The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 14

  “Twenty-three,” Daniel said flatly.

  “And now she’s eyeing the Lambert lands.” Although the estate proper and its outlying vineyards had carried the name “Feininger” for years, Raymond had never got used to it. For him, Frederick Lambert had been more than the best cellar master of all time. He had also been a good friend of Raymond’s. And Raymond preferred to overlook the fact that other people now worked Frederick’s land. Still, since her visit to his shop, he could not get the lovely Madame Feininger out of his head. A hybrid tea rose about to bloom . . .

  Raymond refilled both their glasses with champagne. “From all I’ve heard, Henriette stands a good chance,” he said. “It seems the Feiningers are struggling, to say the least.”

  Daniel snorted. “If someone took away all your customers, you’d be struggling just as much. If you think I condone behavior like that just because the land used to belong to my family, you’re wrong. If the Feiningers are responsible for their own ruin, that’s one thing. But I’m not part of Madame Trubert’s dirty tricks, as much as she might like to make it look like I am.”

  Raymond raised his eyebrows a fraction. In all the years he had known Daniel, the young man had never said a critical word about his employer, although there had been plenty of opportunities to do so. “The way Simon Souret poached the Feininger’s American clientele wasn’t exactly sportsmanlike,” he said.

  Since Isabelle Feininger’s visit, Raymond had found out quite a bit about the estate and its new owners: Although Jacques’s nephew came from the Palatinate and was a vintner, he had no experience with champagne. With their overseas customers gone, the estate was in a bad position—bad enough that Leon Feininger was peddling his champagne door to door!

  Daniel sighed. “The idea of working Lambert land again is tempting, to be sure. I still know every single vine, every aspect of the place. When I see what Grosse is doing with it all . . . let’s just say it makes me very angry. Adding apple juice or some other ingredient that doesn’t belong there certainly doesn’t make for an honest wine.”

  “He cuts it?” Raymond was suddenly alert. For him, as a lover of the great champagnes, there was no greater sin.

  Daniel nodded, then he smirked.

  “Speak of the devil.” Daniel gestured with his chin to the stores across the street. “If Madame Feininger can afford to visit the most expensive jeweler in Reims, things can’t be all that bad.”

  “She rides a bicycle?” Raymond exclaimed. The German is certainly an astounding woman, he thought, as Isabelle pushed open the door to the jeweler’s shop and stepped briskly inside.

  Daniel cleared his throat. “So, tell me: What do you think of my champagne? I’ve only made a small quantity. Madame Trubert doesn’t really appreciate such adventures, so I’m only allowed to do so if I’m successful with them. And it isn’t cheap; I’ve put the best grapes into it. Luckily, there are some who have the nose for that certain something.”

  “And you’re looking at one of them,” said Raymond with a smile. Enough daydreaming about the beautiful redhead! He had a business to run. He straightened his shoulders and said, “I’ll take all you’ve got.” Selling such an extraordinary champagne would be child’s play.

  They were winding up their business when Isabelle Feininger knocked on the door. She looked pale and exhausted, and Raymond hurried over to open the door for her. Daniel followed him.

  “I’ll see you at Henriette’s party,” Daniel said to Raymond before turning to Isabelle. “Madame, I trust you have not found any more saboteurs among your vines?” With a slight smile, he tipped his cap in greeting.

  Instead of returning his mockery in kind, Isabelle looked at him seriously and said, “I fear that the worst saboteur is inside my own cellars, and nowhere else.”

  The two men exchanged a glance, then Daniel said his good-byes.

  “Please come inside, madame. The doorstep is no place to stand,” said Raymond.

  Isabelle’s heart was beating hard, and her knees felt weak as she set her heavy bag on the table in Raymond’s shop. She wasn’t sure exactly why she was so agitated. Was it her visit to the jeweler? Or the unaccustomed trek on the bicycle? After all, she’d had to ride the bicycle just so she could go to Reims without Leon or Claude knowing of it. Certainly not Daniel Lambert’s dark eyes . . . or the pleasant warmth she felt in her belly when they were standing so close together in the doorway. Was she going to react like that whenever she was near the man?

