The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  With a sigh, he straightened the backpack in which he carried two bottles of the very finest Trubert Millésime and walked on. He would certainly do the best he could with this visit; the only thing he didn’t yet know was how.

  The Hotel l’Esplanade was opposite the town hall on the edge of the small city square. The square was a busy place: stalls were being set up for a fabric market that would be open to the public later in the day. Bales of fabric were being unloaded from carts, and anybody—like Daniel—who wanted to cross the plaza was left with no choice but to jump over mountains of cloth.

  Daniel was doing his best to placate a cloth dealer who was upset that he had accidentally touched his wares when he saw them turn a corner: three young women prettily dressed, wearing smart silk dresses, elaborate hats, and matching lace-embroidered handbags. The only thing that did not fit with the otherwise elegant image was the wooden crate that two of the women carried with some difficulty between them. The fabric merchant, who had just been vilifying Daniel, whistled admiringly. “Mesdemoiselles, why so fast? Perhaps you’d like to see what I have for sale? The finest silk and lace, muslin, best quality—”

  “The women have better things to do,” said Daniel, and took a step toward the three women. “Madame Feininger, may I help?” He pointed to the crate that Isabelle’s friends were hauling between them.

  “Monsieur Lambert, you’re here too?” said Isabelle, and it seemed to Daniel that he saw a faint glimmer of delight appear in her eyes. As he took the crate, in which he heard champagne bottles bumping against one another, he tried to conceal his dismay at her appearance. She was so pale! And her face, so thin . . . and not only her face. Apart from her protruding belly, she was little more than skin and bones, and even the many layers of her dress could not hide that. The frailty of the woman he had once seen radiate enormous strength moved Daniel deeply. A strange fluttering made its presence felt inside him, like the beating wings of countless butterflies.

  Until now, Daniel had successfully managed to shield himself from developing feelings for any other person—except for his sister, Ghislaine. He liked women, and they certainly liked him, but his relationships had little to do with true love, which came with high expectations and made one vulnerable. True love could break your heart. He knew from his early boyhood how that felt. Back then, his father had taken his own life and left Ghislaine and him alone. Being abandoned—maybe that was what he feared most. And looking at Isabelle, he saw what that could do to a person. Yet, standing in front of the pale redheaded German, everything in him wanted to take her in his arms and protect her. Nothing and nobody should ever do Isabelle Feininger harm.

  “I take it we are going in the same direction,” he said, his voice suddenly raw, and he nodded toward the hotel where the Americans were waiting.

  “Why are you here? Do you also have leftover stocks of champagne to sell? I thought that nobody was interested in this kind of business,” said the brown-haired girl who had approached him in Le Grand Cerf. She looked more elegant and confident today than she had in Ghislaine’s tavern. The same was true of the other woman, who was wearing a rather dashing hat with feathers and pearls. She, too, looked at him reproachfully.

  Daniel smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t stand in your way.”

  Apart from Daniel Lambert and Isabelle, no one from the region around Reims and Épernay had made the journey south. From the southern Champagne region, however, two hapless winemakers were already waiting in the hotel lobby. They told the others that their vineyards, like so many others, had fallen prey to the phylloxera plague, and they had no money to replant. The champagnes they had to offer the Americans were, in fact, smaller quantities of leftover stock from better days, and the money would go to feeding their families awhile longer. When the men discovered that Daniel represented the great Trubert estate, they suddenly looked especially broken.

  The Americans had planned their reception for 2:00 p.m. At fifteen minutes before the hour, a pimply young man with a sparse beard appeared and asked the vintners to work out among themselves in which order they would appear before the Americans. In awe at the Trubert name, the vintners from the south let Daniel go ahead. Josephine and Clara immediately began to protest, but Daniel said, “If I am first to meet these gentlemen, then Madame Feininger will be next in line.”

  The other two vintners accepted that, too. As they spelled out their names for the American, Daniel leaned close to Isabelle and, with an almost imperceptible wink, he whispered, “Believe me, sometimes starting second means finishing first.”

