The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Raymond seemed taken aback. “If I may be permitted to ask, are you planning to take care of both your child and the estate?”

  Isabelle’s answer was tentative “We will have to wait and see.”

  “Of course,” said Raymond. Then he stood up brightly. “And now, I think, we’ve spent enough time on problems! It would be my great pleasure and honor to invite you to dinner. A woman I know has just opened a new restaurant on Rue Buirette; the food is excellent.”

  Candlelight, damask and hothouse roses on the tables, soft violin music in the background—Isabelle leaned back, relaxed, in her chair.

  Raymond, studying the wine list, looked up and smiled at her. “Did I promise too much?”

  Before Isabelle could reply, the restaurant owner appeared at their table. She and Raymond exchanged a few words, then he ordered for Isabelle and himself. Isabelle, who had struggled with the copious menu, was relieved.

  In his shop, their talk had been mostly business, but now their conversation was much lighter. Raymond told anecdotes about his capricious customers—no names, of course!—and Isabelle told him about her cycling adventures. Raymond was deeply impressed to discover that she had taken part in a long-distance race in Denmark.

  When the main course was served—capon stuffed with chestnuts—Isabelle felt better than she had for a long time.

  “How is it that a man like you isn’t married?” Even as she asked it, she wondered if the question was appropriate.

  But Raymond did not seem put off by her curiosity. “Maybe it’s just that no woman ever wanted to put up with an old codger like me for life.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Isabelle spontaneously replied. “Old codger? But you’re so . . . so”—she flicked her left hand in the air as if trying to find the right adjective—“so wonderful.”

  Wonderful? he thought.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.” Raymond grinned. “Then perhaps it’s that a wonderful man would also like to have a wonderful woman at his side?”

  “So you’re selective,” said Isabelle triumphantly. Just as she’d thought.

  “Selective, demanding, critical—too critical? Who can say for certain?” The champagne dealer gave a little shrug. “In any case, if I met the woman of my dreams, I would marry her in an instant.” He raised his wine glass, looking deeply into her eyes as he did so.

  Isabelle, suddenly a little uneasy, looked away.

  When Isabelle arrived back in Hautvillers late the following day, she felt refreshed and happy. The evening with Raymond, his undivided attention, the marvelous candlelight dinner—it had all been good. She had listened almost spellbound to the stories he told of his travels and his life. Afterward, he had accompanied her back to her hotel and kissed her hand charmingly in farewell.

  “It would be my greatest pleasure to invite you to celebrate Christmas with me in Reims. I’ll be putting on a small dinner for some close friends,” he had said before departing. “We could take the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.”

  As much as Isabelle enjoyed his company, she had turned down the invitation as nicely as she could. In her condition, she had no desire to spend an entire evening sitting at a table with people she didn’t know, even though they were Raymond’s friends. Apart from that, his remark about the woman of his dreams had unnerved her a little. The way he had looked at her as he said it . . . but she was a widow, and an extremely pregnant widow at that, who would be bringing a child into the world in the new year. It was hard to imagine that a man might see her as anything else, and she certainly didn’t have any interest in an affair. And yet it pleased her that Raymond wanted to get to know her better. As she opened the door of her house she concluded that going to Reims had been a fine idea and that Raymond Dupont’s company had done her good.

  The next morning, there was a rapping on her door. When Isabelle saw Claude Bertrand’s face, she knew instantly that something bad had happened. Her feeling of well-being from the previous day evaporated, and the iron ring of worry and fear clamped itself around her chest again.

  “Wolves have killed two of the sheep,” he said with a grim expression. “We have to come up with some way to protect the animals.”

  Isabelle pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “But . . . didn’t you say they could stay out in winter and all we’d need to do was feed them hay?”

  “Normally, that would be true. But if the wolves are going through the vineyards looking for food, it points to a hard winter ahead. And if they are successful once, as they were last night, then they’ll come again, maybe even in the daytime. Which means we have to shelter the animals in the stall.”

  “The whole winter?” So many animals closed up in such a small space? She was no expert in raising sheep, but even she could see that what Claude was proposing was far from ideal.

  Claude shrugged.

  “Then what are we waiting for?” she said, buttoning her jacket.

  “You don’t really want to see what’s happened, do you?” The horror in the overseer’s voice hung in the chill air as little white clouds.

  “Who cares if I want to or not? I have to get a clear picture of the situation before I can make a decision,” Isabelle said. For a brief moment, she thought longingly of the warm semolina pudding she’d been planning to make. Again, a day not going as she’d planned. Again, new concerns.

  The white snow was colored dark red where the two cadavers lay. The wolves—the paw prints suggested there had been a small pack of them—had fed well on the two dead sheep, going first for the innards. Stomach, liver, heart—none of those organs remained. One of the sheep was missing its head; a wolf had probably carried it off to a patch of bushes to eat undisturbed. Meat, intestines, and scraps of hide were strewn across a wide area, and the rest of the herd surrounded the dead animals.

  Isabelle shuddered. The lump in her throat felt like lead, and tears came to her eyes. Compared to this, a few exploding champagne bottles were a trifle.