  “What a pleasure to see you again, Madame Feininger. Let’s sit down for a moment; then tell me how I can help you.”

  As Raymond sat in the chair opposite hers, Isabelle was suddenly reminded of her father. The graying hair, the perfectly fitted suit made of the finest wool, the self-confident air, so worldly, so experienced. All at once, she was sure that coming here had been the right decision.

  “I would like to have another champagne tasting session with you. But this time, I would like to provide the champagne.”

  Raymond Dupont laughed in astonishment. “Madame, please don’t feel you need to reciprocate! It is a pleasure for me to taste champagne with you. Let me quickly fetch a few bottles, and we can begin.”

  “No, Monsieur Dupont, please!” Isabelle cried. “It’s not what you think.” She hurriedly pulled out the five bottles of Feininger champagne she had taken from the cellar that morning. The wine had been shaken up vigorously from the ride, but the bottles were still reasonably cool. “I know that this is not ideal, but . . .” She bit her lip before going on. “I would like to know what you think of this champagne. Would you be so kind as to try it?” She held her breath, waiting for him to reply.

  Moments later, Raymond Dupont held a glass of her champagne at eye level. “Pale yellow. I’d almost call it mustard-colored. And slightly cloudy. There are some impurities—at first glance, it is not a particularly alluring champagne, madame. But wait. Testing a champagne involves all the senses: the eyes, the nose, and the palate, of course.” He brought the glass just under his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he raised the glass to his lips. It was barely perceptible—but Isabelle still saw it: a grimace.

  “The sweetness is so overpowering that everything mineral, everything that the champagne grapes naturally give to it, is buried. I would not be surprised to find out that apple or pear juice was added to it.”

  “Apple juice?” Isabelle lifted one hand to her mouth in shock. “Do you mean to tell me the champagne has been adulterated?”

  Raymond nodded and took a second mouthful. “And very little of l’effervescence develops in the mouth.”

  “You mean it isn’t bubbly enough?” Isabelle frowned. This didn’t sound good.

  “Exactly!” Raymond sighed and pushed the glass away. “This is the champagne from your estate, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle nodded dejectedly. She felt like picking up her bag and running away. Her heart was racing. She crossed her arms over her chest as if doing so might protect her from the pain she felt.

  “What do you think of this . . . sparkling wine, madame? If I remember correctly, you have an outstanding sense of taste.”

  This startled Isabelle. It was a question she was not prepared for. “Honestly, I feel quite helpless in this, and I would like to hear your unvarnished opinion.”

  Raymond sighed again.

  “Please.”

  The champagne dealer lifted the glass and held it directly in front of Isabelle’s eyes.

  “This champagne, in terms of the craftsmanship that has gone into it, is woefully lacking, as shown by the impurities and the limited effervescence. The taste is far down toward the bottom of the scale. It possesses absolutely no fruit aromas and no complexity.” When he saw the question on Isabelle’s face, he said, “No character, no charm, you see? The cellar master who committed the crime of making this champagne has even managed to conceal its origin, for I can detect no trace of chalk or limestone. We live on an enormous mountain of chalk covered by a thin layer of soil. This
is something one should taste, smell, feel!” Raymond suddenly sounded angry, as if he considered the wine a personal affront.

  Isabelle looked at him with deep concern. “And the sales potential of this champagne? How would you gauge that?”

  “The sales potential,” Raymond repeated, as if he wanted to stall for time. He seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment, then he looked into Isabelle’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but a sweet brew like this is practically impossible to sell these days, at least here in Europe. Twenty years ago, things were different. People had different tastes back then, and a champagne had to be as sweet as possible. But the days of adding sugar or syrup to compensate for the lack of sweetness of the grapes here in Champagne are over. Today, the skills of our cellar masters are so advanced that they can take what was once the great disadvantage of being situated so far north—namely, the lack of sweetness in our grapes—and deliver a virtuoso performance. They bring acidity and sweetness together in such harmony that the champagne drinker is enthralled—and prepared to pay a small fortune for the privilege.” He set the glass down again and drank some water.

