But the next moment, his grin froze as he realized who it had to be: l’Allemande and none other! She and her husband had arrived in Hautvillers the day before; he’d heard as much from Ghislaine, because they had driven right past her tavern. Her husband was probably creeping around here somewhere, too. That was all he needed! Quickly, he packed up the rest of his food.
He was about to leave when the stranger caught his eye again. She was darting frantically from one vine to the next, looking around in a panic. Daniel watched her drop to her knees and scratch at the ground, or maybe she was pulling something out. The next moment, she seemed to be sobbing and rocked back and forth like a woman in mourning. Daniel felt like he was witnessing something he shouldn’t. What had shaken the woman like that? He was a little scared, but was he misreading the situation? Had she lost something and was just looking for it?
Although he had already made up his mind that he wanted nothing to do with Jacques Feininger’s heirs, he walked toward the woman. When he was a few steps away, he cleared his throat.
“Can I help you, madame?”
She jumped back and pressed both hands to her breast, but quickly pulled herself together. She had, truly, been crying, and she wiped her teary face with the sleeve of her dress. A beautiful woman, he realized. And much younger than he had thought she was from a distance.
“What are you doing here? Are you one of the workers?” she asked in surprisingly good French.
“Not really,” he said, smiling a little feebly. “But perhaps I can still help you?”
There was doubt in her eyes as she looked at the rows of vines. “I don’t know much about these things, but . . . there!” She pointed at the ground between them. “Those must be weeds from last year, right? And plants like that have no place in a vineyard, do they?” She bent down and pulled out a handful of dried-up chickweed, then held it up in front of him reproachfully, as if he’d personally planted it there. He was about to point out that he was not responsible for the unkempt condition of this particular vineyard, when she went on. “And if that isn’t bad enough”—she pointed at the young vines, from which sap was weeping copiously—“there, those vines! They’re dying, aren’t they? All of them. Can’t you see that? I thought this would be our great opportunity, and now this.” Her last words transformed into sobbing, and she turned away in embarrassment. “Forgive me, but seeing all of this destroyed, I would never have believed it.”
Confused, Daniel looked first at the distraught stranger, then at the tiny pools of sap that had formed along the vines. Les pleurs . . .
Then he laughed. “Madame—” He wanted to explain to her that what she saw was completely harmless, but she cut him off.
“What do you have there?” She pointed at the secateur that always dangled from his belt. The pruning shears were one of the few things that he had inherited from his father.
“Did you . . . cut these vines with those?” The red-haired woman looked at him so angrily that Daniel was afraid she might attack him. “You saboteur!”
Daniel could not believe what he was hearing. “You don’t think that I . . .” He twisted his mouth in disgust, and without another word, he turned and walked away.
He had not yet reached the bottom of the vineyard when he saw another woman coming toward him. But instead of wearing a fiery-red dress, this woman was attired in businesslike dark blue. Merde, not her, too, he thought.
“Madame,” he said politely when they were face to face. He would have preferred to simply go his own way, but because Henriette Trubert stopped, he had to stop as well.
The vintner shielded her eyes with her right hand against the bright sun. Her gaze was following the red-haired woman, who was running and stumbling in the direction of the Feininger winery.
“So what they say is true—the Germans are here. Now I’ve seen it with my own eyes. So the Lambert estate really has fallen into the wrong hands.”
Daniel clenched his teeth together so hard that it hurt. “The Lambert estate hasn’t existed for a very long time,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice calm. “The Feiningers are the rightful heirs of Jacques, and they can do whatever they want, even if they don’t know the first thing about this kind of work.”
“My dear Daniel, as indifferent as you might act, you can’t put anything over on me!” Henriette laughed derisively, and countless wrinkles appeared around her mouth. Her lip rouge filled the tiny furrows.
At one time, Henriette Trubert had been the most beautiful woman in the entire Champagne region. But her exposure to the frosts of winter and the summer winds during her constant inspections of the extensive land belonging to her estate had aged her prematurely. Fine lines also had formed around her eyes, and the skin of her cheeks and chin sagged. As attractive as she still looked in the muted candlelight of her living room, under the cold sun of March, each of her fifty-five years was visible.
“It must hurt, mustn’t it? Knowing that it isn’t you working these vineyards but strangers from God-knows-where who probably don’t know a grape from an olive.”
Daniel swallowed. He could not have described his mood any better, especially given that ridiculous scene with the German woman. But he’d be damned if he was going to give his employer the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
“Things can’t always be the way you’d like them to be,” he said airily.
“That humble tone isn’t like you at all. You’re normally much more pugnacious,” said Henriette wryly. She laid one hand on his right arm, and it took some self-control on Daniel’s part not to pull away. Her eyes were imploring, and every scrap of sarcasm disappeared from her voice when she said, “If you think I’m going to stand by and watch the Feininger estate get ahead, you’re mistaken. I’m going to do everything in my power to get my hands on that land. Picture yourself as cellar master there; you could decide what happens to all of this.” She swept her free hand across the vista in front of them, including the vineyards around them. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll even manage it before this year’s harvest. If we play our cards right . . .”
