The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Like the other vintners, Isabelle found herself furtively observing the Trubert vines, waiting to see if Daniel was going to finally signal the long-awaited start of the harvest. Independently, though, she tried to feel her way into the nature of her vines for herself. The sunshine of the last few weeks had dried the soil and the vines now had to push their roots deeper and deeper to get even a little bit of water. With every passing day, she noticed, it became easier to pick the bunches from the shoots, and the deep color of the grapes grew darker, too, with the violet taking on a touch of black. And the balance between sweet and sour changed constantly, she realized, as she crushed the grapes on her tongue. Even the shoots looked different than they had just a few weeks earlier: now, they had developed an almost cork-like structure. But the question was, what did all these observations add up to?

  “Not a thing, madame,” Gustave Grosse replied harshly when she encountered him out in the vineyards one morning. “All the hard work and headaches that go into figuring out the best time to start the harvest; it’s out of all proportion! Forget the weather—exactly one hundred days after the vines are in full bloom, the grapes are bright. It’s as simple as that. Just as a woman’s pregnancy is also fixed: it’s always nine months, come rain, hail, or sleet.” As he spoke, he stared in a less-than-seemly way at Isabelle’s body.

  “If you’re so clever, then I really wonder what you were doing over in the Trubert vineyards. I just saw you coming from there,” said Isabelle with a nod toward Henriette’s hillside. She narrowed her eyes and looked again. Was she mistaken? Were Daniel and Henriette standing together, over there among the vines?

  For a moment, Grosse’s self-confidence seemed to waver. “Well, I . . . I thought . . .”

  Isabelle’s face contorted in mockery. “Oh, admit it. You listen to every word Daniel Lambert says, just like everyone else.”

  Grosse snorted. “Daniel Lambert can go hang! Who knows how long this good weather will hold? I recommend we start harvesting the red grapes tomorrow.”

  There were, in fact, two harvest periods; Isabelle knew that much from reading Jacques’s books. There was one for the red Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier grapes, and a somewhat later harvest for the white Chardonnay grapes.

  “But isn’t it true that the grapes become even juicier and put on a lot of weight in the final stage of growth?” she said, stalling for time. Something inside her was balking at making a final decision.

  “That’s true enough,” her cellar master replied. “For a few days at the end, their weight stays the same; after that they begin to shrivel and dry out. Do you want to risk that?”

  “Of course not. But my feeling is that we should still wait a day or two. Has the leader of the pickers gotten in touch with you? According to Jacques’s paperwork, he always had about fifty pickers a year, so I think that ought to be sufficient again this year. Did you tell the man that?”

  “All long finished,” Grosse said dismissively. “Those people know they could do far worse than work here. Jacques Feininger looked after the pickers well. He gave them decent food and wine, and at the end of the season, there was always a big feast with two pigs on a spit. If you do the same, you’ll have no problems with these people. Don’t worry; you’ve got me here!” he added, lifting his chin.

  Isabelle, who could not decide if that was more a curse or a blessing, sighed. Then she took a deep breath and said resolutely, “Let’s give the grapes just a bit more time. Meanwhile, you can wash out the barrels again. In the two big barrels for the Chardonnay, I found some sticky residues around the top edge from old foam. You know as well as I do that cleanliness is paramount for making champagne.”

  Gustave Grosse shrugged, unmoved, and said, “As you wish, madame.”

  “In the final stage of maturity, the sugar content of the grapes increases one last time, and this has exceptionally positive effects on the flavor, as you know. My advice would be to leave the grapes on the vines for another two, maybe three, days,” Daniel said insistently. He was very close to wringing his hands and openly pleading. In the last few days, he had said the same thing to Henriette so many times that he could recite his litany in his sleep. “The weather will hold. You would not be taking a risk, I promise you.”

  “You promise!” Henriette repeated disparagingly. “It isn’t enough that the others look up to you like the God of grapes; now you think you’re the Almighty yourself, don’t you? It’s high time somebody brought you back down to earth.” She took a step toward him, so that her face was only inches from his. He could smell her foul breath and see the furrows around her mouth. Her eyes flashed as she said, “Every day we wait costs us money I don’t want to spare. I have called for the workers to be here at ten on the dot, and they will start picking at ten!” Stiff-backed and with her head held high, she turned and walked away.

  Daniel watched her for a moment. He should have been furious. He should have ranted and raved, because she had flicked away him and all his expertise as she would an annoying mosquito. But all he really felt was resignation—resignation paired with something else for which he could find no words. Had he become jaded from being through far too many scenes like this in recent years? Had Henriette lost the power to move him, deep down, because of that? If that was the case, it was time he looked around for a new job.

  “My God, Monsieur Lambert, something’s got your hackles up! You look like you’ve been watching it rain for a week.” The voice, coming so unexpectedly from right beside him, made him jump.

  Isabelle Feininger. He had seen her in the distance but had not heard her approach. She was wearing a green plaid dress, the color just a shade lighter than the green of her eyes. She had tied her red hair into a loose braid that hung down her back. She looked beautiful.

