Whenever the cellar master saw his new employer coming his way, he groaned loud enough for Isabelle to hear. It made no difference. If there was one thing Gustave Grosse had to accept, it was that his easy life was over.
She had daily conferences with Claude as well. Now that they had Leon’s winnings and the money from selling her jewelry, all the patchwork solutions came to an end. Together, they fixed the livestock fences and nailed the loose boards on the sheep stall firmly back into place. Claude ordered hay and straw, and when the farmer drove up with his fully laden wagon, Isabelle climbed up to help with the unloading. Two hours later, happy and satisfied, she stepped back and surveyed the full hayshed now stacked with bales for the horses, chickens, and sheep, and bravely ignored the red scratches and scrapes that the bales had left on her naked arms.
For the peacocks, Isabelle bought some mixed-grain feed, which Claude had told her would bring a new shine to their feathers. A few days later, Claude announced that the peahen was sitting on a clutch of eggs and that they could expect chicks in a few weeks.
Isabelle smiled. Peachicks, offspring of those magnificent birds . . . could there be a better sign that good times had arrived?
The first young shoots soon began to appear, and toward the end of April, the vines were covered in new foliage. If the day was particularly sunny and there had been a little rain the evening before, the canes grew inches by sundown. They climbed the trellises, clinging on strongly, twisting around every stick and every piece of wire. Like hands the vines use to hold on, thought Isabelle of the canes as she walked among the rows of vines early one rainy morning.
As she often did, she saw Daniel Lambert off in the distance, moving through the Trubert vineyards. Like her, he was out working every single day, whatever the weather, and there he was again on that rainy morning. In Berlin, Isabelle had hated the rain. Here in Champagne, she began to love it: rain meant growth and a rich harvest. And a rich harvest meant the certainty of money.
With this in mind, Isabelle went in search of her cellar master. He wasn’t down in the cellars, so he had to be somewhere out among the vines. She searched first one vineyard, then the next, but found no sign of Grosse anywhere. Finally, she discovered him in one of the domed huts that the workers in the fields used for shelter during thunderstorms. He was wrapped up in a blanket, taking a nap!
“On your feet this instant!” she shouted, jabbing Grosse with the point of her shoe.
Grosse stood up guiltily. “Just a little break, madame.”
“How can you even think of taking a break when so much around here is in such a sorry state? If I catch you napping one more time during the day, you’ll be searching for a new job. Now follow me, and be quick about it!” Outside, she spread her arms wide, encompassing a large area in front of them. “Is this a vineyard or a wasteland? The weeds are growing just as fast as the vines, and they’re robbing the vines of the nutrients in the soil. We have to start getting rid of them urgently. I need well-fed vines; it’s the only way to produce good, juicy grapes!”
“But madame!” Grosse cried in horror. “I’ve got my hands full with the effeuillage! And I still have to finish spraying the vines for mildew. Though you have the best intentions, madame, you can’t simply come along and turn everything upside down like this.”
Effeuillage? She had read in Jacques’s library about how unhealthy weeds were for the grapevines, but effeuillage was new to her. She decided to ignore his objections.
“Can’t I? We start tomorrow, so start planning now. I’m going to ride down into the village to see if I can find some young men to help us. I’m sure I can come up with at least a few who’d like to earn some extra francs.”
“How nice of you to drop by, my dear Madame Feininger!” said Micheline Guenin when she saw Isabelle standing at the top of the cellar steps. “Wait a moment, I’ll come up. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
Micheline took off her heavy rubber apron and nimbly climbed the steps. “I was just about to come over to see you. In mid-May, after les saints de glace, there’s going to be a festival in the village square. Claude invited me to go with him, and I wanted to ask if you’d put my hair up again, like you did before?”
Les saints de glace? Probably one of the Christian holidays here in Champagne, thought Isabelle.
“I’ve got a comb with a glittering butterfly on it. It will suit you perfectly,” she said with a smile. Micheline’s eyes lit up with anticipation. Or was it the magic of love that made them sparkle like that?
“Will you come to the festival, too?” asked Micheline. “The spring festival is always nice. Everyone’s glad to have the winter behind them. We pick flowers and decorate the tables and benches. The parish priest delivers a lovely sermon, and we pray together for a good year for the grapes.”
“I don’t know. Leon will be racing in Milan then, so I would have to come by myself.”
“But you’ve got Claude and me!” Micheline exclaimed. “Marie’s coming, and Carla and Ignaz will be there—it’s really a whole group of us.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Isabelle vaguely. Since taking over the running of the estate, she was so tired in the evenings that she collapsed onto bed before dark and fell asleep immediately. She was too exhausted even to miss the nights of lovemaking with Leon.
“Micheline, could you tell me what effeuillage means?” she asked.
“It means getting rid of a few leaves around the grapes to let more light and sunshine through, so the grapes can develop better. Why are you asking about that now, though? That’s something we do at the start of September.”
“Hm. My favorite cellar master was trying to tell me he had his hands full right now with the effeuillage.”
Her neighbor laughed out loud. “That old swindler from the Aube, he knows every trick in the book!”
“So do I,” Isabelle replied, and she marched off to read Grosse the riot act.
