The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  The following morning was dry, and it promised to be another beautiful day, not too hot and with no threat of a thunderstorm; one could not ask for better harvest weather.

  “Pick a vine and start at the bottom; work your way up with a great deal of sensitivity.” Gustave Grosse was talking to almost thirty cyclists from Charleville; the men were standing in a circle around him at the start of the first vineyard. Each carried a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, and a few of them were eating bread with cheese that Isabelle had prepared. Claude had told her it was crucial for the men to get a good breakfast before they started work.

  Despite everything, Isabelle had worried the entire night about whether the men from Charleville would keep their word. Starting at sunrise, she had kept a lookout over the valley, and when she finally saw the armada of bicycles working their way up the hill to Hautvillers, she was so relieved that she almost burst out crying.

  Choking back tears, she had told the cycling club chairman, “I’ll never forget this.”

  But he had just waved it off. “Don’t mention it, madame. In an emergency, we cyclists help each other; we’re willing to set off in the middle of the night, if the occasion demands.”

  Grosse continued his tutorial: “Never, never squeeze the bunches too much or damage them. If you do, they’ll start to ferment right away, and that would be a tragedy. If the skin gets damaged, it darkens the juice, and that’s something that has to be avoided at all costs. If you get rotten grapes or ones that aren’t yet ripe, throw them right to the ground, not in the basket, understood?”

  The men nodded.

  Claude had given half of the men a pair of shears and a small wooden basket each. The other half of the group was empty-handed; these men would act as porteurs and take the full baskets from the pickers, then tip them carefully into the large baskets, which they called mannequins. After a few hours, the men would swap roles. Grosse and Claude would supervise to make sure the system worked.

  Isabelle spoke next. “We’re starting with this vineyard. These grapes are Pinot Meunier; their skin isn’t quite as delicate as that of the Chardonnay grapes, but they still have to be treated with the greatest care. Just imagine that you’re holding grapes made of glass in your hands,” she said. She had picked up that pearl of wisdom from one of Jacques’s clever books. Gustave Grosse tossed her a surprised and not particularly pleasant glance, which she happily ignored. She clapped her hands and said, “All right, let’s get to it—here’s to a good harvest!”

  Isabelle could not remember anything ever being as much fun as picking the grapes. Wearing an old dress, her wild locks bound with a scarf, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, she worked alongside the men as well as her belly allowed. Cutting off bunches of grapes with the shears was not difficult, but it was more strenuous than it looked. The grapes were heavy in her hands, and the juice ran over her fingers so that, after a short time, both the shears and her hands were uncomfortably sticky. Even so, her small wooden basket filled so quickly that her porteur had trouble keeping up with her.

  After two hours, she saw Claude approaching.

  “I hate to disturb you when you’re working, madame,” he said with a smirk. “But the men will be expecting a solid lunch. Perhaps you should see to that instead.”

  Feeling a little embarrassed, Isabelle straightened up. My God, she thought, I’d forgotten about that completely.

  Back in her kitchen, she quickly unfolded Clara’s last letter. She had asked her friend for recipes that would feed large numbers of people, and Clara had written back to her shortly after her return to Berlin.

  Dearest Isabelle,

  The time I spent on your winery will be etched in my memory forever, and I think each day about the next time we meet. Now I am back in my everyday Berlin life. And you must surely be in the middle of harvesting your grapes. It is nice to be home again, but I would so love to be with you, as well! I’d cook for all of you and draw a footbath for you in the evenings to soothe your aching feet . . .

  Isabelle quickly scanned the well-intentioned but—just then—not particularly useful lines. On the back of the page, she found what she was looking for.

  If you have to cook for many people, then the word you have to remember is potatoes!

  Clara had written in her fine, flowing script, underlining the word potatoes heavily.

  They are the most filling of all foods. Cook as many potatoes as you possibly can in your biggest pots early in the morning, and you can conjure up all sorts of different dishes from them.