  “I thought we were using first names?” he said with mock severity. It pleased him to see a touch of color come to Isabelle’s face.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to it.”

  “Maybe that’s because we see each other so rarely? But to come back to what you said, what’s got my hackles up has a name: Henriette.” He smiled wryly. “Every year, it’s the same—Madame Trubert and I have different views when it comes to deciding the right time to start picking. But I can’t do anything. She’s the boss.”

  “I’ve just been having the same discussion with my cellar master! Monsieur Grosse was far from amused when I told him we’re still going to wait another day or two,” said Isabelle, slapping one hand over her mouth in phony horror. “Don’t tell me I’m turning into Henriette Trubert, or I’ll throw myself off the nearest mountain!”

  There was something conspiratorial about the way they laughed together, and Daniel felt his bad mood evaporating.

  “I admit I feel far from certain about what I’m doing,” said Isabelle, becoming serious again. “But my instinct tells me I should give the grapes more time.” She shrugged.

  “Then trust it!” said Daniel bitterly. “If I had my way, I’d wait, like you. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work here. Which is why I am about to go back to the Trubert estate, round up the workers, and pick grapes that are two days from reaching perfection.”

  “Ah,” said Isabelle. That one small word contained more understanding and sympathy than if they had spent hours talking about their mutual antagonist.

  Their eyes met, and they shared a momentary smile, then Isabelle turned and pointed to the nearest vines. “When I first came here, the vines were weeping. And now they are proudly bearing fruit.” Her voice had turned a little raw, almost reverent. “This might sound strange to you, but for me, this ripening process is little short of a miracle. If there’s a God anywhere, then He shows himself in this.”

  Daniel nodded. Isabelle Feininger had changed so much! In spring, at their first encounter, she had been little more than pretty: arrogant, supercilious, and at the same time an empty shell. She had gone parading among the trellises as if she were at a fashion show. Today, though, in her simple linen
dress, her hair braided, wearing no makeup, she looked like a beautiful, down-to-earth woman. Was it the loss that she had suffered that had sharpened the contours of her face? The passionate timbre of her voice when she talked about the vines, the strength and power that she radiated with her every movement—everything about her presence seemed to make the air vibrate. But at the same time, he sensed a vulnerability in her, a depth of feeling that moved him like nothing else had in his life. And as before, in Troyes, he felt that urgent need to take her in his arms and protect her. Watch out, or you’ll fall head over heels in love with l’Allemande! a quiet voice in his head warned. Or had he already?

  Instinctively, Daniel looked along the way that Henriette had gone. Even though she acted with utter indifference whenever Isabelle’s name came up, Daniel did not believe for a second that his employer had so easily resigned herself to Isabelle’s decision to continue running the Feininger estate and actually make champagne. Now that Henriette knew that his loyalty had its limits, she would look for other ways and means to get what she was after. Who would her new allies be? Or had she long ago found a willing adjutant for her intrigues? He knew that Gustave Grosse had been slinking around the Trubert estate recently. Was Grosse the person Daniel had to warn Isabelle about? He had no proof that Grosse intended any harm to Isabelle, just an uneasy feeling about the man. And what if he scared Isabelle unnecessarily? That was the last thing he wanted.

  As they went their separate ways, Daniel decided to keep a closer eye on Grosse in the next few days. And he would ask around—for now, he could do no more.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “What do you mean, the pickers haven’t come?” Isabelle glared at her cellar master in disbelief.

  It was early in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to rise beyond the valley, its crimson rays dousing the landscape in an almost surreal light. The previous evening, she had informed Claude and Grosse that the harvest was to begin today. Claude had already hitched the horses to the wagon, loaded up dozens of baskets of different sizes and all the shears he could find, and rolled away toward the vineyards, where he and Gustave Grosse were going to distribute the baskets and shears to the pickers. Isabelle had followed them on foot, her heart beating hard and a smile on her lips. Her first harvest! Finally, it was starting. She would not miss the opportunity to say a word or two of greeting to the pickers. At least, that had been the plan . . .

  “I can’t explain it,” said Gustave Grosse, his eyes scanning the vineyards. “The lazy oafs simply didn’t show up even though we’d agreed on everything.”

  As he spoke, Claude came running up with a grim expression on his face. “They’re working for the Truberts! Henriette promised them a higher wage and a bottle of wine a day for every picker. They ran like rabbits.” Claude was puffing angrily, but Isabelle could see that the old man had turned almost white with fear.

  “But . . . that’s not right! They’re camping on my land, so they should come and do their work for us! Tell them I’ll pay just as much as Henriette.”

  Claude’s expression turned even darker. “I told them that. They wouldn’t listen!”

  Dazed, Isabelle sat down on one of the border markers that separated her land from her neighbor’s.

  “What now?”

  “I could go and ask Micheline if they can spare a few men,” Claude suggested halfheartedly—he seemed far from comfortable with the thought. The Guenins would certainly not be happy about giving up any of their pickers.

  “Forget it! We won’t get far with a handful of men,” Gustave Grosse immediately countered.

