The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “Why not? Think about it,” said Leon casually. “If we sell, we’ll have enough money to last us the rest of our lives. We can do whatever we want. We could move to Reims; I know how much you loved the town. You could shop in the pretty shops there every day and get whatever you wanted. And I could finally devote myself to cycling and nothing else.”

  “I’m supposed to lead the life of a rich, bored housewife in Reims? Carrying on empty conversations and fighting with other women about the best hairdresser, the best hatmaker? Leon, that isn’t my world!” Isabelle cried in despair. Dear God, let this be a horrible dream! Let me wake up!

  “I could finally buy some new equipment and make even better times on my rides! I’d finally have some goals again that would be worth pursuing.” Isabelle could hear that his daydreams were already far advanced. “I’ve certainly had more than enough training by riding around trying to drum up business over the last few weeks.”

  Isabelle felt dizzy with fear. “But we already have goals, splendid goals! We want to get the estate back on its feet, together. The two of us, doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “The estate, the estate.” Leon waved off the word like a mosquito. “I think we simply bit off more than we could chew. Look around—nothing but problems! If you ask me, we’ve been deceiving ourselves. This whole adventure was doomed to fail from the start.”

  “Leon, that’s not true,” she said in disbelief. “Admittedly, our position right now isn’t ideal. But a few weeks ago, we were poking around in a fog, and now we at least know how the place works. Leon, sweetheart, let’s at least give this a good try! I want to lead our winery to success and make Feininger one of the biggest names in the Champagne region in a few years. Leon, please,” she begged. Suddenly, every step she took was one too many. Drained, she stopped walking.

  They had reached the base of the valley that separated their house from the Trubert estate and the last of the torches. From where Isabelle stood, their house was only recognizable as a black form besieged by darkness, and the way in front of them was steep and uneven, with many places one could stumble. Instead of giving her his support, as he had been, Leon was standing two paces away.

  “You should listen to yourself. Champagne, day in, day out! In Berlin, you were always annoyed that all your father ever thought about was his business, but now you’re no better! Don’t I count anymore? I’m not interested in standing in front of everyone as the failure. I want to focus on things I understand.”

  Isabelle took a step back, as if someone had hit her.

  Leon continued bitterly. “The last few weeks, you haven’t noticed even once how much I detest all of this! Riding around only to all but beg potential customers for their business, then coming home to your disapproval when I haven’t been able to sell anything again. And then you tell me that your oh-so-brilliant expert in Reims thinks our champagne is unsellable. Isn’t it clear to you yet that this is all one big nightmare? It was naïve of us to think we could make a success of this place. I’m a cyclist; that’s where my talent has always been, not in making wine. Henriette opened my eyes for me.”

  “Henriette, Henriette!” Isabelle screamed. “I hate that name, and I despise that woman! She’s tipped you over like a turtle. She’s spinning you around with her oily words.” She began to sob. “You can’t just let that witch and her garish makeup twist you like this, Leon, please.” She gestured toward the rows of dark vines, where, at the end of every third row, there was a rosebush. “Do you really want to leave Hautvillers without seeing the roses in bloom?”

  “The roses—as if you gave a damn about them in Berlin. Don’t be pathetic,” Leon snarled. “If you think you can get to me by crying, think again. If I’ve given in to anyone, it’s to you. I’ve been bossed around by you far too long. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Isabelle collapsed. Through her tears, the vineyards that had just now been so lovely seemed to be crashing over her like a wave.

  “But—”

  Leon turned away. “Enough objections! I inherited the estate, and I’m the one who gets to say what becomes of it. I’ve made my decision, and nothing you say will change it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Resentment and discord entered the once-peaceful house. Isabelle cried and begged, but Leon ignored her. All he could see was the million francs he would get from selling the estate. Without discussing it with Isabelle, he arranged an appointment with Henriette Trubert for the end of April. At the same time, he sent off his registration forms for the biggest races of the coming cycling season.

