The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  She clapped her hands. “Then what are we waiting for? To work!”

  “You’ll get pruning shears and baskets from me,” Claude added grimly. “Let’s get one thing straight: I want to hear you singing while you work. Have I made myself clear?”

  The workers nodded while their leader spat disdainfully onto the ground.

  “What did you mean by that?” Isabelle asked a little later, as the new pickers headed back into the vineyards with the cyclists.

  Claude grinned. “Around here, we say that if you’re singing, you’re not stuffing your mouth with grapes. Not that we’d have to worry about that. These people must be sick of the sight of grapes by now. I just wanted to rile Àlvarez a little.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The two horses worked more the days of the harvest than they did through all the rest of the year. With their heads bent low, they leaned into their harnesses, hauling one brimming cartload of grapes after another to the press-house. Where the leather straps lay against their hides, the horses’ hair was dark with sweat, which in turn drew the flies. Although Àlvarez’s men and women already had the Trubert harvest behind them, they also pulled their weight at the Feininger estate. The cyclists, spurred by the hard work of the itinerant harvesters, picked up their paces. And row by row, the grapes disappeared.

  The baskets were unloaded in front of the press-house, their contents inspected briefly by the cellar master. The grapes were then poured into the press, which could hold almost ten thousand pounds of grapes. When this quantity—called the marc—was reached, seven men positioned themselves around the wheel; when they turned it, the heavy plate known as the mouton sank onto the grapes, squeezing out their juice. The work had to be done with care so the red color from the skins didn’t mix with the juice, which had to stay as light and clear as possible. Two pounds of grapes would later be transformed into a little more than one bottle of champagne. It made Isabelle dizzy to think what a treasure, what wealth, was flowing through her press.

  Thanks to Jacques’s books, Isabelle had a good idea of what happened when the grapes were pressed. Most valuable of all were the first five hundred gallons of juice. The first half of that was called the première cuvée. The next hundred and fifty gallons made up the deuxième cuvée, and the final hundred were the troisième cuvée. These five hundred gallons formed the basis for the most valuable champagnes. With every subsequent pressing, the flesh of the red grapes came into more contact with the skin, and the juice consequently took on a reddish coloration and lost some of its aroma. This juice could be made into very drinkable champagnes, but they were generally less elegant or full-bodied than those of the first pressing. Of course, every pressing was stored in a separate barrel.

  But for all she had learned, nothing from any of the books had prepared her for the feverish atmosphere in the press-house, which held an almost magical attraction for Isabelle. Every night, when she had her duties as cook and hostess behind her, she visited the press-house and stood by the entrance, always taking care not to get in anyone’s way or disturb the complicated handling processes. Every night, as she stood at the entrance, she was struck by the unique smell of grape juice, fermented fruit, and sweat, and she breathed it in greedily; it represented the basis for her own future security and her great goal of creating her own champagne. And every night, not without anxiety, she marveled at what she knew was only a seeming chaos but in reality was the perfect coordination of many experienced hands.

  Supervised by Gustave Grosse, the press-house men worked day and night in two shifts. Filling the basket, pressing, scooping the grapes that clung to the sides back into the middle with a wooden scraper, pressing again—juice flowed from the grapes, and sweat streamed from the men.

  The vineyards and the press were like two worlds, completely separate from one another but existing side by side. The longer the harvest went on, the slower the vineyard workers moved. No one spoke much; they were in tune with one another and certainly too tired to fight.

  In the press-house, though, the atmosphere grew more tense with every passing day. A false word, a tiny shove, and a fight would ensue, only to be nipped in the bud by the cellar master. Time was much too precious to be wasted with fighting. But speed alone was not enough to do the work; the press demanded the greatest concentration: each type of grape and each pressing had to be pumped into separate tanks—cuves de débourbage—that were stored in a cellar one level deeper. There, the juice could rest, and contaminants like stems, skins, sediment, and insects were removed. Later, the juice was pumped through the complicated system of pipes into another cellar, where it would be stored again, this time in barrels, and undergo the first fermentation. For Isabelle, this was one of the trickiest stages of all. God forbid someone forgot to note the necessary information for a barrel or accidentally mixed two kinds of juice. That nearly happened once, and Isabelle was amazed to see the otherwise so apathetic Gustave Grosse start to rage at such sloppiness. She would gladly have been there herself to supervise, but she had to trust her cellar master and his workers.