“We?” Daniel’s throat was dry; the word sounded more like he was clearing his throat. But whether he wanted it or not, his spirit had opened itself to Henriette Trubert’s vision of the future. Like a donkey trotting behind a carrot, he was both angry with himself and unable to shut out the visions in his mind’s eye. If he were in charge . . .
“Of course, we!” Henriette chided him. “Your reputation is impeccable, and your word counts for a great deal around here. People tell you things they would never reveal to me. I expect you to tell me anything that has to do with the Feiningers. With the right information, the rest should be child’s play for me.”
“And why would I do that, madame?” he asked stiffly. As much as he hated the idea that the Germans were here, every part of him resisted betraying the trust of others just to help Henriette.
The woman smiled. “How would you like to see a champagne edition with Trubert-Lambert on the label?”
What gall! The way that man had stood before her and grinned brazenly at her after what he’d done to the vines. There would be consequences. Isabelle was still shaking with anger when she reached the overseer’s house.
Claude Bertrand was sitting with his back against the wall of his house, eating his lunch. His dog watched every movement of its master’s hand, hoping that something might fall from the plate.
“Did you have a pleasant walk?” he asked when he saw her approach. “I’m sure you must be hungry, madame. Please, sit. It’s a simple repast, but I’d be happy to share it with you.” He pushed his cardigan, which was lying on the bench beside him, out of the way to make room for her.
“I wish it had been a pleasant walk, but I made an extremely unpleasant discovery in the vineyards,” said Isabelle ardently. With her hands planted on her hips, and in a most accusatory tone, as if the overseer could do anything about it, she added, “The grapevines are losing all their sap from countless wo
unds! It looked so horrible .”
“Is it already that time?” Claude said, more to himself, his voice calm as he sliced a piece off a thick sausage. “There’s no need to worry about the vines weeping. That’s just what happens at this time of year. When the earth warms to more than forty-five degrees, the plants wake up from their winter dormancy. They begin to draw up water from very deep in the earth, and at the places where the vines were pruned the previous fall, they bleed part of the sap out again. It goes on for about two weeks, and it’s perfectly harmless. Les pleurs, the vintners call it. The weeping of the vines.”
Isabelle swallowed. Les pleurs—didn’t that man out there mumble something like that?
“So that’s . . . normal? Not sabotage?”
“What made you think that?” With a smile, he held out his knife to her, a piece of sausage impaled on the end.
Isabelle turned down the offer nervously. Her knees felt weak as she lowered herself onto the bench beside the overseer. He poured red wine into a heavy glass and pressed it into her hand.
Dazed, Isabelle took a large gulp. The wine tasted slightly acidic and herbal, and she found it invigorating.
“Just a regular house wine, good enough for me.” Claude Bertrand shrugged. “As improbable as it might sound, there are actually winemakers in Champagne who make something besides champagne.”
“But don’t they earn far more money with champagne?” asked Isabelle, happy to change the subject. Her stomach was growling and, rather timidly, she took a slice of bread from the basket on the table. Bertrand immediately held out a small butter dish for her.
“They do. But making champagne is a complicated and very drawn-out process. Some of the makers cellar their bottles for a year—others for six years or longer—but that means their money is tied up for that long, too. And”—he paused, as if to be sure of her fullest attention—“the competition is tremendous! You have to keep in mind that there are more than three hundred champagne producers these days. We have a good dozen here in Hautvillers; the two biggest are Moët and Trubert. And all of them want to sell, sell, sell! And come hell or high water, they make sure everyone knows about their champagne. They hire the slickest agents, men with fast mouths and fancy suits; these men have the best contacts and they don’t come cheap. And the modern machines—it’s all extremely expensive. If you want to be successful in this business, then you have to be rich before you start.”
Expensive advertising, big-talking salesmen, and modern machines? Isabelle thought about her empty purse and her cycling husband, and her heart trembled.
“But Feininger champagne has a very good reputation in the industry, doesn’t it?” she asked, and held her breath.
The overseer shrugged again. “You should save those questions for Gustave Grosse. I take care of the land and buildings; the champagne isn’t my side of things.”
Isabelle sighed inwardly. Claude Bertrand clearly did not want to intrude on the cellar master’s territory. She cleared her throat.
“I ran into a very strange man just now, out in the vineyards. I’m wondering what he was doing out there.”
“What did he look like, this man?”
“In his late twenties, I’d say. Not especially tall, wiry. He was blond, with wavy hair down to his shoulders. His eyes were the color of pennies.”
The man had been shamelessly good-looking. When he was standing in front of her, she felt a shock run through her, partly of fright . . . but there had been something thrilling in it, too. It was something she had felt only once before, and that was when Leon had swaggered into the cycling club and announced, “My name is Leonard Feininger. You might have heard of me.”
“And he had a pair of pruners hanging from his belt,” she added.