  When Isabelle found out, she ran blindly out of the house, out into the vineyards, looking for somewhere to cry out her pain undisturbed. She had not gone a hundred yards when she ran into the arms of Micheline Guenin.

  “Madame Feininger, my goodness, what’s happened? Tears on such a beautiful day?”

  Isabelle turned away. She wanted to be alone.

  “Let’s sit a moment. The ground is lovely and warm, and I think a little break to catch our breath will do both of us good, won’t it?”

  Isabelle had no strength left, and the constant quarrelling was taking its toll. She sank onto the grass beside Micheline. “Damn, damn!” Furious and miserable, she beat at the ground with her fists. She really did not want to talk, but before she knew it, everything came out.

  Micheline listened in silence. When Isabelle was finished, she said, “But none of that is reason to despair and certainly not reason to consider selling!”

  Isabelle snorted. “Tell my husband that. All he can think about is riding his bicycle. If it were up to him, he’d take off tomorrow and join the cycling circus. He’s always going through the programs put out by the big organizers or reading the cycle catalogs! Now he’s signed up for a twenty-four-hour track race in Paris. After that comes a one-day race from Paris to Roubaix, then the 750-mile Paris–Brest–Paris race. He’s lost all interest in the estate.”

  “Then let him go,” Micheline Guenin replied. “Pardon me for saying this, but he hasn’t been a very big help so far, now has he? You can run the winery alone just as well.”

  “I’m supposed to run the winery? I know the top of a grapevine from the bottom, but that’s about all.” For a moment, Isabelle thought she must have misheard. She let out a shrill laugh.

  “Now don’t go looking so horrified,” said Micheline, laughing. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to set out on that particular adventure. The women of the Champagne region have always been an independent lot, and their men have suffered for it often enough. Just think of famous vigneronnes like Louise Pommery or Barbe Nicole Clicquot. Both would be among the most successful winemakers in the world. Or just look at my sister-in-law and me. We do quite well for ourselves, thank you very much. Unfortunately, you can also point a finger at Henriette Trubert, the snake! Say what you will about her—when it comes to business, she can hold her own against any man.”

  Isabelle sighed. “That’s an impressive list, dear Micheline,” she said. “Except that all your successful women—every one—were born and bred in Champagne. They were born into the world of wine, so to speak. I know practically nothing about it.”

  “But that isn’t true, child,” said Micheline gently. “Claude has been very impressed by the way that you have found your feet in the daily business of the estate so quickly. You’ve made a good start.”

  “Knowing when the chicken stall has to be mucked out or when the horses need new shoes is one thing. But it’s a far cry from working the vineyards, let alone overseeing the making of the champagne. And I don’t get much help from Gustave Grosse, either,” said Isabelle. Micheline had sown a seed of hope in her, but she could already feel it withering again.

  “A person can learn anything. If you need any advice or any help, I’ll be there. Claude, too. He knows a lot more about growing grapes then he lets on.”

  Isabelle raised eyebrows. “Really?”

  Micheline nodded. “Up to now, he’s just chosen n
ot to get mixed up in Gustave Grosse’s work. Cellar masters generally are a little . . . capricious. They don’t see themselves as workers but as artists. And few artists are happy to have someone else tell them how to do what they do. Blending the various types of grapes, mixing wine from different years—it’s like a painter dipping into the palette and coming up with new, daring—or perhaps less daring, less successful—combinations of colors. A good champagne is like a painting that calls forth visions and makes you dream.”

  “Then our ‘artist’ paints with a very wide brush, and the only vision he has is a drunken stupor.” Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked at her neighbor. “But you’re right. Grosse isn’t the only cellar master in Champagne. I could look around for someone more capable, someone who can make modern, dry champagnes.” Even as she spoke, the withered seed inside her began to swell again. “Who makes the champagne for you?”

  “Me,” said Micheline. One simple word, but spoken with pride.