  Two weeks into the harvest, the vines looked as tattered as molted birds, and the pickers in their filthy aprons looked nearly as bad. At some point, the last vine was picked clean, and the barrels that had spent the year empty in the extensive cellars beneath the estate were all filled again with fresh grape juice.

  As the harvest had drawn to a close, Claude had told her that throwing a party to celebrate was mandatory. Isabelle had merely smiled at her overseer. She had long ago made all the arrangements for just such a party, and she had done so in style.

  Now, her terrace was lit up like a theater stage. White candles flickered on the long wooden table, and the full moon cast a generous silver glow over everything. Small bouquets of lavender and roses released their sweet scent into the warm September night and blended with the spicy aroma of the suckling pig that had been sizzling on a spit since early that morning.

  Isabelle, her eyes shining, sat beside Claude at one of the tables, soaking up the atmosphere, which was so unlike anything she’d experienced before. The other seat beside her was reserved for Gustave Grosse. He and the men from the press-house were still finishing up but would join the celebrations soon.

  A few of Àlvarez’s men played guitar and violin, and everyone sang, danced, laughed, ate, and drank. The night was long, and sleep was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

  “Leon would have enjoyed a party like this,” Isabelle murmured.

  Claude, who had been talking to the man sitting opposite, abruptly turned to Isabelle and said, “As successful as this harvest has been, you’ve done your husband the greatest honor. His legacy could not have been better managed.”

  Isabelle smiled sadly. “Do you really think so?”

  Claude nodded, then went back to his conversation.

  He’s probably right. I can be proud that everything has gone so well, she thought. Really, she felt pride along with many other emotions. The harvest was over. But she had no real time to rest, for new tasks already awaited her. Would she be able to cope with them, too?

  She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice Gustave Grosse until he was standing beside her. He smelled of sweat and grime. His eyes were bloodshot, his gaze almost mad as he held out a small glass of ruby-tinted juice.

  “Here, madame! The last vin de cuvée we pressed. Would you like to try it?”

  Isabelle held the glass up to the candlelight. “Isn’t it a little too red?”

  “Don’t worry. The color will be eaten by the yeast.”

  Only half-appeased, Isabelle lifted the glass to her lips. Instantly, everyone around her fell silent, and all eyes turned to her expectantly.

  The juice tasted sweet and sticky, but that was all she could say about it. She looked at the people all around and smiled, then called out, “It’s going to be a wonderful vintage!”

  Enthusiastic cheers rose on every side. Everyone had been part of the harvest�
��s success, and they all enjoyed this moment of triumph.

  Tears came to Isabelle’s eyes. “Thank you all!” she called, her voice breaking. “You were wonderful.”

  More cheering. Goaded into it by his friends, a good-looking Spaniard with blazing eyes—one of Àlvarez’s men—jumped to his feet, went to Isabelle, and bowed before her with a flourish.

  “Boss—would you honor me with the first dance of the evening?”

  Later, all the gaiety and noise grew too much for her. The child in her belly was restless and tired, too. She slipped away from the festivities and walked toward her vineyards.

  Moonlight glimmered over the landscape, and the outlines of the bare vines looked as if someone had traced them with a fine quill in an ink drawing. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Even the wild creatures out hunting in the night made no sound.

  Halfway to the vineyards, Isabelle sat on a weathered bench. She breathed in deeply; the air was still permeated with the sweet smell of the grapes and the smoke from the many campfires that dotted across the landscape. The bonfire sparks lit the night like fireflies. Someone up in heaven also seemed to have lit a bonfire—a flood of stars sparkled like priceless diamonds across the firmament. Directly in front of her, the evening star glowed. Isabelle smiled. A deep feeling of peace filled her, and she willingly gave herself over to it.