  Isabelle frowned, then watched as he hurriedly crossed the hotel lobby and disappeared through a door in the back.

  The three Americans had rented a salon designed for much bigger events. Transom windows that reached to the ceiling flooded the room with light, which was reflected by the stucco ceiling and red-gold walnut parquetry of the floor. In the rear third of the room, the Americans had set up a long table, behind which they sat in a row. Their young assistant sat off to one side. None of them stood when Daniel approached the table, where rows of champagne glasses stood ready for the tasting session.

  After a brief, almost casual introduction of the Trubert estate, Daniel opened the first bottle of champagne while the Americans looked on with interest. One of their stomachs growled audibly.

  “Damn, I’m hungry,” said one of the Americans with a laugh. “Croissants and coffee isn’t breakfast for a real man!”

  “I could kill for a decent steak,” said the man next to him. “God, I hope there’s something besides organ meats on the menu tonight.”

  The third man gave his colleagues an admonishing glare, then he looked up to Daniel and, in surprisingly good French, said, “As you know, we’re here to buy champagne for our fleet of steamboats on the Mississippi. We believe that, come the turn of the century next year, our guests will be in an especially ebullient mood, and we plan to be well prepared. What makes you believe that your champagne might be the right one?”

  “Who says I believe any such thing?” Daniel shrugged. “You know, when it comes to champagne, it’s like the clouds in the sky.” He waved one hand toward the nearest transom window. “In a cloud, one sees what he wants to see or whatever his imagination can come up with. For one person, the clouds are heavenly figures; for another, they are no more than the heralds of bad weather.”

  The three businessmen involuntarily turned toward the window. Daniel used this brief moment to add a swig of vinegar from a small flask to the champagne bottle. As he did so, he realized that he didn’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Hadn’t Henriette herself doubted his loyalty? And wasn’t she always right?

  “Enough philosophy! The proof of the pudding is in the eating—I’m sure you say the same in America.” With verve, Daniel swung the bottle back and forth a couple of times to mix the vinegar with the champagne, then he poured three test glasses. “A juicy steak and a glass of this champagne—is that what you had in mind?”

  “My God!” cried the man who had been longing for an American breakfast, after the first mouthful. His eyes grew wide and he stared in horror at the glass in his hand. “What is that?”

  “This sour swill with a steak? Not on your life!” cried the second, appalled. Daniel kept a straight face, but he was grinning on the inside.

  The man who spoke good French said vaguely, “This champagne is beyond dry.” He looked even more confused than when Daniel had aired his thoughts about the clouds.

  Daniel sighed. “I couldn’t agree more! If you ask me, a truly elegant champagne should be as sweet as the sweetest hours of love. But do you think my boss will listen to me? Every year he pushes me to make my champagnes drier and drier. ‘It’s the latest fashion,’ he says.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “Just between us—I think he’s just too miserly to add enough sugar to the champagne.”

  The three Americans exchanged meaningful looks while their assistant frantically scribbled notes on his list.r />
  “But perhaps your customers on the Mississippi are of the more sophisticated and modern type? Then a champagne this sour would be just right.”

  The man still hungry for breakfast snorted. “You have no idea, my man! We Southerners are conservative to the core and proud of it. You might be able to hawk this to your customers as the latest fashion, but we certainly can’t.”

  Daniel—who had, until today, been unaware of his acting talent—smiled innocently. “What can I say? Trubert isn’t one of the great names, so what can one expect from the champagne ?” He sighed deeply. He scratched his head absentmindedly. “My dream would be to work for someone like Bollinger or Feininger . . . or for the veuve Clicquot! To work for the veuve Clicquot . . . then I would have made it as a cellar master. You know, it’s the women—and especially the widows—who make the best champagne; it’s been that way for centuries. If I were to work for one of the veuves, then I would be able to create a champagne so delicious and sweet that one would happily drink a second glass. Which is certainly not”—he waved his hand vaguely toward the bottle he had opened—“the case with this vinegar. But please don’t tell my boss I said that!”