  It took everything Isabelle had to prevent herself from bursting into tears. A cheerful sentence, something to lighten that leaden moment . . . She was utterly unable to come up with anything.

  “Keep your chin up, Madame Feininger. Perhaps there is still a chance to sell the wine in some less pampered part of the world.”

  Isabelle sat there, stunned. Dear God, let this be a bad dream.

  And she had suspected Leon of not doing his best.

  “Would Russia be a possibility?” she asked, trying to sound as businesslike as she could.

  The champagne dealer shook his head. “The Russians are certainly known for having a sweet tooth, but also for their appetite for the best of the best.”

  “I see. Would it be all right if you also tested the other bottles?” Isabelle croaked. Her mouth felt as dry as sand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “So much for a few necklaces!” Leon gaped at the pile of banknotes that Isabelle had tossed onto the table.

  She smiled. “I certainly imagined I’d get quite a lot, but I was surprised that the jeweler in Reims gave me quite this much for my jewelry. In Germany, it would be more than four hundred marks.”

  The tantalizing smell of a meat ragout wafted from the kitchen. Isabelle had paid a visit to the charcuterie in Reims, and she rode home with two pounds of beef, plus a whole pie and some ham. She’d found a suitable recipe in Clara’s cookbook and put the ragout on right away. That was good, for she had things to address with Leon, things for which he could certainly use a solid meal.

  “Darling!” Leon jumped up and kissed Isabelle passionately. “This is absolutely fantastic! We’re saved. There’s enough here to pay Claude and Grosse and a few laborers besides. Feed for the horses, and we’ll need to take them to a smithy soon, too, Claude told me. It’s all easy, now! What a wonderful idea to sell off that old junk.”

  Isabelle freed herself from his embrace. “To be honest, parting with that old junk was hard. The pearl necklace was a gift from my mother for my eighteenth birthday, and the chain was something she’d inherited from her own mother. My father gave me the ruby collier when I graduated from secondary school.” She sighed. “But now is not the time for sentimentality.” Her jewelry box was still well filled, and she would have to be happy with what she had. If they got down to it, she could always trade in more of her jewelry, though she hoped that it would not be necessary.

  Leon’s pride and self-confidence were blazing in his eyes again. His depressed mood of the previous night had evaporated. “This is just the spur I needed! Tomorrow morning, I’ll head off toward Troyes. I haven’t tried to sell anything down that way yet. I’ll talk for what my life’s worth, and from now on, it will work. I can feel it! Then I’ll be bringing home money, too, even more than this.”

  Isabelle nodded slightly, then she served the ragout. But while her husband went at the dish hungrily, Isabelle merely prodded at the food in front of her. How was she supposed to tell Leon that the Feininger champagne was no good? That that was the reason all his efforts had been in vain?

  She waited until he had finished eating. Then, as calmly and objectively as she could, she described Raymond Dupont’s tasting and the crushing verdict.

  Leon listened, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. “Sediment? Mustard-colored brew? Poor craftsmanship, and doesn’t even taste good?” He angrily interrupted Isabelle. “What does this guy know? He could tell you anything. It’s an outrage!”

  Isabelle shook her head. She had been waiting for this reaction. “I trust Monsieur Dupont’s judgment. I would not have gone to him otherwise. As a dealer, he has a lot to do with champagne—all kinds, all qualities. He knows what he’s talking about. If Dupont says that our chances of selling the champagne at a reasonable price are practically nil, then that’s how it is.”

  “But we’ve got thousands and thousands of bottles down there. How do you know they’re all the same . . . bad quality?”

  “Leon, please! I took Monsieur Dupont five bottles of champagne, and I selected them from five different parts of the cellar. All were equally bad.”

  “So what are you saying? Should I pour it all out?”

  Isabelle laughed helplessly. “Monsieur Dupont’s opinion is that we should look for a new cellar master. A young talent, someone fresh, someone who knows how to make champagne. A chef de cave who knows what today’s champagne customers want.”