  “Leon,” she whispered, looking up to the sky, “believe it or not, we did it!”

  What no one believed possible had come to pass. She had done it. Her first harvest was in.

  No time to rest . . . but she had at least a little more time for other things, and she was looking forward to things slowing down. She had not seen either Micheline or Ghislaine for days, and she wanted to write letters to Josephine and Clara, telling them all about her harvest adventure. And then . . . Pondering, she stroked her belly. From now on, she would take better care of the child. Leon’s child. Instead of ignoring its presence, she would nurture and care for it as she did the vines.

  She sighed deeply. In that moment, she did not want to think about all the other duties and tasks ahead. It did her good to simply sit and enjoy the silence, and she did not want to spoil that.

  But a moment later, she saw a dark figure coming down the path. She frowned, suddenly put out: Who could want anything from her just then? Had two drunks started a fight that she—the boss, as the people had begun to call her—would have to settle? Or was someone coming to fetch her back to the fire? Wasn’t she to be granted just a few silent minutes to herself?

  She only relaxed when she saw who it was.

  “Isabelle?” Daniel Lambert looked surprised to find her there. “Don’t you have your big harvest party tonight?”

  “Sometimes finding a quiet corner is the best thing that can happen to a person,” she replied.

  “And sometimes not,” Daniel replied with a wry smile. “One can also enjoy such tranquility in company. May I?”

  He gestured toward the seat beside her, and she nodded hastily.

  For a little while, they sat side by side, neither saying a word. Daniel’s body radiated a pleasant warmth, and Isabelle unconsciously leaned toward him. “I guess the Champagne region is the only place in the world you can see stars like this.” She swept one hand across the spangled sky.

  “And yet, some people see only the darkness but not the stars,” Daniel replied.

  “I was like that myself, for a long time. I had to learn to see the stars again,” said Isabelle thoughtfully.

  The silence that settled again was more charged than it had been. A light tremor ran through Isabelle; it was not uncomfortable but made her a little bit afraid. She moved away from Daniel a little, then stretched her arms over her head to ease her aching muscles, sore from hauling pots, pans, and mountains of tableware. As she did so, it occurred to her how good it would probably feel to lay her head on his shoulder. Any other mad ideas while you’re at it? she immediately scolded herself. “I’m slowly starting to feel like I’ve got more wine than blood in my veins,” she said. “A strange feeling . . .”

  Daniel laughed. “Anyone born here has wine in their veins from birth. It looks to me as if you’re heading toward becoming a real vigneronne.”

  She looked at him sidelong. “If I think of Henriette, I have to wonder if that was meant as a compliment or an affront.”

  “That’s up to you,” he replied just as lightheartedly. Then he became more serious. “Well? Did Àlvarez and his people do a decent job?”

  “You sent them?”

  He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I only found out too late what was going on, or I would have done something much earlier.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle murmured after a few moments. “I don’t know why you’re doing all this for me, but without you I would have been lost . . . more than once.”

  Then she felt his lips on her mouth. The contact was simultaneously as light as a feather and intense. As startled as she was by the sudden kiss, she certainly felt a flame spark to life inside her. Carefully, she opened her lips a little and felt his tongue, probing. He did not taste of wine, she was surprised to discover, but of clear spring water.

  Just for a moment, she imagined what it would be like to make love to Daniel, to take her pleasure in his gentle touch, to respond in kind, experiencing that ecstasy and release together. But that could not be; she would never allow it! She was Leon’s widow, and she would be true to him beyond his death. Shocked, she pushed herself away from Daniel.

  Daniel smiled. “I wish you all the best, my vigneronne allemande. May your champagne be as tantalizing as you are.”

  “You frighten me,” she said, unsettled.