  Isabelle looked at the woman with admiration. They had become almost old friends, but she still knew very little about the Guenin estate.

  “Let’s get back to your problem,” Micheline said firmly. “Have a little faith in yourself! You will be surprised what you can do if you only try. Or”—she frowned—“do they still tell you German women that the only way to survive as the weaker sex is at the side of a man? In case you hadn’t noticed, my dear, the wind changed a long time ago!”

  Isabelle’s despondency abruptly transformed into a broad grin. “A fresh wind. My friends and I, in Berlin . . . we wanted that so much. Clara always said we needed a turn-of-the-century wind, one that would sweep away all the dusty ideas about us as the weaker sex!” She nodded, remembering the things that they had talked about when they were still girls. “We longed for a new age in which women were no longer second-class people but could live up to their strengths, like men. An age in which women could realize their own dreams.”

  “But hasn’t this turn-of-the-century wind already been blowing for a long time, all over the world?” Micheline asked. Her voice was doting, as if she were speaking to a child who was slow to understand.

  “If you look at me, then certainly not,” Isabelle replied. Her anger at her own fearful hesitation was rising. “I came here with such great dreams, and what has become of them? I wanted to prove to the whole world what I was capable of. But secretly, I was relying on Leon taking charge as the man of the house.” She looked at Micheline sadly. “But I’m afraid I’ve only come to understand that too late. I wanted so much to defy Henriette Trubert! It serves me right, having to pay for it now.”

  “Stop blathering. It’s never too late to take the reins,” Micheline replied gruffly. “If you really wanted them, you’d have half a dozen customers by tomorrow.”

  They chose a bar at the edge of the market square. The maître d’ had arranged a few small round tables alfresco, and they sat down at one of them. Leon ordered them a coupe de champagne and water.

  Isabelle smiled wistfully. “Do you remember how, after we visited the notary in Pirmasens, we drank tea because drinking champagne during the day seemed strange?”

  “The rules are different here. Everywhere else, champagne is a luxury, but here it’s as normal as a glass of water,” Leon replied, and he smiled, too.

  Isabelle’s heart was beating hard. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for? Slowly, she said, “Speaking of different rules, what would you say if we held on to the estate, but you were able to concentrate one hundred percent on your cycling?”

  “Having my cake and eating it too—how would that work?” Leon’s voice carried mockery and doubt.

  “Well, I would take care of the champagne side—all of it—and you’d be free to ride,” she replied, trying to sound as confident as possible.

  “You would take care of the winery? Don’t make me laugh! What do you know about winemaking?”

  “What I don’t know, I can learn. Jacques’s library is full of books about viticulture. Do you have so little confidence in me? You sound like my father; he always used to put me down, just like that,” said Isabelle, raising her voice. The waiter, gathering cutlery at the next table, looked toward them curiously.

  Leon waved it off. “You’re going down the same old road. Don’t! You’d have to admit that you don’t have the first clue about winemaking. It’s hard work, dawn to dusk, all year—how do you expect to manage that as a woman? In the end, it will be me racing during the day and breaking my back in the vineyards at night. No, thank you! Apart from that, how am I supposed to afford a new bicycle? I might as well not even sign up for the big races without a decent machine. Sorry, my dear, but your idea doesn’t hold water.” He picked up his glass and emptied it in a single swig.

  For a moment, Isabelle sat in silence and looked at him while she sorted out her arguments anew. She had known from the start that it wouldn’t be easy.

  Leon went on. “Take my word for it, selling is the right decision! When I was going through Jacques’s papers earlier, I discovered that the lands belonging to the Feininger estate are far more extensive than I’d thought. When we sell, we’ll be stinking rich.” He laughed the laugh of a satisfied man.

  Isabelle took another deep breath. “If I sell the rest of my jewelry, you’ll have enough to buy not only one but two new bicycles. We wouldn’t be stinking rich, I admit, but we’d get by for the next few months, maybe even longer. And with a little luck, you’ll be back up on the winner’s podium and bringing in some decent prize money from time to time.”