  “I’m truly sorry, madame, but I didn’t expect something like this,” said Claude quietly as he stood beside her. “The wolves would normally be eating berries and fruits now. It’s unusual for them to take sheep this early in winter, and not a good sign at all. We’ll have to take better care of the peacocks and chickens in the future, too, or they’ll be at least as easy prey as the sheep.”

  Isabelle wiped one sleeve over her eyes. “Are you saying the wolves would dare to approach so close to the house?” She couldn’t seem to do anything about the slightly hysterical tone in her voice.

  “I hope not, madame.” His face was a mask of concern. “If I see one of them, I’ll shoot it myself. I keep my shotgun ready at my front door.”

  Isabelle, however, was not reassured by that. “Do you remember how happy Leon was to see that we still kept sheep? Maybe that’s why I’ve held on to the animals.”

  Claude nodded.

  “Leon would certainly not like it if I got rid of them.” But Leon was dead, and she was responsible for the living. She pulled herself together. “We’ll go over to the peacock pen and the chicken stall in a minute and check that everything is in order. If necessary, we’ll double the wire netting to keep the wolves out. As for the sheep . . . it’s my fault that this happened. I should have looked for a buyer for them long ago. Could you take care of that?”

  Two days later, a man came for the sheep. Isabelle watched silently as the new owner, a shepherd from the nearby village of Romery, drove the animals down the narrow street with the aid of his two dogs. She should have taken this step much earlier. The few francs that the sale of the wool brought in would not have made her much wealthier, not when she factored in the cost of feed and shelter for the sheep. With the shepherd, her sheep were in competent, knowledgeable hands—he had enough hay for the winter and a large, safe stall where they could get through the cold months safely. So she had done the right thing.

  But it still hurt to see the small flock
trotting away. Was it just the start of the sell-off? What part of the Feininger estate would she have to part with next? One of the vineyards? The horses?

  Abruptly, she turned away from the street. What nonsense! The cold and her fat belly must have been putting such stupid thoughts in her head. Enough of this for today, she commanded herself. There was still so much to be done before the child came.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  On December 23, the postman knocked at Isabelle’s door and unloaded a crate of champagne from his handcart. Isabelle smiled when she recognized Raymond’s elegant handwriting on the card that came with the champagne, on which he had renewed his invitation for the following day. If her situation had been any different, she might well have accepted.

  “And two parcels from Berlin, too,” said the postman.

  Isabelle was thrilled to receive them.

  Inside again, she made herself comfortable in the warm living room. With great care, as if she were handling the finest lace instead of coarse packing paper, she unwrapped Josephine’s parcel. Inside, she found an elegant Christmas card decorated with glitter and two smaller packages on which was written Open Only on Christmas Eve. No doubt there was something inside for her baby to wear, Isabelle suspected, or perhaps even a shawl for her?

  In Clara’s parcel, too, she discovered a brightly wrapped bundle and a tin box of homemade cookies; Isabelle could already smell the cinnamon through the packaging. Ignoring the sweet allure of the cookies for the moment, Isabelle reached for the far more tempting letter that Clara had sent.

  Berlin, December 13, 1898

  My dearest Isabelle,

  I hope this letter finds you well and happy. So close to giving birth, life for a mother-to-be becomes difficult. I well remember waddling through our apartment like a duck. Everything hurt: my swollen ankles, my back, my breasts . . . Gerhard always says that rest is a cure-all for every womanly ailment, but you and I both know that the daily housework won’t do itself. This means you have to stay strong until the day of birth.

  With a smile, Isabelle scratched her stomach, the skin of which was stretched uncomfortably—much longer, and she’d explode! Apart from Ghislaine, she had no other female friends her own age in Hautvillers, so it felt even better to read Clara’s understanding words. She riffled quickly through the thin letter paper, which smelled lightly of lavender, to read of Clara’s plans for her New Year’s visit, about which Isabelle was over the moon.

  Unfortunately, I also have to give you some bad news. Gerhard received an invitation for the New Year’s Eve ball of a countess, to take place on their country estate out near Potsdam. She is one of his patients, and he apparently helped her out of an awkward situation. She has promised to introduce him to other women at the ball—all potential patients for him. Becoming the high-society doctor, that’s what my husband is striving for. It is inconceivable to him that I wouldn’t accompany him on such an important occasion, which I’m sure you can understand, can’t you?

  Dear Isabelle, it gets worse. The way things look, I will have to postpone my visit to you until the start of February. There are several appointments here in Berlin, in January, that simply can’t be put off, unless I want to get into serious trouble with my husband. It breaks my heart, believe me, to have to write these words.

  Your true friend, Clara

  Isabelle let the letter drop. No shared laughter. No heart-to-heart talks. No “Frau Doctor” to hold her hand when the time came. Through the last few weeks, she had held firmly to the thought that she would not be alone when she went into labor. Now she wouldn’t see her dear friend, and she would have to come up with something else. Perhaps she could start to stay with Micheline and Marie shortly before the baby was due? Or maybe even move into the hospital in Épernay. The falling snow, heavier now, outside her window caught her eye. But she did not like the thought of holing up in the very same women’s ward where Ghislaine had lost her child. And then there were her own memories of Leon in the hospital. No, she did not want to bring her child into the world in that atmosphere. She would ask the local midwife to spend the night at her house, though doing so was certainly unconventional.

