Leon whistled softly between his teeth. “Not bad, eh? Seems they’ve got a real champagne factory going here. Nothing like our little cellars.”
Isabelle furrowed her brow in doubt. “A champagne factory? I must say, that doesn’t seem very exclusive to me.” She pointed to the many guests waiting ahead of them to be greeted by their host and hostess. “Oh. It looks like we’re among the last to arrive.”
“This party seems to be a very big show,” Leon murmured, pulling his jacket smooth.
While they waited their turn, Isabelle looked at Leon and thought he looked very nice. Her husband could match any of the gentlemen present for elegance. He was wearing his black pants and his white shirt, which Isabelle laboriously scrubbed on the washboard and then even more laboriously ironed. Over the shirt, he wore a linen jacket that he’d bought himself in Berlin from his winnings—Leon had always had a good sense of fashion.
Their eyes met, and they grinned happily at each other.
Isabelle grew more tense with every minute they had to wait. There were only four or five other couples ahead of them. She tugged at Leon’s sleeve and whispered, “Let’s run through our plan one last time. First, we just look around. Then, once we’ve found the Americans—” She broke off when the woman in front of them turned around.
Leon smiled charmingly at the woman. “Don’t make me nervous,” he hissed. “We’ve gone through it all enough.”
Isabelle looked away from Leon. Only three couples ahead of them, now. To see more, she stood on tiptoes. The women in line were all dressed in the latest fashions and wore expensive jewelry. And the men, too, in their sportily elegant ensembles, were impressive. But the next moment, she almost fainted on the spot.
“That dress! Look at Henriette Trubert’s dress!” A few heads immediately turned in her direction.
Leon gave her a reproving look. “Your dress is lovely, too,” he whispered. “You’ll be the belle of the ball this evening.”
Ignoring the compliment, Isabelle settled down again. It was too complicated to explain what it was about the dress, but she would get to the bottom of it. She would make sure of that! She breathed in sharply. Only a few more steps.
“Madame and Monsieur Feininger!” Beaming broadly, Henriette welcomed them to her estate. “This is the famous cyclist I told you about,” she said, turning to her husband.
Alphonse Trubert shook Leon’s hand happily. “You’ll have to tell me all about such an exciting preoccupation.” His salt-and-pepper moustache flicked with every word he said. When he shook Isabelle’s hand, his prominent stomach almost touched her body.
“May I introduce my son, Jean? He’s come in just for today’s party. He’s usually away at boarding school at a Jesuit monastery. Isn’t that right, Jean?”
The young man nodded unhappily. Isabelle reached out her hand to him.
“And our daughter, Yvette. She’s at a secondary school in Reims.”
Henriette must have been that pretty once, too, Isabelle thought as she greeted Yvette. Then she turned to her hostess.
“You have a lovely dress there, madame. It reminds me of a colorful rainbow,” she said. She was still dumbfounded at the sight of it. When she had suggested to Blanche Thevenin that she sew together strips of different kinds and colors of fabric, the seamstress had dismissed the idea as pure nonsense even though she hadn’t been able to think of a design to impress her client: “That might be some kind of national costume in Germany, but it’s nothing for an elegant festival here in Champagne!” Isabelle could still hear the mockery in the dressmaker’s voice.
“A bespoke work by my seamstress. She discovered the model at the most modern couturier in Paris and copied it for me especially,” said Henriette, pursing her gaudy red lips proudly.
“In Paris? How interesting.” Isabelle tried not to let her wrath show. Blanche Thevenin, you miserable fraud!
“A dress can only be as lovely as the woman wearing it. You, dear lady, would look enchanting in a linen shirt,” said Leon flatteringly, and he kissed Henriette Trubert’s hand.
Henriette raised her eyebrows appreciatively. “You were right, Madame Feininger. Your husband is quite the charmer.”
Isabelle smiled tartly. She hated it when Leon flirted with other women. And as far as their plan was concerned, it didn’t help in the slightest.