Micheline Guenin watched her go, beaming broadly.
“Who would have thought?” said her sister-in-law Marie, who had just come up from the wine cellar and caught the end of their conversation. “Who would have thought our little city girl could put her foot down?”
Micheline thought that Marie almost sounded kind.
It was a few days after her meeting with Micheline that Isabelle, out on her daily rounds, discovered the first white-green flowers, low on a vine. They were only the most meager and insignificant of panicles, nothing to compare with the magnificent blooms of other plants, but Isabelle cried out so rapturously that Gustave Grosse, busy tying up vines a short distance away, looked over in astonishment. The vines bloomed every year—how anyone could be so happy about it must have been completely beyond him.
What the flowers lacked in beauty they made up for in scent, for their perfume was incredibly intense. It lay over the vineyards like a blanket of honey and passion fruit, beguiling anyone who came by. At the same time, it seemed to Isabelle, the perfume made the people strange in a whimsical kind of way. If she ran into any of her neighbors, it might happen that, instead of returning her greeting, they just stared away, pondering, into the distance. They did not see others around them but were utterly focused on the vines. They spent more time gazing up at the sky, too, and when Isabelle dared joke about it, all she got in return was a surly look.
“Actually, it has nothing to do with the smell of the flowers,” Claude Bertrand laughed, when Isabelle asked him about this strange behavior. The peahen was brooding, and Claude Bertrand was in the middle of adding more straw to the wooden shed where she had built her nest.
“In the flowering stage, one bad frost can destroy the entire harvest. This is a fact, and it makes the Champenois nervous; they start seeing every cloud as an omen of bad weather. What we all want is a little bit of wind, because it helps pollinate the flowers.”
“The wind?” Isabelle frowned. “I thought the bees took care of that.”
“No, grapevines pollinate each other.
A little wind carries the pollen from one plant to the next. It’s ideal for the pollination to take place completely within a few days. If it’s spread out over weeks, which can happen if the weather is changeable, the grapes grow at different speeds—that, in turn, leads to a poor harvest.” The overseer stopped what he was doing and touched Isabelle lightly on her arm. “But don’t worry. By the time we’ve got les saints de glace behind us, people go back to normal.”
“Les . . . what? Micheline said the same thing a few days ago when she talked about the upcoming spring festival,” Isabelle said. “I’m sorry, my French vocabulary has grown immeasurably in the last few weeks, but I still struggle with all the technical terms.”
“Wait, I’ll come up with the German word in a moment.” Claude closed his eyes and started waving one hand in the air so vigorously that his dog began to yap, waiting for a stick to be thrown. “It’s the . . . Eisheiligen! The Ice Saints. Some call it the blackthorn winter. Saint Mamertus, Saint Pancras, Saint Servatius.”
Isabelle was more perplexed than ever. Ice Saints? She’d never heard of Ice Saints in Berlin.
“It’s the name they use for the days in the middle of May, when the last nighttime frosts can happen. I can still remember the year 1891 very clearly. It was the eleventh of May, St. Mamertus’s day, and the vines were just coming into bloom when the frost came. The next morning”—he lifted one hand and let it drop, shaking his head sadly—“the buds of the flowers were frozen, the new leaves withered and browned. Grown men howled like forgotten dogs. And they howled again in the fall, because the baskets were empty.” Describing that day, Claude had grown louder than usual, and the peahen broke out in an excited hissing and beating of wings. Claude had to soothe the poor bird.
From that moment on, Isabelle also began watching the clouds and the wind. And when she opened the windows early in the morning, she held one hand outside for a long moment to see how frosty it might be. What if a night frost came this year, her very first year, and damaged the vines? It would mean the end of her plan to sell the harvest. She’d be back where she started, and Leon would push again to sell the estate.
Chapter Seventeen
To Isabelle’s relief—and that of all the other growers—the night frosts of the blackthorn winter stayed away that year. The vines thrived. Now nothing stood in the way of the spring festival in the market square and the church service to give thanks.
It was a bright and sunny morning, pleasantly warm. The best riding weather, Leon thought as he buckled his pack expertly on to his bicycle. A change of clothes, soap, his razor, his papers, and the copy of the registration form—everything he would need. Now, where had he put the note with his itinerary?
“Do you have to go so soon?” he heard Isabelle’s voice behind him. “You’ve only been back four days. It would be nice to go to the spring festival together.”
Leon sighed. Hadn’t they had this discussion the previous evening?
“You know how important Milan is for my reputation as a cyclist.” While he spoke, he patted down every pocket on his jacket and trousers for his itinerary.
“In the last few weeks, you’ve won everything there is to win! What else is there? Wouldn’t you be better off giving your body a rest?”
Found it! With the note in hand, Leon could breathe more easily. “The track race in Milan is a nice change from the long-distance races I know so well. If anyone needs a rest, it’s you. Frankly, you’re looking a little worn out.” When he saw Isabelle’s expression, he immediately regretted his words. “Why don’t you come with me? You’d like Milan. We could stay for a couple of days after the race and look around the city,” he said, though he knew full well that his wife would never take him up on the notion.
