The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 3

  Their own champagne . . . an elegant sales room. And equally elegant customers who would buy the champagne by the crate. And there she would be, in the middle of all of it, organizing everything. Isabelle’s thoughts were whirling through her mind. Keep those kinds of thoughts in check, young woman! an inner voice whispered in her ear at the same time. Not everything that glitters is gold. You’ve seen that for yourself in Grimmzeit.

  “Hautvillers, by the way, is only about fifteen miles from Reims, which is the heart of the province of Champagne. At least, that’s where the biggest and best champagne producers are based, and champagne is sold there in huge quantities.”

  “On my eighteenth birthday, Father had champagne served. I think it was Moët, and the cork popped and hit the ceiling. I remember very clearly how surprised I was when I first felt the little bubbles bursting on my tongue.” Isabelle laughed rapturously at the memory. Champagne—the word alone carried so much promise! Her eye fell instinctively on the glass of thin black tea in front of her. A film had formed on its surface. She smiled seductively at her husband. “You know, to celebrate this day, we really ought to order a glass! Your treat?”

  “Champagne in the middle of the day? Why not order yourself a piece of cake instead?” Leon replied. “What would you say if I told you that Moët champagne actually comes from Hautvillers?”

  “But not at your uncle’s vineyard, surely?” Isabelle’s mouth was dry with excitement. Perhaps she could allow herself a dream after all?

  Leon shook his head. “No, but the Moët cellars are just a block away. There are a lot of resident champagne makers in Hautvillers. And the village itself happens to be very pretty. As a racing cyclist, I don’t pay much attention to lovely landscapes or towns; I keep my eyes on the road. Still, the Montagne de Reims, the area around Reims, made a great impression on me. It felt as if I was riding through a green-and-gold sea of grapevines—”

  “Leon, please, stop! You’re a wonderful storyteller, and I could listen to you for hours,” Isabelle interrupted him, laughing. “But frankly, I’d prefer to go to our new home without any visions of it in my head.” Doing that, after all, had already gone awry once.

  She grabbed her handbag and gave a sign to the waiter that she wanted to pay. “If it were up to me, we could leave today. I—” She frowned at her husband as an anxious thought occurred to her. “I sincerely hope you’re planning to run the winery yourself?”

  Chapter Three

  “Jacques Feininger—my God, that makes me angry! He couldn’t live with the good old name of Jakob that our parents gave him?” Holding a knife and fork high, like two weapons, Oskar Feininger leaned across the dinner table. “And French citizenship—that takes the cake! Did he have to chum up to the frogs? Is that it? Oh, of course, he was a maker of fine champagne. Our good Palatinate wine wasn’t good enough for him anymore, no sir!”

  Isabelle grimaced. If her father-in-law got any more worked up, he’d start foaming at the mouth. The way he derided his brother was terrible.

  Albert sat as placidly as ever, as if none of it had anything to do with him. Anni didn’t say anything, but instead of eating with her usual appetite, she only picked at a slice of bread. When they had returned from Pirmasens and Leon told his mother about his uncle’s death, she had clasped her hands to her chest in shock and run from the room. When she had returned, Isabelle could have sworn she’d been crying. She had prepared supper in silence and inadvertently set out honey instead of butter on the table.

  “Aren’t you happy for Leon at all? Accepting an inheritance like that is a wonderful thing. And a great honor, too,” said Isabelle, as her father-in-law gulped down a mouthful of wine.

  “A great honor! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oskar spat. “That man added nothing to our family but trouble and unrest. Even now, he’s sowing strife and discord in this family from the grave.”

  “That’s enough! If anyone in this family is causing strife, it’s you,” said Anni, so loudly and unexpectedly that everyone at the table jumped. “How can anyone be so vindictive? Sometimes I truly wonder—”

  “What? What do you wonder?” Oskar snarled at her.