“Something for you,” said Isabelle somewhat abruptly as she handed over the elegant box of pralines that Leon had bought using the money from the jewelry. The chocolats had been terribly expensive, and every franc they had cost caused Isabelle pain, but they agreed that skimping on a present would be a mistake. “One has to look rich and successful to become rich and successful,” Isabelle had said, quoting a nugget of her father’s business wisdom, and Leon had nodded.
“Well, then . . . let’s get on with it,” said Alphonse Trubert in a doleful voice, and he sighed deeply, as if the last thing he wanted was to spend the evening there. He gazed down into the valley longingly, which earned him a poisonous glance from Henriette.
Isabelle grinned with cruel pleasure. It looked as if the man would rather be with his lover at Le Grand Cerf than at his own party.
Henriette clinked at her champagne glass with a silver spoon. The crowd of guests fell silent and to Isabelle’s surprise, Henriette herself, and not her husband, stood up to address them. “Mesdames et messieurs . . .”
After a few words of greeting, Henriette went through a seemingly endless list of names of those who had played a role in the eighty-year history of the company. The guests occasionally chuckled or murmured with appreciation.
A “little soiree”—ha! There had to be a hundred people gathered there! It all reminded Isabelle of the parties she had often attended in Berlin, although here in Champagne there was a lighter, more festive mood. At one end of the hall, a group of musicians had set up their instruments; there would probably be dancing later in the evening, which made Isabelle happy. She could not remember the last time that she’d been dancing. Perhaps, once they had successfully completed their mission . . .
Beside one of the magnificent mirrors, a familiar face, the first she had seen. She smiled and nodded to Raymond Dupont. The champagne dealer was wearing a black suit and was certainly among the most elegant men in the hall. Maybe she would have the opportunity to ask his advice about a cellar master.
“Of course I can create a champagne brut or extra brut! It’s just a matter of how much sugar you add, that’s all,” Grosse had pontificated when she raised the subject with him. “That said, the previous Monsieur Feininger preferred champagne sec, and I also like my champagne very sweet. But if you want a brut . . .” With a shrug of his shoulders, the cellar master had turned and walked away from Isabelle. As straightforward as the information sounded, his pompous manner had done anything but convince Isabelle.
At the moment, however, another question was much more important to her: Where were the Americans?
A loud round of applause pulled Isabelle out of her thoughts. The musicians played a fanfare and several lamps came on behind Henriette, lighting up a high pyramid of champagne glasses from all sides.
Shouts of delights rang out, and more applause.
What a lovely idea! Isabelle clapped with the rest. But when she saw who was standing beside the tower of glasses, she felt a small pang in her chest. She squeezed Leon’s hand.
Daniel Lambert, Henriette’s cellar master, carefully set the last glass on the uppermost triangle of the pyramid. He was focused but at the same time seemed strangely detached. With a practiced hand, he then opened the first magnum bottle and poured the champagne into the glass. The liquid overflowed, frothing and running down to the lower levels of glasses, one after another.
Leon whistled, then whispered to Isabelle, “Did you ever see anything like that? Let’s hope we don’t have an earthquake.” He laughed a bit too loud at his own joke.
Isabelle did not reply. She was mesmerized at the sight. The glass pyramid in
the golden light, the fine bubbles of champagne glittering, Daniel’s gold-blond hair, gleaming in the light of all the lamps . . .
When all the glasses were full, Daniel handed Henriette the topmost glass. With a triumphant smile, she held it up before the gathered guests.
“To you, my friends! I declare the buffet open!”
Some things are the same wherever you go, Isabelle thought as she watched the guests descend on the buffet.
“Let’s grab something to eat, too,” said Leon. “It will help us negotiate.”
Isabelle’s own growling stomach agreed.
When they passed the champagne pyramid, Daniel Lambert held out one of the glasses, and she stopped. Their eyes met, and Isabelle felt a warm shiver inside. “The dress is better suited to this occasion, madame.”