  “Do you think I feel any different?” he replied. “You scare the hell out of me. That kiss—it came as unexpectedly for me as for you. I had no plans to fall in love with you. Being in love makes you vulnerable. But it looks like I’ve lost the battle. So I’m asking you, be forgiving with me.” Even in the dark, she saw that the fine lines around the eyes in his weathered face grew deeper as he smiled.

  Isabelle could only return his smile with difficulty. Too much was going on in her head. Daniel’s confession had shocked her. What feelings did she hold for him? All she knew was that, whenever she was near him, she felt that subtle trembling, like the beat of a butterfly’s wings against the inside of her stomach, pleading for release. It was something she could only remember from when she had first fallen for Leon. And now she felt the same way around Daniel.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for a new love, or if I ever will be,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Though I’m getting through the days better than I was, I’m still so sad that I’ve lost Leon. The sadness comes and goes like waves, and I never know when the next one is going to crash over me. What if I’m lying in another man’s arms then?” She waited for an answer. When Daniel said nothing, she continued. “I have so many things still ahead, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to deal with them. I’m going to be the mother of Leon’s child! And there’s the champagne—it’s supposed to be something exquisite, the kind of champagne you find once in a hundred years, and it’s my first champagne. I won’t be able to do it with Gustave Grosse. Sooner or later, I’ll have to look around for a new cellar master, someone more talented. Someone who shares my vision. And then I have to look for new customers. And then, and then . . . !” She shook her head. “So many new things . . . and a new love on top of everything? I’m too big a coward for that.”

  “You are the bravest woman I have ever met.” There was so much longing in his voice, so much tenderness and depth that Isabelle was afraid she would drown in it. Abruptly, she jumped to her feet, her skirt catching on a splinter on the rough wooden bench. She heard a soft tearing sound. Ignoring it, she looked at Daniel.

  “Me? Brave?” Her laugh was shrill. “Try telling that to Clara and Josephine. They know what a coward I am. I’m sorry, but I’m not the right one for you. The best thing you could do would be to leave me
in peace. There’s no room in my life for this kind of thing.”

  Without another word, she walked away.

  It was the first performance of the new season, and every seat at the opera in Reims was sold out. Now that the harvests were over and the cellars of champagne were full again, the Champenois wanted a change, and they wanted to be entertained. The director of the opera was an experienced elderly man from Paris, and he knew what his audiences were after, so he had decided on a performance of Jules Massenet’s Manon to kick off the season—a love story as dramatic as it was ill fated, set in the times of Louis XV. Beautiful women, rich noblemen, magnificent costumes and even more magnificent backdrops, and bold, risqué dialogue—that was something the champagne makers could identify with! But there was one visitor that evening who could not identify with that.

  Raymond Dupont shifted restlessly in his seat in one of the red-velvet-clad boxes. Manon Lescaut’s arias were scraping his nerves raw, as if someone were dragging a knife across a china plate, and he did not find her constant vacillating between her lover, Le Chevalier des Grieux, and her lover’s rival, the wealthy Monsieur de Brétigny, to be even the slightest bit prurient, but rather simply repugnant. Why were the two men blind to the underhanded game the profligate beauty was playing? How was it possible for grown men to let her run roughshod over them like that? Where was true love, great love?

  Raymond had no idea why he was so worked up. It was an opera, no more.

  Was it to do with all the busy weeks he’d been through lately? Endless days in his shop, followed every evening by the mandatory excursions with his wealthy customers out into the countryside to enjoy the atmosphere of the harvest. Only when he had gone to such pains to ensure the well-being of his spoiled clientele did he realize the truth: there was no one—truly no one!—who cared about his well-being. There he was, the grandseigneur of Champagne, a pillar of Reims society, all alone in the world. When, late in the evenings, he returned to his apartment, his two thousand square feet of luxury, it welcomed him as cold and as deserted as a grave. Now that the harvest was over, the Champagne party season would begin, and he would have to work even more. His customers relied on his advice, so this meant numerous tasting sessions and as many painstaking conversations. Sometimes his clients even expected him to pay a visit to their venue before he selected a champagne for the event.