  Isabelle followed this brief exchange between her in-laws uneasily, but she could make no sense of it. Instead of answering her husband, Anni turned to Leon. “I take it you’ll be wanting to pay a visit to the place as soon as you can?”

  Leon nodded. Then he took her right hand in his, as if he wanted to ask for forgiveness in advance for what he was about to say. “Mother, when we leave, we’re leaving forever. I know what’s waiting for me there, and it would be smart to make the move sooner rather than later.”

  Isabelle rejoiced inwardly. No more dithering, thank God! But when she saw the pain in Anni’s eyes, it put at least a small damper on her excitement.

  A week later, Isabelle and Leon were packed and ready to leave. Isabelle could hardly have imagined a cooler farewell from her father-in-law. A quick handshake, a scowl, and that was it. That he had agreed to take them, with all their baggage, to the train station in Pirmasens, felt to Isabelle like a miracle. Anni must have put enormous pressure on her husband; Oskar would never have done it otherwise. Choosing Champagne over the Palatinate had made Leon, in his father’s eyes, another renegade. Instead of giving his son some useful tips to get him on his way, he had taken every opportunity to put him down.

  “You’re going to try to run a winery? You can’t even do a decent day’s work here. If you still think riding your bicycle comes first, you’ll run your estate into the ground before you know it.”

  Leon acted as if his father’s words couldn’t hurt him, but Isabelle knew that he was churning inside. She could have cheerfully killed her father-in-law! But it annoyed her just as much to realize that Oskar Feininger’s words had planted a seed of skepticism in her about Leon’s abilities as the future owner of the estate. Oskar was at least a little bit right: to that point, Leon had not exactly distinguished himself on the farm. His cycling always had been more important. What a miserable, disloyal wife you have turned out to be! she chided herself inwardly, more than once. Leon would certainly do things differently once they were settled on their own estate.

  Isabelle reached out stiffly to take her mother-in-law’s hand. “All the best. And thank you,” she said halfheartedly.

  Anni, always so down-to-earth as a farmer, shook Isabelle’s hand feebly. Then she nodded slightly and turned to Leon.

  “Leon . . . my boy . . . ,” she whispered, choking up, then she threw both arms around her son. “Farewell.”

  Isabelle felt a chill go through her, and not only because of the merciless east wind whipping across the train platform. The weather would have been more suited to Siberia than the Palatinate, where now, at the end of February, the first crocuses were already beginning to appear in Pirmasens.

  “We’ll write every week, I promise! And when you come to visit, we’ll throw a huge party, and the champagne will flow!” Leon said encouragingly to his mother. In that moment, he looked as if he even believed what he was saying.

  But Anni raised her hand in a gesture that spoke another language: about animals that had to be tended, about their own vineyard, about Leon’s father’s rejection of everything that had to do with Jacques and the Champagne region. She knew that she was unlikely to see her son again soon.

  Awkwardly, Isabelle turned away from Anni, who still clung to her son like she was drowning. The poor woman. For the first time, Isabelle had some idea of what she had done to her own mother by eloping. Once they had settled in on the estate in Hautvillers, she thought she might pick up her paper and pen and write a few lines home to Berlin. Her father didn’t need to find out about it. She could send the letter to Clara, who would hand it to Jeanette Herrenhus personally.

  The shriek of the incoming train jolted Isabelle from her thoughts, for which she was glad.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Leon, his voice husky as he watched his parents wa
lking back toward the station entrance.

  “Do you want to hire a porter or two?” said Isabelle. “We’ll never get all of this luggage on the train alone.”

  “I’m not going to throw money away on someone to carry my bags for me. Let me do it.” His voice was suddenly cheerful, and he seemed happy for the distraction from the pain of parting. Leon pressed a kiss to Isabelle’s lips. “Watch the rest of our things while I load the bicycles, okay?”