Isabelle promptly said, “And who’d look after the estate? Besides . . .” She bit her lip.
“What?” he asked, with a touch of impatience, and he swung his leg over the saddle of his bicycle. He had realized long ago that it was best to cut off such discussions before they got started. Isabelle saw things her way, and he saw them his way—only rarely did they find any common ground. He took a final glance at the route he had to follow, memorizing the towns along the way. He would ride from Épernay to Verdun, then on to Metz and from there along good roads to Karlsruhe. To save travel expenses and because he wanted to use the stretch for training, he was only planning to take a train to Milan once he reached Karlsruhe.
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” said Isabelle.
Well, then. Leon put on his most disarming smile. “Cross your fingers for me, darling. If I win this race, I’m certain to be the season champion!”
Champagne is the perfect training ground, Leon thought happily as he sped along the road to Épernay. The weather was dry, not too warm or too cold. Unless something unusual happened, he would be on the winner’s podium again in Milan! His name would be known around the world, like a Moët champagne or a Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. There was more than one way to get famous; unfortunately, Isabelle did not understand that.
One more hill, then the steep descent into Épernay. He could reach thirty-five miles an hour on that downhill, maybe faster! Looking forward to the descent, Leon pumped harder up the hill. At the top, he stopped for a moment. Without dismounting, he took a final long look over the expanse of the Champagne region. Below him lay Épernay, and behind him, farther north, was Reims—even at that distance, he could make out the towers of the cathedral.
Leon crouched low over the handlebars as he rolled away and began to pick up speed. The headwind became stronger, and he had to squint against the tiny gnats that flew into his face. One or two had found their way into his nose, which tickled uncomfortably. He blew out to clear his nostrils, then ducked even lower and gave himself over to the rush of the high-speed descent.
He had almost reached the bottom of the valley when two large gray mongrel dogs appeared on the right. They were playing and were so deep in their game that they didn’t seem to see Leon. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He had a split second to assess the situation: He had to swerve, but which way? Where could he go? On the right was the stone fence the dogs had escaped through, but if he hit one of the pillars . . . And on the left was a precipitous embankment down to a meadow. A tumble there would probably be the lesser of two evils. His thought lasted a heartbeat, then he made his decision: left!
It was not the first time that he’d found himself in a tricky situation while riding. He gripped the handlebars firmly, keeping his eyes focused on the line he’d chosen. Just before he reached the dogs, he shouted, “Take off! Get away!” Maybe they would scamper and he could stay on the road? That would be the best solution of all.
Startled, the dogs stopped and turned. The larger one leaped out of the way in the direction of the fence. The smaller one was not as smart, and it jumped directly into the path of Leon’s bicycle. The sound of the collision between bicycle and dog was dull and metallic; the dog squealed and howled, and Leon was thrown over the handlebars toward the embankment. He let go at the moment of impact and tried to roll over one shoulder. But at the same time, in the grass at the side of the road, he saw the pile of cobblestones, leftovers from road construction. Pale-gray granite, angular and rough, hacked from raw rock. But this part of the road isn’t even paved, he thought, and it was the last thought he had before everything around him went black.
Isabelle’s depressed mood did not last long. She would naturally have preferred to have her husband with her, though, especially now that she—well, she had become used to tackling things alone, but going to a festival unaccompanied was certainly something new.
She shut the door of the house and waved to Claude, who was just leading the horses in from the meadow and into the stable; he and Micheline would follow along later.
As doubtful as she had been about the village festival at the start, she was now looking forward to it. After weeks of hard work, her back was sore and her hands were callused from the hoe she had used to
hack out weeds. But she who works hard should also be allowed to enjoy herself, she thought. When she told Micheline that she would go to the festival, she discovered that everybody in the village was helping with preparations. Some of the men carted in ice to cool the drinks, some were setting up the tables and benches, and others were practicing for the concert in the village chapel. The women were also tending to varied tasks. Some women were in the kitchen at Le Grand Cerf, preparing the food that would accompany the pig, which had already been roasting for hours on a large spit on one side of the square. Others were in charge of decorations and setting the tables.
When Isabelle had offered to help, she was immediately commandeered by Carla, who was responsible for the floral decorations.
What might Leon have volunteered to do? Isabelle wondered as she walked toward the square. Suddenly, she was overcome by regret at his absence. At the festival or perhaps afterward, a perfect opportunity would certainly have presented itself to tell him the good news, something that she didn’t want to tell him just by the by. But no, he was hell-bent on his cycling!
Now don’t go and spoil your good mood, Isabelle reprimanded herself.
She saw Carla Chapron sitting at a long table with several other women, so she headed toward them. Beside the table, a handcart was piled high with grapevines, and next to that a small wagon was filled with bundles of peonies and daisies. The women eagerly plucked the flowers they needed to skillfully create the garlands and wreaths.
As Isabelle got closer, she realized that one of the young women at the table was Yvette, Henriette Trubert’s daughter. Blanche Thevenin, the seamstress, sat beside her. Isabelle hoped that Henriette would not suddenly appear. The woman had reacted rather coldly when Leon had given her the news that they would not be selling the estate.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 17