“Well, that is nothing special, madame. Everyone carries a pair of those; they call them secateur, by the way. It’s practically a growth on a man’s hand around here, but you’ll see that for yourself soon enough,” Claude said, and he raised his eyebrows in light mockery. “But from the rest of your description, it could only have been Daniel Lambert. He prowls through the vineyards like a lonely fox patrolling his ancestral territory.” The old man laughed. “You should be happy, Madame Feininger. On your first day here, you’ve met the best cellar master in the entire Champagne region, maybe even the best of all time!”
Isabelle pulled her head down between her shoulders like a beaten dog.
“So he wasn’t . . . just a worker?” A butterfly had settled on the tulip-red sleeve of her dress. She pretended that she was admiring the creature closely.
“Far from it! Daniel is known throughout the region. He’s a very popular fellow indeed.”
A slightly strangled sound escaped Isabelle. No doubt the whole village would soon know about her impressive “debut.”
“He worked here once, too, actually. About six years ago. Jacques could have counted himself lucky when the youngster started here. Daniel inherited his father’s keen eye and sense of taste—Frederick Lambert was a gifted cellar master! Unfortunately, Jacques did not recognize young Daniel’s brilliance, and he kept putting his nose in where it wasn’t needed instead of just letting the lad get on with it. There was a lot of strife back then.” The regret in Claude’s voice was unmistakable. “These days, Daniel works for the Truberts.” The overseer waved his hand in the direction of the large estate across the valley, the same place that Isabelle had wrongly thought was to be her new home.
“He can’t be too brilliant,” she said primly. “Or he would have set me straight about les pleurs immediately.” She preferred not to remember that she hadn’t even given the man a chance to speak. And even less did she want to think about the first impression she must have given—scratching around in the dirt with her nose running. “And apart from that, he had no business wandering around our vineyards. I don’t go invading stranger’s gardens, after all,” she said indignantly.
Claude smiled mildly. “In this special garden, madame, he is not what I’d call a stranger. The Feininger estate originally belonged to his family. His father, Frederick, lost it in a game of cards when the boy was about eight and his sister ten. The winner was Jacques.”
“Leon’s uncle won the estate in a game of cards?” Isabelle, thunderstruck, leaned across the table. “I don’t believe it!”
“Oh, you can ask whoever you like—the story might be more than twenty years old now, but everyone around here remembers it. Frederick took his own life a little while later, probably when he realized what a great mistake he’d made. After that, young Daniel and his sister grew up with an aunt on this very street, just a few doors down. Madeleine was her name, but she’s dead now, too. If things had followed their normal course, Daniel Lambert would have been the rightful heir to all of this. All things considered, he’s probably to be forgiven for being attracted to the vineyards of his forefathers. He’s bound to this soil like no other.”
Isabelle set down her wine glass and sighed.
“You’re right to say that there are many things that I can’t yet know. But one thing is certainly clear to me: this place is suffering from neglect and sloppiness!” She tore a page out of her notebook and laid it on the table in front of Claude. Trying hard to sound objective, she said, “I put together a list of the most urgent repairs. I’m more than happy to lend a hand; the main thing is that these tasks need to be completed as quickly as possible.”
Claude looked from the list to Isabelle. “Madame, with all due respect for your efforts, it isn’t as simple as that.”
“What isn’t as simple?” Isabelle shot back, bracing against the uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu, having heard essentially the same words from Leon less than twenty-four hours earlier.
“Madame, it’s best if I say this right out: there is no money for repairs, or I would have done them long ago. Do you think I enjoy seeing everything in this run-down state? There is no money for wood or nails or new wire—we don’t even have enough for hay or other feed for
the stock! The carrots I gave the horses earlier came from my own supplies. I haven’t been paid for three months and have been living on my savings, but they are dwindling.” The overseer lifted both hands in a gesture of resignation and let them fall in his lap.
“I’m truly sorry, madame, but I want to survive. And for that reason, for better or worse, I’m going to have to look for another situation.”
Chapter Eight
“Well? What do you think?” Gustave Grosse looked expectantly at Isabelle and Leon with his right eye. Where his left eye should have been, he wore a patch. “An accident,” he’d remarked casually when he saw Isabelle’s curious look.
When the chef de cave had suggested starting their tour of the cellar with a wine tasting, Isabelle had agreed that it would be a good idea. Now, however, she was no longer so sure, because while she and Leon were still on their first glass, their cellar master was already on his third. The man would soon be completely soused! And the more he drank, the more his good eye twitched, a characteristic that Isabelle found extremely jarring.
She was trying to concentrate on the champagne in her glass, but in contrast to her tasting at Raymond Dupont’s shop in Reims, she could distinguish nothing special: no citrus, no scent of vanilla or other aromas. Was it because she was so excited? This was their own champagne, after all.
“It tastes quite sweet,” Leon said vaguely.
Gustave Grosse nodded proudly. “This is champagne from the old school! I learned to make champagne like this in the south of the region, before the phylloxera came and destroyed all our vines. I don’t think much of the new fashion for making champagne drier than old toast. Wine has to be sweet; then you’ll happily drink another glass, wouldn’t you say, monsieur?”
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 8