  Along with the bicycles, they had two large suitcases, a travel bag containing her personal things, plus several bags that belonged to Leon. Well, no one can accuse us of traveling light, Isabelle thought as she watched Leon heave their two bicycles into the baggage car section. At least they didn’t have to change trains; the train would take them directly to Metz via Neunkirchen and Saarbrücken. From there, however, they would travel toward Verdun and then on to Reims by coach—no trains rolled through the vast French forests. Leon estimated that they would arrive in Reims the following afternoon, but they still had little idea of where they would sleep that night.

  For maybe the twentieth time, Isabelle reached down, assuring herself that she had her handbag. She was carrying not only her own and Leon’s papers, but also her jewelry, which she had taken with her when she left Berlin: several valuable pearl necklaces and diamond rings, a pair of ruby earrings and a pair of sapphire earrings, some garnet brooches, and bracelets in gold and silver. In Isabelle’s view, she had earned her father’s generous gifts by acceding to his wishes and presenting herself on the marriage market like some sort of prize cow. She had not for a moment considered leaving the jewelry behind in her parents’ house. But in Grimmzeit, Isabelle had had no opportunity to wear it; instead, she had tucked it away under the bed as a kind of rainy-day nest egg, hoping all along that she would never have to make use of it for anything so dire.

  Grimmzeit . . . she wasted no tears on the place or the grim times. She hoped something better would come. Feeling better than she had in a long time, Isabelle took one of the longer jewelry boxes out of the bag. She placed the rose-colored pearls around her neck and fastened the clasp. Why not get dressed up to travel? She no longer needed anything for a rainy day, after all.

  The journey was uneventful. The train was only half full, which meant that, for most of the time, they had a compartment to themselves and could talk without being disturbed.

  “It all still seems so unreal! You and me on our own estate. I can’t imagine what to expect,” said Isabelle as the train chugged through the last foothills of the Palatinate forest. “What do you think our life will be like in the future?” It was not the first time she had asked Leon that question, but so far she had not received a satisfactory answer; instead Leon had remained extremely vague. Now, however, she was determined not to let him off the hook.

  “What will our life be like in the future?” Leon repeated. “Well, it’s easy, isn’t it? We’ll sell champagne and get disgustingly rich!” He beamed at her as if he were deeply satisfied with his reply. “And we’ll have some help doing it, too. There’s an old man named Claude Bertrand who lives in a little house at the end of the property. He is, or rather was, Jacques’s overseer, and he made sure everything was as it ought to be. I still remember how surprised I was when he spoke to me in very good German. His ancestors came from the Alsace region; his mother was German, his father French. And he explained that in Alsace many people grew up speaking both languages. I’m sure Claude will be happy to have us keep him on. I wrote to him last week and told him we were coming.”

  “You thought to do that?” asked Isabelle in disbelief.

  “I’m not going off to Champagne as naïvely as my father might think,” said Leon coolly. “There’s a chef de cave, too—he’s the man in charge of the cellars—but I don’t remember his name. A bit of an odd bird. He’s only got one eye, and he’s hunchbacked.”

  Isabelle listened with interest. The prospect of already having staff on hand awaiting their arrival—and who also spoke German—was a huge relief.

  “And is there a maid? Or some other help in the house?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. Isabelle had not yet been able to make Leon understand that a young woman of her background should not waste her time on housework.

  He nodded. “When I visited my uncle, Claude Bertrand’s wife cooked for us. She’s an excellent cook. I presume she runs my uncle’s household, too. No doubt that she’ll also be happy to stay on as our employee.”

  Isabelle, reassured, smiled.

  “And there are hands for the vineyard work, too. At least, when my uncle showed me around his vines, there were a lot of men and women busy tying things up. Whether they’re permanently employed or just there at certain times of the year, I really couldn’t say. I didn’t have much of a head for the details back then, but my impression was that the estate was managed well—if not by my uncle, then by his people. If one simply keeps an eye on everything and makes sure that things get done . . .” He shrugged, as he always did when he considered something to be easy and obvious.