It took a moment for Isabelle to realize what he was talking about. The first time she had gone out into the vineyards, the first time they’d met, she had been wearing this exact same dress. Completely inappropriate, she had to admit, looking back.
“I prefer to decide for myself when a day is to be celebrated,” she said, sounding rather stilted. Her hand shook a little as she brought the champagne glass to her lips.
Henriette, who was still standing beside the pyramid, followed the small scene as it played out in front of her. She looked puzzled and, pushing between Daniel and Isabelle, said, “If you will allow me, there are some important people you should get to know.”
Isabelle looked hungrily toward the opulent buffet, but said, “I’d like that,” and gave Leon, who was eyeing the buffet ravenously, a jab with her elbow.
“May I introduce Edgar Ruinart? This is Leon Feininger, the famous cyclist from Germany!”
Ruinart, who belonged to one of the most successful champagne houses of all time, shook hands politely with Leon, but did not seem particularly interested.
“And this is Henri Marie Lanson, the son of Victor-Marie. Since he took over at the renowned cellars in Reims, the fame of the Lanson name has grown around the world.”
“You do flatter us, dear Henriette,” said the handsome young man, and he kissed her hand with a smile.
“Henri, I’d like you to meet an extraordinary guest, Leon Feininger, an outstandingly successful racing cyclist. Leon’s triumphs are numerous: he has crossed the Alps on a bicycle, and last year, he took part in a twenty-four-hour track race—twenty-four hours on a bicycle.”
Isabelle was decidedly annoyed. What was Madame Trubert up to, completely ignoring her like this?
“You ride a bicycle? How fascinating,” Henri Marie Lanson promptly said, turning directly to Leon. “My daughter would like such a vehicle for herself. Perhaps, at your convenience, I might ask your expert advice?”
“Of course! Although I must say my experience with women’s bicycles is rather limited,” Leon replied. All four of them laughed; then Henriette steered them onward.
Henriette next introduced them to Louis-Victor and Léon Olry-Roederer, then the widow Clicquot’s business manager, and then Charles-Eugène Heidsieck. There could hardly be any more important men in the Champagne region, Henriette told them over and over. And every time, she introduced “the famous cyclist from Germany.” And while Leon innocently, cheerfully recited anecdotes from his cycling exploits, Isabelle tried in vain several times to steer the conversation around to the Feininger estate. Every time, Henriette interrupted her attempts.
After half an hour, Isabelle was on the verge of exploding. She had realized what the vigneronne was up to: from that evening on, no one would see the Feiningers as vintners at all. They would be no more than the “cyclist and his wife.”
When Henriette wanted to introduce them to Raymond Dupont, Isabelle said, in the iciest voice she could muster, “We’ve already met.”
Raymond smiled. “Madame Feininger managed to impress me immensely at her very first champagne tasting. She has a fine nose and a wonderful sense of the nature of a champagne. Unless my estimation is completely mistaken, we are looking at a future grande dame de Champagne.”
“With all due respect to your estimation, my dear Raymond, it seems a little . . . bold,” said the hostess, her mouth slightly pinched. “I, too, am happy to find someone who can detect a soupçon of lemon or a hint of pear in a glass. But to conclude a level of . . . acumen from that is bordering on the reckless.” She gave Isabelle a long, almost sympathetic look.
Oh, that was . . . Isabelle opened her mouth, but then she couldn’t think of anything to say in her own defense.
Smiling radiantly, Henriette turned to Leon again. “But you have proved your talent hundreds of times! It’s men like you whom I really admire. But to think that your talent is being wasted now . . .” She shook her head and sighed theatrically.
“But it isn’t. What makes you think that?” said Leon, happy that the conversation had come back to him.
“From my own experience, I can tell you that a champagne estate eats you up hide, hair, and all. One is a slave to the vines, year in, year out. I fear that you will find little time for riding a bicycle in the future, so”—she placed one hand on Leon’s right arm and drew him away with her, without so much as another glance at Isabelle—“I have some good advice for you, young man.”