  “That’s a given! But that has nothing to do with luck; I’m in top shape,” Leon said. “So we’d have the equipment question answered, that’s one thing, but what would we live on, and how would we pay our bills?”

  Isabelle, who had barely dared to dream that Leon would go this far with her, rejoiced inwardly.

  “What would you say if, to start with, we didn’t produce any champagne at all and sold the entire harvest instead? According to Micheline Guenin, the big vintners are eager to buy as many grapes as they possibly can, and at a premium price. Wouldn’t that be the easiest way to pull a profit out of this year’s crop?”

  “Sell the grapes?” Leon looked at her aghast.

  Isabelle nodded briskly. “And cover our costs and keep ourselves alive. I’m positive that we would come out of the deal well.”

  Leon said nothing.

  Isabelle wrung her hands until they hurt. “Please give me this chance, this one year. After the harvest in the fall, we’ll see where we stand. If my idea hasn’t paid off, we can sell.” Her pulse was racing as she held out her right hand to Leon, and after a moment of hesitation, he shook it to seal the deal.

  “All right. But no complaining. The moment I get the feeling that you’re in over your head, that’s it. I know for sure that if Henriette Trubert can’t buy the estate now, she’s willing to wait.”

  Isabelle could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had her chance, and she would use it!

  The next day, she drove into Reims again, this time with Leon at her side. Apart from a few pieces she couldn’t bear to part with, Isabelle had all her jewelry with her. This time, however, when she put it on the jeweler’s counter, she did so with a lighter heart. This time, she was buying herself freedom and a future.

  For Isabelle, everything happened quickly. The first thing she did was summon Claude Bertrand and Gustave Grosse. She paid them the salary they were due, then said, “I have a number of changes to tell you about. The cycle racing season has begun, and my husband has decided to dedicate himself completely to his sport. You know that he is one of Europe’s most successful cyclists. This means that, from now on, I am in charge of the estate. It is true that I don’t know much about winegrowing”—she smiled, or perhaps frowned, self-mockingly—“but I am willing to learn! And it would make me very happy to know that I could count on your support. Between us, I know we can get this place under control, right?” She smiled expectantl
y at her two employees.

  Gustave’s expression was one of irascible suspicion, but Claude beamed broadly.

  “I’m very happy to hear that, madame! If there’s ever anything you need to know, come to me. I’ll help wherever I can.”

  Outfitted with the most modern machine he could buy, Leon plunged heart and soul into the European racing scene. Because a cyclist had to be part of a team, he now rode for a cycling club in Charleville, a city northeast of Reims. As fruitless as his long tours had been in search of customers, they had paid off with his conditioning: physically, he had never been fitter, and it wasn’t long before he was standing on the top step of the podium. After that victory, Leon popped some corks at home, and Isabelle and he celebrated his success. His self-confidence was much stronger, and now that he was doing what he really wanted to, the word “sales” never crossed his lips.

  Isabelle, too, was over the moon. If she were thrifty, Leon’s winnings would see them through the summer, and they could count on new earnings in autumn when the grape harvest was sold. Their fears of being able to earn a livelihood were not gone, but she could certainly sleep better than before, although, she had to admit, that was also due in part to working hard all day.

  Each morning she rustled up Gustave Grosse and had him report on what he planned to accomplish that day. She read a book in Jacques’s library on a vintner’s typical year, and afterward she knew, more or less, what was coming in the weeks and months ahead. If whatever Grosse claimed to be doing disagreed with the program in Jacques’s book, he had to come up with good reasons why before Isabelle would be appeased. She constantly asked him to explain this or show her that. Within a few weeks, she knew how best to tie young shoots to the trellises and could handle pruning shears reasonably well. She stood at Grosse’s side when he sprayed the vines with a vile concoction to protect them from mildew, and though by evening the foul-smelling spray gave her an excruciating headache, she was up at dawn the next day.