  Too late for “early in the morning”! Isabelle chewed at her lip as she filled several pots with a few inches of water. Luckily, she had a good fire going in the stove, and the water quickly came to a boil.

  Render a little bacon, then bake the potatoes in the bacon fat until they’re golden brown.

  Still reading Clara’s instructions, Isabelle reached into the potato sack next to the oven. Now she had to be just as quick with the potato knife as she had been earlier with the pruning shears!

  Potatoes with chopped bacon, a huge plate with sliced green cucumbers, and a bowl of peaches, halved and drenched in champagne—if anyone found Isabelle’s lunch unusual, no one let on. Instead, the men dug in heartily and drank carafe after carafe of water and at least as many bottles of red wine. Isabelle worried that all the wine might go to the men’s heads, but at the same time, she was glad that her food had met with such a favorable reception.

  It warmed Isabelle’s heart to watch the men sitting around the large wooden table that Claude had dragged out of the barn and set up at the foot of the vineyard. All of them laughing and joking, all in high spirits and enjoying the camaraderie that came so naturally to them. This was just as she’d imagined the harvest to be! She absolutely had to write about it to Clara and Josephine.

  The work was hard and the hours long. Apart from the break for lunch, they did not stop again all day.

  “You can rest tonight, but now the job is to get the grapes into the presses. We don’t want to let madame down, do we?” Claude implored the men again and again. “The widow Feininger isn’t sitting around. This evening, there’ll be a big pot of pork sausages, mustard from Dijon, fresh bread, and wine, as much as you like. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?”

  And so the men kept working, despite aching backs, tired arms, and sore legs, until the sun dropped below the horizon.

  Instead of hauling everything back down to the vineyard, Isabelle served dinner for the pickers by candlelight out on her terrace, although neither Claude nor Grosse could join them for that. They were in the press-house, supervising the processing of the grapes picked that day. Before the harvest began, Claude had managed to hire a few of the older men from the village to operate the press—it was tricky work, and too much depended on it to put it in less experienced hands.

  “For the next few days, we won’t be eating or sleeping much. That’s just the way it is at this time of year, madame,” Claude had said, almost apologetically, when she asked him where he was going when it was late and everyone else was just sitting down to eat. Isabelle promised she would check in on him later.

  When the pot of sausages and the breadbasket were empty, one of the men unpacked a violin and started to play. Unlike Isabelle, all the men seemed to know the song, and they clapped and sang along with the violinist.

  Isabelle couldn’t stop smiling, and she opened a few more bottles of wine.

  The first day was over. They had done it!

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The pickers were back among the vines by four in the morning. Isabelle had read that the best way to retain the fine, fruity aroma of the grapes was to harvest them early in the morning.

  “In return, you can finish earlier!” she had told the men from Charleville, convincing them to get back on their feet again after so few hours of sleep. With Gustave Grosse watching over the work in the press-house, Claude was left to supervise the vineyards alone, so Isabelle was
doubly surprised to see him appear in the kitchen at midday. Instead of spending the first few hours helping with the picking, she was preparing breakfast, lunch, and dinner for thirty hungry men.

  “Has something happened?” Isabelle asked.

  He shook his head. “The men are doing the best they can, but thirty pairs of hands simply aren’t enough to do the work that used to be done by fifty. We need more pickers, or we’re not going to get the harvest in on time.”

  Isabelle furrowed her brow. “What difference does one day more or less make? As long as the weather holds . . .”

  “We’re talking at least a week. That’s how much longer we’ll need,” said Claude. “And I doubt this spell of good weather is going to hold. If you look to the west, that narrow, dark band on the horizon does not augur well. I can already feel it in my bones: there’s a front coming. It’s still a long way off, but that can change fast. We need more people, and we need them urgently, madame.”

  His dog barked as if to endorse its master’s words. Isabelle tossed the dog a sausage that had been meant for the bean stew. She looked in desperation at her overseer. “For heaven’s sake, where am I supposed to find more pickers?”