  “Feininger?” One of the Americans pricked up his ears. “Don’t we have that name on our list?”

  Before the pimply assistant could hand over his list, Daniel said, “The veuve Feininger will grace you with her presence after me. Grace—a word to be taken literally with this woman. I don’t know what reputation precedes you”—he looked the three Americans up and down—“but it must be good, or Isabelle Feininger would never do you the honor of coming here in person.”

  “Feininger? Odd that I’ve never heard the name before. I had actually counted on welcoming the representatives of such houses Moët & Chandon, Roederer, and Heidsieck,” said the American on the left.

  The leader of the three immediately gave his colleague a denigrating frown. “My dear Steven, you are, and you continue to be, a Philistine. Practically every child knows that the widows Clicquot and Feininger are among the greats of the champagne world.” He looked solemnly at Daniel. “Thank you, monsieur, for allowing us to sample your product, but it would not meet with the tastes of our customers. If you would be so kind as to send Madame Feininger in.”

  Just as Daniel exited the salon, Isabelle was powdering her nose. Early that morning, in their hotel room, the three women had helped each other with their makeup—kohl-lined eyes, rouged cheeks, and bright-red lipstick. If they wanted to make an appearance like elegant French women, then they had to do it right, Isabelle had insisted. Clara’s old-fashioned bun was transformed into an elegant French chignon, and while Josephine’s short haircut had to stay as it was, she topped it with a fashionable hat. All three wore dresses from Isabelle’s wardrobe, and they donned all the jewelry she hadn’t sold. They surprised even themselves: they looked stylish and self-confident, and almost like real Frenchwomen.

  Ever since their departure from Hautvillers, Isabelle had been vacillating between a slender hope that there might still be a chance for her and the estate and a feeling of wanting to run away.

  “Bonne chance!” said Daniel with a wink as he held the door open for them. For the blink of an eye, his gaze met Isabelle’s. Her heart thumped in her chest. Don’t get nervous now, she silently ordered herself.

  “Let’s go,” she said to Clara and Josephine, her voice barely a whisper.

  They had barely stepped into the room when the three businessmen leaped to their feet.

  “Madame Feininger!” The man who’d been sitting in the middle strode around the table and approached her. “You don’t know what an honor this is for us!” He was smiling from ear to ear.

  Isabelle’s forehead creased. “How—” she began, but was immediately interrupted by Clara.

  “As you might appreciate, Madame Feininger’s time is limited—if we could get down to business immediately?” she said in French, then she smiled and fluttered her eyelids.

  Isabelle and Josephine stared at their friend in surprise.

  Josephine produced two bottles of champagne from the wooden crate and set them on the table. “Open these, please!” she ordered the assistant, who was on his feet as well.

  Isabelle was about to say that she could take care of that herself, but then she thought better of it.

  “Whatever you do, don’t be seen as needy!” Josephine had advised her earlier. “Customers can sense very well if somebody has to sell something because they need the money. And they will exploit that ruthlessly; they will knock the price as low as they can and wring every possible concession from the seller! You don’t want that, do you? We need to blind the Americans with self-confidence and a whiff of arrogance. You have to act like you don’t need any of it.”

  Isabelle reminded herself of those words and, gesturing toward her friends, she said, “I’d like to introduce my two assistants, Clara and Josephine.” She stressed the French pronunciation of the two names. “With an operation the size of mine, one assistant simply won’t do.” She glanced sympathetically at the pimply young man for a moment.

  The Americans nodded, awestruck. “Even in America, we’ve heard that it’s the women in Champagne who have the final word—and that it’s the widows who make the best champagnes of all.”