  After a long moment pondering the issue, she shook her head and stood up. She had things to do for the next day, baking and cooking for Christmas. Ghislaine had invited her, Micheline, and Marie for dinner, as well as Claude Bertrand and his dog. Each of the women had promised to contribute something to the meal to take some of the load off Ghislaine, who was keeping her restaurant open until late in the afternoon. Isabelle was planning a spicy pie with steamed herbs and ham, one of Clara’s recipes; it had already gone down very well indeed with her pickers. Micheline and Marie were going to roast a duck—no doubt the Christmas table would be groaning under the weight of all the delicious food.

  For the first time since reading Clara’s letter, a trace of a smile reappeared on Isabelle’s face. She was not going to be alone on Christmas Eve, and that counted for a lot. And maybe she’d see Daniel again. Ghislaine had not expressly mentioned that her brother would be there, but it was Christmas, after all.

  Another thought entered her mind, and it made her frown. Where would Gustave Grosse spend the big day?

  Since the incident with the exploding bottles, he had done everything he could not to cross her path. But now she felt obligated to find out what his plans for the holiday were. She pulled on her heavy coat and set off for the wine cellar.

  She found Gustave on the uppermost level of the cellar. On a square wooden table in front of him stood a number of large glass bottles filled with liquids in a range of colors, from clear to pale yellow. They looked like champagnes at different stages of maturity. On the floor beside the table were many more of the bulbous bottles, some of which were filled with even more luridly colored liquids.

  “What are you doing?” asked Isabelle, without a word of greeting.

  Grosse was pouring champagne out of one of the bottles into a bowl; he glanced up momentarily. “I’m just starting with the first assemblage.”

  Isabelle thought she had not heard him right. “Didn’t I tell you we were only going to start with that in mid-January?” she said. “And what is all that?” She fluttered her hand toward the ominous bottles. Without waiting for him to reply, she moved closer and read the label on one of them: jus de poire. On the next one: jus de pommes.

  “Pear juice, apple juice, beetroot juice, and cognac?” She let out a shrill laugh. “What business do any of these have in blending champagne? And what were you planning to do with all that sugar?” She pointed to a large linen sack with sucre printed on it.

  “A little sweetness, a little extra flavor and color, have never hurt anyone, madame. You want your turn-of-the-century champagne to be something special, don’t you?” said Grosse, with an aggressive undertone. “Now don’t go looking all horrified! This is common practice. Take my word for it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get my hands on any port wine at short notice. Port gives champagne a very full-bodied bouquet.”

  A loud ringing started in Isabelle’s ears, so loud that she thought she might faint on the spot with the dizziness it caused. Adulterated champagne! In her cellars! That was the final straw.

  Her right arm shot out like an arrow toward the exit.

  “Get out!”

  “Oh, don’t go getting upset. I’ve just begun; I can’t just put it all down and—”

  “Get out!” she screamed, and took a threatening step in his direction. She was on the verge of picking up an empty bottle and bashing it over the man’s head. “You’re fired. Pack your things and go. I never want to see you again!”

  The moment Gustave Grosse was out of sight, Isabelle felt a sharp stabbing pain inside her, and she doubled over, folding like a penknife. Dazed, she lowered herself onto one of the stools beside the square table. Damn it all, I shouldn’t get so worked up! she thought. She forced herself to breathe more slowly and evenly. The wooden barrels lining the walls left and right caugh
t her eye. Inside them were stored the individual champagnes waiting to be blended into her turn-of-the-century champagne. Maybe for the next turn of the century, Isabelle thought bitterly.

  On Christmas Eve, Isabelle set off with Micheline, Marie, and Claude for Christmas Mass. Ghislaine, who was still busy in her restaurant, was going to meet them at the church. Light flakes of snow sprinkled down and settled in Isabelle’s hair.

  “A white Christmas . . . in Germany, that was always something special, like a gift,” she said. She looked down at the thin sheet of snow underfoot; every step they took left fresh prints. There was something so full of promise about the fresh snow that it brought a small smile to Isabelle’s face.

  “A white Christmas is something special for us, too,” said Micheline.

  Marie and Claude murmured in assent. Isabelle’s elderly neighbor pointed to the houses they were walking past. “On Christmas Eve, we like to put candles in the windows. How beautifully they shine through the drizzling snow.”

  Isabelle nodded, moved.

  The evening was a merry affair. Maybe it was the sociable atmosphere, or maybe the gallows humor of it. Whatever it was, Isabelle’s description of giving Grosse his marching orders was so dramatic that all the guests were practically in hysterics.

  “Well done, dear,” said Micheline through tears of laughter, and patted Isabelle’s arm.

  “But what now? I wanted to make a champagne suitable for the end of the century, and now I don’t even have a cellar master.” She looked around at her friends helplessly.

  “Better none at all than one like that,” was the unanimous opinion, as was the consensus that Christmas Eve was not a night for dwelling on one’s problems.

  “There’s a solution for everything,” said Micheline laconically.