  Daniel’s eyes burned as if he had washed them with salt water. His arms were so tired that the slightest movement was a chore. His legs were as heavy as lead, his feet swollen, his shoulders . . . he couldn’t feel his shoulders anymore. And he no longer heard the din and frantic activity in the press-house at all, though it surrounded him day and night. Being able to sleep eight consecutive hours again—eight? Two or three would do!—seemed impossible. And yet he felt optimistic, standing, as he had for days, beside the Trubert press while he oversaw the men filling and working it. So far, not one of their own people or any of the foreign pickers had gotten sick or injured, and there had been no fights or other trouble. With a little luck, they would get through the last three or four days of the harvest without incident. Daniel yawned and rubbed his tired eyes, then Henriette’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

  “Well, are you pleased with the quantity and quality?”

  In the low light of the press-house, he turned to Henriette. “It could be worse,” he said. In truth, he was extremely satisfied with the harvest. The grapes were almost flawless and had a fuller aroma than they did the year before. But sharing that satisfaction with Henriette would have spoiled it for him. She’s your boss. She has a right to know things like that, he berated himself in the same instant, but he still did not say any more.

  They stepped out into the open air together. After the darkness of the press-house, the bright sunshine hurt Daniel’s weary eyes. A deep gong rang loudly. The gong had become a tradition at the Trubert estate, and it was rung to signal the start of every meal.

  “You look as if you could use some food yourself,” Henriette said, and stroked Daniel’s arm.

  “A good idea,” he replied, pulling his arm free of her touch. At the thought of eating, he stomach growled. He could not remember the last time he had eaten.

  “Strange,” he murmured as his eyes swept across the vineyards. “Most of the Feininger vines still haven’t been harvested. But Isabelle Feininger wanted to start picking one day after us.” He saw pickers at work in only one vineyard close to her house, where Pinot Meunier grapes grew, but the vines were otherwise deserted. Isabelle . . . even in the bustle of the harvest, the German constantly found her way into his thoughts—which surprised him.

  “Considering your newfound interest in the widow, I thought you would already know, my dear,” said Henriette. “But I’ll tell you what poor Isabelle’s problem is: her pickers have all abandoned her. With the handful of people she has, she’ll never manage to get her grapes in!” There was satisfaction—or triumph—in Henriette’s words.

  Daniel turned quickly to Henriette. “What? But why . . .” Was l’Allemande such a terrible boss? Isabelle certainly did not seem to be a slave driver. Had she been unable to pay the pickers? But he could not imagine that; she had the money from the Americans, after all.

  The corners of Henriette’s mouth rose in a spiteful smile. “And this is the best part: I managed to get the regular Feininger pickers to work for us. They’re picking in the Leblanc vineyard and all the others I’ve bought in the last year. Everybody has a price—I’ve been convinced of that for a long time, and it’s proved true. For a few more francs and a bottle of wine a day, getting them was easy. Oh, Daniel, don’t tell me you didn’t notice that we’ve got fifty more pickers than usual!” She shook her head and clucked her tongue.

  Daniel had, indeed, hired the pickers, but his best foreman managed them in the vineyards. He glared at Henriette in disbelief. “You stole Isabelle Feininger’s pickers?”

  “If looks could kill . . . ,” Henriette cooed, taking a step back in exaggerated fear. “Don’t be like that, my dear. If you’d done what you were supposed to do in Troyes, I wouldn’t have been forced to take such steps, and the Feininger land would be mine by now.”

  “What a greedy old viper you are.” He couldn’t believe he worked his fingers to the bone day and night for her.

  “A viper who gets what she wants,” said Henriette maliciously, then she turned away. “The food’s getting cold. You’d better hurry.”

  Though he felt like nothing more than walking away, he followed Henriette into the empty warehouse that they had converted into a cafeteria for the harvest workers. He had no appetite anymore, but there was something else—or rather, someone else—he wanted to deal with.

