister and that she also called this home . . . some things are clearer now,” Isabelle murmured to herself. No wonder Ghislaine was so hostile toward them. In her eyes, Leon and Isabelle were, as Jacques had been, interlopers who’d snatched away their family home.

  She wished the postman good day, then carried Clara’s package into the kitchen and set it on the table. She cut through the wrapping and lifted out three books: a cookbook, a general homemaker’s guide, and a smaller guide with tips for spring cleaning. Isabelle was amazed such a specific book existed. She opened it at random and read, “The best way to get rid of scale is with vinegar.” Good to know, Isabelle thought, remembering the buildup of lime that was half blocking the faucets in her bathroom. But far more valuable than any household tip was the letter from Clara. Isabelle felt a pang in her chest when she saw Clara’s crisp handwriting.

  Berlin, March 1898

  Dear Isabelle,

  What a wonderful joy to hear from you! You hadn’t written a proper letter for so long and I was getting so worried.

  Oh, Clara, what was I supposed to write about? Isabelle thought, feeling a tinge of bad conscience.

  But now my fears have been put to rest. An estate in Champagne—that sounds like just the kind of place where you could find happiness. Dear Isabelle, I see you in my mind right now, keeping the whole place organized, keeping the staff on their toes, and pitching in yourself wherever there’s a need.

  Staff? If you only knew, Isabelle thought and smiled.

  I still remember how you so wanted to find something to do with your life, how you couldn’t stand the idea of being stuck with the boring duties of a good wife to some businessman. And now, beside your attractive cyclist, it seems your wish is coming true. Now you can show everyone just what you have inside!

  Isabelle was reminded of what a good listener Clara had always been, and she bit her lip to keep from tearing up.

  I miss you terribly, you and our own dear Josephine, who also almost never has time to meet up, by the way. Don’t be angry with me if I admit this, but I had actually been thinking that you would turn your back on the Palatinate and come back to Berlin. I went to the library and read that the Palatinate is a very rural—some would say “backward”—corner of the German empire. Which I’m sure is not something anyone would say about the Champagne region, would they? After all, the most famous drink in the world comes from there! I’m sure you won’t ever want to leave, which means that Josephine and I will have to come and pay you a visit sometime. Well, I’m sure there are worse things than that.

  A visit from her two friends? Isabelle’s heart began to beat faster. That would be wonderful!

  As she looked up from the letter, a coach driving quickly up the street caught her eye. The team cut the curves so sharply that the postman, who was standing in front of Ghislaine’s house, had to jump aside to avoid ending up under the wheels.

  What kind of inconsiderate oaf would drive a coach up here like that? Isabelle thought angrily. But then the coach pulled up in front of her house, which was puzzling since she hadn’t been expecting anyone.

  She recognized the elegantly dressed woman immediately. It was the same woman who had been sitting at the next table at the restaurant in Reims and who had given them unsought advice about which champagne to order. What was she doing here? And did she also recognize Isabelle? If she did, she gave no sign of it.

  “I’m Henriette Trubert. I’ve brought you some bread and salt, which is how we wish someone the best of luck in their new home—it’s an old tradition among the Champenois.”

  Henriette Trubert, from the estate of the same name? The woman who had stolen their American customers? What did she want from Isabelle? Isabelle brusquely accepted the bread, which had a clay saltcellar baked into the middle.

  “Would you like to come in?” Isabelle asked, just to be polite, hoping that the other woman would turn the invitation down.

  “I’d love to,” said Henriette Trubert. She smiled, baring her teeth.

  “So have you settled in? Living in Champagne must be completely different from living in Berlin.”

  Isabelle looked at the woman over the rim of her coffee cup. How did her neighbor know that she came from Berlin? “My husband and I feel very much at home here in Hautvillers. Apart from one or two . . . uncertainties, the way of life here is very romantic,” she replied primly.

  “Romantic?” Henriette Trubert raised her eyebrows mockingly. “How nice for you, madame. For my part, I only know about the romanticism of the vines from a few idealistic oil paintings, and I’m quite sure the artists never so much as took part in a grape harvest. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough that making champagne is a year-round ordeal. In spring, you fear late frosts will destroy the young buds. In summer, you’re afraid of hailstorms, and later in the year, you pray to God that your cellar master can come up with the perfect cuvée. And if you’re lucky enough to come up with a good champagne one year, then you pray that no one starts a war, which will also ruin your business.” She shrugged in resignation. “We’re more like slaves than masters! And as if that weren’t enough, you’ve constantly got the competition breathing down your neck.”

  She could talk! Isabelle snorted. “While we’re on that subject, could you explain to me what your agent had in mind when he poached our American customers? If you ask me, that was simply not fair!” It was not normally her custom to be so blunt, but it didn’t seem as if subtlety would work with Madame Trubert.

  Henriette let out a deep sigh. “You’re absolutely right, child, but that’s how things work around here.”