  Isabelle lowered her eyes modestly. “I don’t want to exaggerate, but our customers in your American Midwest have never once complained about our wines. Quite the contrary; they keep asking for more! But where is it supposed to come from?” She shrugged helplessly. “The quantity of available champagne is limited, and that’s how it will always be. Unfortunately, I was unable this year to give our American customers the attention I would have liked. Otherwise, I would not be here.”

  “Madame Feininger has spent a long time in mourning for her husband,” Josephine added. “That is the only reason she has any stock to offer at all.”

  Once the assistant had finally filled the tasting glasses, Isabelle nodded benevolently to the three businessmen.

  “Be my guests!” She heard Clara giggle beside her and gave her a furtive jab in the ribs. Then she held her breath. Would they like her champagne? She didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

  “Excellent!”

  “Superb!”

  “As sweet and light as love itself.” The man in the middle beamed. “This is exactly what I imagine a truly great champagne to be! One would gladly drink a second glass.”

  “Or a third or fourth,” said the man on his left, raising the glass to his mouth once again.

  “Certainly no shortage of sugar here. Absolutely delicious.”

  “With cornbread and fried chicken.”

  “Or a juicy steak.”

  The assistant, standing slack-armed by the table, licked his lips thirstily.

  Isabelle let out her breath, which suddenly made her so dizzy that she had to support herself on the edge of the table. The pimply assistant was immediately at her side. “Madame, are you all right?”

  It’s just the relief, thought Isabelle, then she sat on a chair that Josephine had pulled up for her.

  “The widow Feininger has been through a great deal in recent months,” said Clara as the Americans looked at Isabelle with concern. “We already mentioned that her husband passed away . . . suddenly, in the spring—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  The leader of the visiting delegation looked at Isabelle sympathetically. “Considering the circumstances, we see it as an even greater honor that you have come here today, Madame Feininger. It looks as if most of the vignerons did not consider it necessary,” he added, shaking his head in annoyance. “But who wants Moët & Chandon when one can have Feininger? Your champagne will be the perfect thing for our beautiful Southern belles and their gentlemen!”

  The men on either side of him murmured their agreement, and their spokesman cleared his throat.

  “My dear veuve Feininger, I do not want to put any unnecessary demands on your time, so without further ado:
How many bottles of champagne would we be able to purchase, and what price would you ask?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They had not touched a drop of alcohol, but the women were drunk—drunk with happiness.

  “Ten thousand bottles—oh, just the number makes me dizzy!” Clara laughed hysterically.

  “That’s the deal of the century!” Josephine squealed.

  “This could be my salvation,” Isabelle sighed. Tears of relief ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her dress. Deep inside, she felt the lid that had been screwed down tightly on her feelings over the last months begin to loosen. Was there hope?

  “Could be? This is your salvation! With this one deal, you’ve become a rich woman.” Josephine was radiant, as if a bucket of gold dust had been poured over her.

  “From here, things can only go up,” Clara agreed.

  “You’re really the best friends anyone could ask for. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Isabelle embraced Clara and Josephine so wholeheartedly that all three of them nearly fell.

  “The way you ordered those men around!” said Isabelle to Clara. “And you mean to tell us you play the good housewife at home? Either you’re a better actress than the players we see on stage or . . .” But she had run out of words and waved it off.

  “I’ve got some hidden talents! Maybe I should become your real-life assistant,” Clara said, giggling.

  Their high spirits were so infectious that more and more travelers on the platform at Troyes glanced in their direction, envious but smiling, too.

  If only you knew, Isabelle thought, well aware of the people’s looks.

  The melancholy that thought brought with it was swept aside by the sweet taste of victory. And she could do little more for now than savor the taste, because instead of celebrating the deal in Troyes, she had to get back to Hautvillers as fast as she could. The Americans had made clear the size of their order and the terms of delivery: Isabelle had to have ten thousand bottles of champagne ready to ship that week. The question of how to pack the bottles for such a long trip put her on the verge of panic again, but only for a brief moment. That was something the three of them could manage; she was sure of it.