  It didn’t take Daniel long to find out who headed the clan that should have been working for Isabelle: Pedro Garcia Àlvarez. It didn’t surprise Daniel in the least since it was well known that Àlvarez always asked for more from his employers than he passed on to his people. Because few vintners cared where there money went as long as the work was done well, Àlvarez lined his own pockets without his people finding out about it. What was equally well known was that the Spaniard was a Casanova from whom no woman was safe. Àlvarez cheated his people out of their hard-earned money and cheated on his wife as well.

  Until that day, Daniel had had almost nothing to do with the man, but that was about to end.

  The Spaniard sat at one of the best tables, directly beside where they served the food. While the plates of most of the pickers were empty, and the men and women were getting up to go back to their strenuous work, Àlvarez was treating himself to seconds. When he saw Daniel approaching, he paused momentarily, then calmly continued eating.

  Daniel stood in front of the man. “I need to talk to you, right now.” He nodded toward the warehouse door.

  “And if I don’t need to talk with you, monsieur?” Àlvarez replied languidly.

  “Fine with me,” said Daniel with a shrug. “I can just as easily talk to your people. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear how skillfully you negotiate their wages.” He gestured to those leaving to wait a moment longer.

  Maria Àlvarez looked curiously at her husband.

  “Something the matter?” asked one of the workers. A restlessness stirred among them.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come with me now,” Daniel whispered to Àlvarez. The Spaniard followed him without another word.

  While Isabelle served potato soup to the pickers, she kept glancing at the sky with concern. The sun was still beating down mercilessly, but along the horizon, there were high white streaks of clouds.

  “Your soup’s delicious, madame,” said one of the cyclists, holding his bowl out to Isabelle. Forcing a smile, she filled the bowl again. She wanted the men working, but she knew how hard the picking was. To be able to get through the afternoon shift at all, the midday break and a fortifying lunch were vital. Soup packed with meat, plus bread, cheese, and vegetable fritters—every day, she put out more on the table.

  Oh, let them eat in peace and enjoy the break, she thought with resignation as she scraped the last bit of soup out of the pot for herself and sat dow
n at the table to eat. An hour more or less isn’t going to make a difference; either way, we’ll only get half of it in.

  A sparrow hopped from the sunlight into the shadow cast by the long dining table. Ignoring the crowd of men, the bird hunted for fallen crumbs, and Isabelle tossed it a crust of bread.

  “Madame—look!” Claude Bertrand, sitting beside her, jabbed her in the ribs. He was pointing to the road, where thirty or more men and women were walking toward them.

  “What’s this now?” Wide-eyed, Isabelle stared at the group, which was led by a wiry man with receding black hair. His expression was anything but friendly.

  Isabelle frowned. Was she mistaken, or were these the same people who camped down at the bottom of her garden? Were they breaking camp? Why else would they be walking around like this in the middle of the day?

  “Christ!” said Claude Bertrand. “If that isn’t Àlvarez and his clan! That’s the lout who should have been working for us. Leaving us hanging like he did—I’ll tell him a thing or two!” He stood up angrily and rubbed his hands together as if he were about to attack the man.

  “Claude,” Isabelle said, with a note of warning. “No arguments now, please. Let’s hear what they have to say first.”

  Her overseer gritted his teeth, but he nodded as the Spaniard walked up to them, hooked his thumbs into his waistband, and rocked provocatively from his toes to his heels and back again. Then he said, “We’ve been sent. They say you need help.”

  Isabelle looked at the man in confusion. “But . . . who sent you?”

  The man dismissed her question. “That doesn’t matter. For good pay and food, we’re willing to work in your vineyards. That’s what matters.” He peered critically at the plates of the cyclists, as if to check that what Isabelle served was good enough.

  Isabelle could have jumped for joy. This man was her savior! But she put on her sternest voice and said, “I’ll pay you the wage we’d already agreed. You can’t expect any more, not after you abandoned us. But I’ll gladly add a bottle of wine per day for every worker. Does that sound good?” She looked from one to the other and heard a general murmur of agreement. Their leader nodded.