  Isabelle felt as if she’d just been rescued from a sinking ship. Everything sounded so wonderful! Her mind wandering, she toyed with her pearl necklace. She could already see herself, elegantly dressed, standing in a luxurious salon with a champagne glass in her hand, welcoming wealthy customers to the cellars. A life as exhilarating as champagne itself.

  The hotel they checked into in Reims stood beside the Place Royale and was simple but clean. While Leon made sure that their luggage was safely stowed away, Isabelle freshened up in their room. The hostess had set out a bowl of lukewarm water for her on the vanity, and to Isabelle’s surprise, two slices of lemon were floating in it. Lemons in the middle of winter? Smiling, she had squeezed the juice into the water and luxuriated in the refreshing tingle the acid left on her cheeks.

  They had been on the road for two days. The previous night had been spent in a dismal guesthouse, and the last stretch of the trip had been slow and tiring, but neither Leon nor Isabelle had any desire to rest. Both of them wanted to get out and look at Reims, the city that would be so much a part of their future life.

  The sun that had accompanied them throughout the day was weakening in the late afternoon. Feeling a chill, Isabelle wrapped her scarf a little closer around her throat.

  “Look around—this is just how I remember Reims from my last stopover here. So rich and inviting,” said Leon euphorically. “And it’s clean. No dog waste or garbage lying around. Isn’t this a splendid town?”

  Isabelle, her eyes shining, looked up at the artfully wrought streetlamps that were already illuminating even the farthest corners she could see. The city had not skimped on anything. And then there were all the lovely stores—fashion shops, men’s outfitters, perfumeries, and a beautiful pharmacy, and beside that, a shop that sold nothing but chocolate and fine confections—the street was no less fine than Berlin’s Kurfürstendamm. Isabelle would feel at home here; she could already sense that. It would have been so unimaginably dreadful if Reims had turned out to be another Grimmzeit! Her relief at not having another soap bubble burst before her eyes was so immense that it sent a shudder through her body.

  “All these beautiful shops! You know what I feel like? Doing a little shopping. We probably won’t have any time to come back here in the next few weeks. And we absolutely must look at the cathedral! They say it’s a Gothic construction, one of a kind, really, the place where all the French kings have been crowned.” She had read that in the travel guide that she had snapped up in a bookshop at the train station in Saarbrücken. She tilted her head back and gazed all around. On the journey, they had seen the high towers of the cathedral, with their missing spires, from far away, but now that they were in the heart of the city, where multistory buildings were lined up side by side, she could no longer see them.

  Leon nodded disinterestedly, then he pointed to a brightly lit restaurant on the other side of the street. “Look. On the board, it says they ha
ve roast venison. Now that I think about it, I’m starving.”

  “But . . . ,” Isabelle protested. The guide had listed so many sights! Museums, elegant squares, even a third-century triumphal arch. And just here, this hat shop! She looked in longingly at a purple composition of feathers, lace, and beads.

  “Tomorrow is another day,” said Leon resolutely. “Let’s enjoy some good French cuisine.”

  In her former life in Berlin, Isabelle would have had no reservations about eating in a fine restaurant like the Café le Théâtre. On the contrary, in fact. Fashionably dressed, on the arm of her father, who was always shown to one of the best tables, she would have felt as comfortable as a fish in water. But now, with Leon, she looked around self-consciously. Every table was covered twice in white linen. Candles in opulent, multiple-armed candlesticks stood on every table, and the cutlery was highly polished sterling silver. Even more highly polished were the other diners. The women wore their hair in elaborate hairdos held in place with pins and decorative combs, and they were dressed in the latest French fashions. Their cheeks were rouged, their lips were red, and many of them had ringed their eyes or traced their eyebrows dramatically with a dark pencil. The men looked casually elegant in their dark-green jackets with stand-up collars and horn buttons. Diamond jewelry glittered on every woman’s neckline, while their escorts consulted gold pocket watches.