  “Oh, lovely!” Leon huffed. “And can you please tell me where we’re supposed to find such a sorcerer’s apprentice? All the cellar masters I’ve met so far earn their bread and butter elsewhere. And even if we found one looking for a job—what could we possibly offer?”

  “There’s still some time until the next harvest. We’ll come up with something by then,” Isabelle said.

  For a long time, neither said a word. Leon riffled through the banknotes, straightened the pile, riffled again, straightened again. He was making Isabelle so nervous that she wanted to snatch the bills out of his hands, but she knew that he needed at least a few moments to digest what he’d just heard. She herself had needed the entire journey back from Reims to come to terms with it.

  After a time, Leon reached for one of the champagne bottles left over from his binge the night before and looked at it thoughtfully. “This stuff really is very sweet, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  As they looked into one another’s eyes, they each recognized their own naïveté, stubbornness, and ignorance mirrored in the other. They began to laugh, and it grew louder and more hysterical.

  Tears ran down Isabelle’s cheeks, and she realized that it was possible to laugh yourself dry in the same way that you could cry yourself dry, although she had little experience with either. But all the negative feelings that had been dammed up inside washed away. The tension and fear were gone. In their place, she felt a seed of confidence burst open.

  She inhaled deeply, but this time without the oppressive weight pressing down on her chest. She was about to speak when Leon said, “And I was thinking that I was too stupid to sell it.” With a sigh, he wiped the tears of laughter from his own face.

  “You’re not,” Isabelle replied firmly, meaning it sincerely. “I’m beginning to think that Jacques made this sweet brew especially for his American customers. He certainly found some success over there.”

  “Do you know what that would mean?” Leon sounded doubtful. “A sales tour to America would take quite a few weeks, certainly. And it wouldn’t be cheap.”

  “You don’t have to go to America. I’ve got another idea. The Americans come here, like the mountain to Muhammad,” she said enigmatically.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Isabelle smiled. “I told you about the party at the Trubert place, the one we’re invited to. They have customers coming from all over the w
orld.”

  “So that means . . . we’ll be meeting Jacques’s old customers?” Leon looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Now I get it! Ha! If the Truberts can do it, then turnabout is fair play. They stole our customers, and now we steal them back.”

  Isabelle’s grin widened. “You with your charm and me in my prettiest dress. We make a good team, don’t we?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Isabelle looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. She had skillfully piled her hair high, pinning it in place with ruby-studded combs; the color of the jewelry perfectly matched her evening dress. She carried a beaded handbag and had picked out a colorful fan. The ruby necklace that she had sold in Reims would have been the perfect accompaniment, but . . .

  She turned and, as well as she could, she admired herself from behind. She smiled. Who needed gold and gems when there was something much better? She had her slim waistline back, and she was in better shape—much closer to what she had been in her best days as a long-distance cyclist. All the hard work had done some good for her, too.

  Her genteel, citified pallor had also vanished, and her skin had taken on a golden sheen. She even had a few freckles sprinkled across her small snub nose. In the past, she would have complained about them and tried to hide them with powder. Today, she liked the way she looked. Standing straight, her chin lifted boldly, Isabelle nodded to her reflection. Her green eyes sparkled provocatively as she said, “You can measure up to any Henriette Trubert around. Don’t let them tell you that you’ve lost!”

  From a distance, the Trubert estate was impressive, and it was far more imposing close up. It consisted of a large two-story main building and several outbuildings, all massive, well-maintained structures. Freshly planted flower boxes hung beneath every window. The open courtyard between the whitewashed buildings was paved with cobblestones in a complicated pattern, and there were a number of halved wine barrels generously planted with spring flowers. Flaming torches stood between the barrels, illuminating the courtyard. The champagne cellars themselves were in the building to the right of the main house; a huge sign painted with “Champagne Trubert” in ornate silver lettering indicated as much. From the style, though, the building reminded Isabelle more of her father’s workshops than cellarage for champagne.