  Child? Isabelle’s jaw tightened, but before she could respond, Henriette continued. “Jacques Feininger would have jumped at the chance, if he’d had it, believe me. Let me explain something to you. Here in Champagne, all our resources are limited: the ground on which our grapes grow, the sunshine our vines need, and the customers who buy champagne. A limited number of wholesalers, restaurants, and hotels buy champagne for their own clientele. Champagne makers are constantly being forced out of the market or bought by others. One company grows, another shrinks—but the sum total doesn’t change. When I sent my best agent to America, we were of the opinion that there was no heir for Jacques’s estate. He never said a word about a nephew.” Henriette set down her coffee and reached out to Isabelle with her right hand. “I hope you’re not angry with me about something so trifling. It will never happen again. You have my word.”

  Oh, I believe that! thought Isabelle. They had no more customers for anyone to poach. In her view, the matter was far from trifling, but she held her tongue and shook Henriette’s hand briefly.

  Henriette’s eyes glittered triumphantly. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” she said. “Your husband is a cyclist, I’ve heard. Such an exciting pastime. Tell me, does that fit in with all the work in the vineyards and cellar?”

  “Leon only rides his bicycle for pleasure. The estate is most important to him, of course.”

  “And business is . . . good?”

  “Couldn’t be better,”
Isabelle replied with a voice of conviction. “My husband has a very engaging manner, which is always an advantage and especially so in this profession. In any case, he doesn’t need to use unfair means to do his job.”

  Henriette’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, and there was one other thing,” she said, already pulling on her gloves.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Henriette Trubert called what she’s invited you to her ‘little gala’? From what I’ve heard, the Trubert party is the event of spring, if not the entire year. They say the Truberts have invited all their important customers. Guests from around the world will be there. How exciting—meeting all those sophisticated people. You lucky thing! I’d give anything to be invited.” Carla Chapron sighed wistfully.

  The sky was dark that morning, as if it did not really want to lighten. She and Carla had run into each other at the village bakery, and Isabelle took the opportunity to find out more about the party and its hostess.

  “The event of the year? Guests from all over the world? Now I don’t know what to think.” Isabelle hesitated. “The way Madame Trubert talked to me about it, it sounded as if she were inviting a few of the neighbors,” she said as they climbed a steep hill. Only a few days earlier, she had stopped to catch her breath a couple of times walking up this same hill, but now she kept up with Carla easily. A light rain began to fall. Isabelle took a scarf out of her bag and tied it around her head.

  “The neighbors—that’s a laugh!” Carla said bitterly. “For Henriette, the only thing that counts is who owns a vineyard or sells a ton of champagne. Everyone else is a second-class citizen, but what would her cellars be without the barrels that my Ignaz makes for her? Does she think that we’d embarrass her? We might not be as rich as the fine winemakers and their wives, but I would be sure to dress the part for an event like that.”

  Isabelle heard the anger, envy, and years of frustration in every word. I should have kept my mouth shut, thought Isabelle. “Madame Trubert probably just wants to be nice to us, because we’re new. We’ll only be invited this once and never again, I’m sure,” she said weakly.

  Isabelle reached home and was about to go inside when she changed her mind and went to see her neighbors. Nobody answered her knock, so she went around the outside of the building and looked out across the Guenin’s garden to the next vineyard. When she saw Marie and Micheline among the vines there, she set off toward them.

  “A little courtyard party?” Micheline Guenin repeated as she used hammer, nails, and new slats to repair the wooden trellis that the vines grew along. “If the Truberts throw a party, then they do it in style, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Are you going, too?” Isabelle asked hopefully, admiring the skill with which the two women handled the tools.

  “Why would you think that? We are about as insignificant as vintners can be.”

  “And we’re not much use to Henriette, either,” Marie added.

  “But what are we?” said Isabelle, throwing her hands in the air in a very French gesture. We’re poor wretches, she thought, grimacing, if Leon doesn’t manage to land a few customers soon.

  “I reckon that Henriette has certain hopes in mind when it comes to your estate,” Marie Guenin replied, with a meaningful edge to her voice. She and Micheline exchanged a look. With tacit approval from her sister-in-law, Marie went on. “When Albert was still alive, we were also invited to all the Truberts’ parties. She fawned all over him! It was disgusting.”

  “Henriette tries to worm her way in with every man who can be useful to her. That’s all it was,” said Micheline, as if belatedly trying to defend her brother.

  Marie nodded. “A few days after Albert’s death, Henriette appeared on our doorstep and told us that she wanted to buy our estate. That was nothing new—when she smells a chance to increase her holdings, she’s there before you can say boo, isn’t she, Micheline?”

  “She talked her head off, trying to persuade us. Do you remember? We were supposed to think how lovely it would be not to have to run the whole business, etcetera, etcetera. Pfff!” Micheline sniffed indignantly.

  Isabelle looked from one woman to the other. “I assume you didn’t want to sell, right?”