  “Maybe we can still find some workers among the itinerants?” Claude was beginning to sound desperate.

  “As if you’ll find anyone sitting around a campfire unemployed today.” Grosse spat on the ground beside him in disgust.

  “I thought you had everything under control, and now this,” Isabelle growled at Grosse. She had questions she wanted to ask: Had he actually spoken with the pickers at all? Was he more interested in working against her than for her? But the idea of this level of deception was simply too monstrous to consider, let alone voice.

  Her first harvest. And now it was all threatening to come crashing down. She was close to tears. What was she supposed to do now? Go to Henriette and confront her? The old fox would just shrug it off, as she had when her salesman had stolen away Jacques’s American customers. Isabelle let out a strangled scream. The notion that her workers were now harvesting Trubert grapes while her own fruit rotted on the vines was almost more than she could stand.

  She looked over toward the Trubert estate, then at the other villages dotting the wide landscape. At harvest time, as Claude had explained to her weeks earlier, they were practically deserted. Every man, woman, and child was either busy in their own vineyards or in those of an uncle or a neighbor. She looked to the heavens for help. Oh, Leon, what would you do now?

  Something sparked in her mind. It was not exactly a thought, but something far more vague. Then a voice. A sentence.

  “If you ever need our help, just let us know.” She had never in her life needed help more than she needed it now! But who had made her that offer? Who, when, and where? She frowned, trying to remember, but it was difficult. Leon’s funeral . . . strangers in cycling outfits. A cycling club, from . . . Charleville? The members had come to pay their last respects to Leon. A smile played around her lips as the memory came to her.

  The two men looked at her in disbelief. What was there to smile about now?

  Isabelle took a deep breath, and then she said, “I have an idea. I admit it’s rather crazy, but I want to leave no stone unturned.” She pointed to the wagon loaded with baskets and shears. “Monsieur Grosse, you can pack those away for today, but with a little luck we will be able to start with the harvest tomorrow. Claude, I want you to help me with the wagon; we have a long road ahead of us.”

  The road to Charleville was mainly through flat land, but the pregnancy had made Isabelle’s back hurt, and with every pothole they hit, she winced. Claude kept giving her concerned looks, but Isabelle simply gave him a brave smile in return. Now was not the time to start whining. She had one chance and no time to lose. The grapes were waiting.

  In Charleville, a sleepy town about as big as Épernay, it was easy to find what she was looking for. The local cycling club’s oval racetrack was displayed prominently on a large sign at the start of the town and showed them which way they had to go. Please, God, let me find a few men riding laps . . . men with the time and willingness to help me out of this! She prayed as Claude brought the wagon to a stop at the entrance.

  Luck was on her side. The chairman of the club, who had expressed his condolences to Isabelle at Leon’s funeral, was there. He remembered Isabelle immediately. He showed her into the small clubhouse and offered her some water, then asked an elderly woman working at the bar to make her something to eat. Isabelle accepted gratefully and asked that someone take something out to Claude, who was waiting outside with the horses.

  “What’s on your mind? How can we help you?” the chairman asked her then. He was a tall, gaunt man around fifty years of age.

  While Isabelle, who actually hated the idea of having to ask anyone for help, haltingly explained the situation she was in, more and more cyclists joined them at their table. Perhaps the Charleville men felt flattered that she had come so far just to find them. Perhaps it was her plaintive appearance—or her pregnancy—that made them so attentive and sympathetic.

  “I’d pay for your work, of course. And every picker will get a bottle of champagne a day. If you drink it or sell it or take it home would be up to you.” She smiled, looking from one man to the next.

  She had hardly finished when the chairman looked around and said, “Leon Feininger had a great sporting spirit. How could we not lend a helping hand to his widow, right, men?”

  A murmur of agreement rose from those gathered.

  “I’m a teacher, but if someone shows me ho
w to pick a bunch of grapes, I think I can pick it up fast enough. Good thing we’ve got the autumn vacation right now,” said the man sitting directly across from Isabelle.

  “I’ve got more vacation than I want,” sniffed the man beside him. “Since my boss let me go, all I have is vacation, but no money. I’d be glad to earn a few francs.”

  “Me, too!” threw in another. “Then I can get that new bicycle sooner and finally whip you on the track.” The men laughed.

  “Picking grapes isn’t hard,” said one of the older riders—Isabelle had heard the others call him Yves. “My brother and I used to help out every year with the harvest in Bordeaux; we’ve got family there. If I ask Luc, I’m sure he’ll come, too.”

  The men were already talking about the trip to Hautvillers—by bicycle, of course. They had no problem with camping in Isabelle’s barn. “After a day’s work in a vineyard, you’ll be tired enough to sleep standing up,” said Yves.

  The chairman grinned with satisfaction and said, “Well, madame, I think you can count on twenty to twenty-five of us. When and where do you want us?”

  As soon as the horses had had enough time to recover, Isabelle and Claude made the return journey to Hautvillers. There was still a lot to do before their helpers arrived.