Isabelle could only stand and stare as Henriette walked off with her husband. Never in her life had she been so outraged.
Raymond Dupont cleared his throat. “May I get you another glass of champagne?”
Isabelle swallowed her anger and, with feigned coyness, she said, “I would love one. I’ve heard there are some Americans here, too? Do you happen to be acquainted with them?”
Raymond was taken aback for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Yes, in fact. Quite a number have come over from the American Midwest. Just one moment, madame, and I’ll fetch us our drinks.”
And then I’ll do the work myself! Isabelle thought. She saw Raymond go to Daniel Lambert, who poured two fresh glasses of champagne. A moment later, he gallantly handed her one of the glasses.
“To your health, Madame Feininger. May your every undertaking find success! Oh, I can see Greg Watson from Dayton over there, and next to him is Mr. Greenwater from Knoxville. Let’s go over. Both of them were well acquainted with Jacques Feininger, by the way.” Then he smiled and winked at her. “Would it be all right if I left you alone with them?”
“Feininger?” Greg Watson, his face red from the alcohol and good food, looked puzzled.
“Yes. You bought champagne from my husband’s uncle, Jacques Feininger, for years. You were a very good customer of his,” said Isabelle.
“Now I remember! Feininger!” the American cried, and his face lit up. “Good champagne, very sweet.”
Mr. Greenwater, the hotel owner from Knoxville, nodded in agreement.
Well, that wasn’t difficult at all, Isabelle thought to herself. “Very good champagne,” she confirmed eagerly. “And we’ve got a cellar full of it. I could come up with a very good price for you! You could go home with a whole shipload.”
“What a lovely idea! But . . .” Greg Watson’s face clouded over again as quickly as it had brightened. “I would like very much to talk to you about that, young lady,” he said. He motioned to Isabelle to come closer, and Greenwater also took a step closer. “But we have a contract with the Truberts for another three years.”
If Isabelle had thought that the day could not get any worse, she was wrong. Although their hosts had ordered coaches for the guests, Leon insisted on walking home. At first, Isabelle thought he was joking. In her good shoes? But when he said, “We can talk in peace,” she realized that he was serious.
It wasn’t long before Isabelle realized that the fresh air and exercise were doing her good. So many impressions, so much to consider, so much that frightened her—particularly the restrictive contracts that Henriette had signed with the Americans. Another hope dashed.
They walked hand in hand, though Leon, despite his suggestion that they woul
d have a chance to talk, was silent.
The road was lit especially for the evening by many torches. Off to their left, Hautvillers clung to the hillside, smoke rising from an occasional chimney. The night was cloudless, and cloudless nights were still cold. To their right, vineyards covered the gently rolling hills.
“It’s beautiful here,” she murmured, nestling closer to Leon as they walked. “I don’t ever want to leave. Even the idea that we could lose all this nearly kills me.” As she spoke, she felt Leon stiffen almost imperceptibly and pull away a little.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, and a sudden foreboding overcame her.
“Madame Trubert made me an offer.”
Isabelle swallowed. She’d suspected as much. No, she had known it, at precisely the moment the vigneronne had snatched her husband away.
“Henriette said that I could sell the place to her anytime I wanted. She’d pay a good price, and we’d be rid of this albatross forever. Let’s face it—for my cycling, that’s what it really comes down to.”
Isabelle felt the earth disappearing beneath her feet. “What are you saying? That ‘albatross’ is your . . . your uncle’s legacy!” She’d been on the verge of saying “your father’s legacy.” But she remembered how unpleasantly Leon had reacted when, shortly after they had moved in, she had pointed out the astounding similarity between him and Jacques as he appeared in the oil painting.
“Jacques chose you explicitly to take over the estate. He entrusted all of this to you.” She pointed in the direction of their house, which they were quickly approaching. “You can’t seriously be thinking about selling it!” Panic was rising inside her. This was their home, now, the home they had not found anywhere else. And they had only just arrived.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 15