  The Guenin women nodded.

  “And now you think that Madame Trubert wants to get her hands on our estate?”

  “She tried to get it from old Jacques, but without any luck, so, yes, that’s what she wants to do,” said Micheline.

  Isabelle shook her head. “Not for anything in the world! We’re not exactly in the best position right now—Madame Trubert and her unscrupulous agent stole our American customers, so she’s at least partly to blame for that—but the tide will soon turn, I’m sure of it. Believe me, Leon and I will show Henriette and the rest of the world what we’re capable of!” Isabelle looked out across the valley, toward the Trubert estate.

  Micheline followed her gaze. “Maybe it would be best not to go to the party at all, but to find some sort of excuse—”

  “Nonsense!” Her sister-in-law interrupted her. “Henriette hasn’t done anything to either of them, and whether she has any plans about the Feininger estate is pure speculation.” Marie turned to Isabelle. “That party will be a splendid affair, and there will be guests from all over, interesting people with a lot to tell. And Henriette, I’m sure, has invited all her best customers from near and far. It’s an opportunity for you to get to know some important people. If you want my advice . . .”

  “Yes?” Isabelle said hesitantly. She didn’t want to get caught up in another difference of opinion between the two women.

  “Look as lovely as you can, and wear your most beautiful ball gown from Berlin.”

  “And do your hair elegantly,” Micheline added, to Isabelle’s astonishment. “Henriette, I’m sure, is hoping that you’ll show up looking like a kitchen maid and embarrass yourself.”

  Isabelle laughed. “Then she can get ready to be disappointed!”

  As Isabelle walked back to her house, one thing Marie said kept going through her head: “Henriette, I’m sure, has invited all her best customers.”

  From nowhere, Isabelle suddenly thought of one of her father’s favorite sayings: revenge is a dish best served warm! A daring plan was forming in her mind. Poaching customers? She and Leon could do that, too. And what better an opportunity than at Henriette’s gala? She was already counting down the days.

  By the middle of March, spring had truly established itself: everything was green and blooming, and the vines were sprouting profusely. The last thing they needed now was another frost! Men were cutting back the vines throughout the region, but things were falling behind on the Feininger estate.

  “Back in the Palatinate, pruning the vines early is extremely important. Every grower knows that he’ll only get decent quality if he limits the volume of grapes. On top of that, the vines get worn out if you let the grapes grow uncontrolled,” Leon said. He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Gustave Grosse. “Grab a few guys and start pruning—like all the other Champenois have been doing for weeks—and do it fast!”

  “What do you care about the others? An unpruned vine gives you enough grapes for four bottles of wine, a pruned vine enough for just two bottles. Think how much money you’d be throwing away! Champagne grapes are robust; the vines don’t tire so easily. And when they get old and the yields drop, you replace them! In the south of Champagne, where I hail from, they see it the same,” Gustave said, slurring his reply. He swayed from one leg to the other. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes, and his cheeks and nose were red.

  Repulsed by the cellar master’s appearance, Isabelle stood off to one side as she listened to them quarrel. Gustave was completely hungover and in no condition to work. She held her breath, waiting for Leon to reprimand him.

  “I don’t care what they do in southern Champagne or anywhere else,” Leon replied. “Without pruning, the vines will be so overgrown by harvest time that we won’t be able to move around. Is that what
you want? I don’t, so we cut them back!” When the cellar master looked like he was about to reply, Leon cut him off. “I will not tolerate any more discussion. Enough, no more!” He fumbled in the pockets of his cycling pants, pulled out a few coins, and handed them to the one-eyed man. “Here. You can pay a few helpers with that.”

  Gustave snatched the coins furiously from Leon’s outstretched hand. “If that’s how it is, then in God’s name, so be it! But I have a few things to take care of in the cellar first.” Without another word, he staggered off.

  “I’ll bet you he’s going to sleep off his hangover somewhere. If I catch him doing that . . . ,” Isabelle said.

  Leon laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time. If it’s any consolation, he’s usually in one piece again after an hour or two.”

  “He’s shown up drunk for work too often in the short time we’ve been here.” Isabelle furrowed her brow. “Why do you put up with it?”

  Leon crouched and tied his shoelace. “What am I supposed to do? He’s a sot, and hard work is not one of his virtues—your first impression of the man was right. But as long as he does his work reasonably well . . .”

  “He shows up here whenever it suits him and leaves again when he feels like it. God alone knows what he does in the wine cellar! And he’s constantly complaining that he doesn’t want to do this or that. If it were up to me, I’d fire the lazy lout today.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” said Leon, pulling on a cap. “I can’t divide myself up and take care of the wine cellar, the vines, and the sales at the same time. I don’t have the time or the knowledge. We need him; remember that.”

  Isabelle nodded in concern. “The money you just gave him was the last of what we had, wasn’t it?” She tried not to sound too reproachful. Pruning the vines was certainly important, but so was a full stomach.