The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “But you can sell the 1892 cuvée as your turn-of-the-century special. It certainly has the class. And it would make you quite rich in the process. I’m sure of that,” Daniel replied calmly. “And then you can sell the wines I’m making today in the future.”

  “I thought the juice we got from last year’s grapes would go into the champagne for the end of the year. Now I’m not sure.” Isabelle was completely confused.

  “I know that with the twentieth century approaching, some winemakers are selling everything they’ve got. But a champagne so young is still too rough, not rounded enough, and for the great celebrations ahead, it would simply not be good enough. I’d feel like a swindler if I sent you out with that in your hand. But if that’s what you insist on . . .” Daniel shrugged.

  Isabelle looked at him in consternation. “And I thought I understood at least a little about this business.” The next moment, she jumped to her feet, embraced Daniel, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “What would I do without you? Thank you for your good counsel. I will sell your mature rosé champagne, and I will do so with pleasure and pride. Against our turn-of-the-century Feininger, every other champagne will look anemic!”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When Clara awoke, she did not immediately know where she was. The chirping of birds outside her window, the lavender scent of the bedclothes, the weight of the blanket . . . everything sounded and felt unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. Almost unwillingly, she opened her eyes and found herself back in Isabelle’s guest room, where she had slept for the previous five nights.

  She turned and looked out the window. It was only the end of February—another of Gerhard’s engagements had kept her in Berlin longer than planned—but there was already a hint of spring in the air. Around Isabelle’s house, winter jasmine and witch hazel were in bloom, exuding a warm, matchless perfume.

  Clara’s brows furrowed as she thought of the horrible stench that plagued Berlin’s streets. The stink of the ever-increasing number of factories, the gray smoke rising from the chimney of the smithy, the sharp odors from the shoemaker workshops—and on top of it all, the waste produced by humans and animals alike in the confined spaces of the city. When the fog from the hinterland around Berlin closed in, it was so hard to breathe that Clara worried about the health of her son. At three, Matthias was still a delicate child; a puff of wind was enough to give him a cough or cold.

  “That comes from you coddling him all the time,” her husband always said disdainfully. “A cold rubdown morning and evening, that would toughen him up!”

  Clara sighed. Gerhard didn’t have to put up with Matthias’s shrill screaming if the washcloth was just a shade too cool.

  She wondered how Matthias and her parents were getting along. Sophie and Anton Berg pampered their grandson exactly as they had pampered Clara as a child. They were probably spending wonderful days together without giving a thought to what she, Clara, was up to.

  She rolled to her side and sighed. How lucky she was to have such a cheerful, healthy son, notwithstanding his tendency to catch colds! The thought that not every mother was blessed with such happiness saddened her. Don’t dwell on it, Clara chided herself. Don’t think. Just be.

  Lying in bed longer than necessary—what a luxury! It was impossible at home. Gerhard wanted to see a perfectly set breakfast table every morning and a no less perfectly prepared wife. To manage everything to his satisfaction, Clara had to rise an hour earlier than he did, for she still had no one to help her in the household.

  Thoughts of home were so exhausting that Clara closed her eyes again.

  When she woke a second time, Isabelle was standing beside her bed. She was carrying Marguerite on her right arm and a cup of tea in her left hand; she set the cup down on Clara’s nightstand. It smelled of hay and wildflowers.

  “Well, sleepyhead! Did you forget that we’ve been invited to visit Raymond Dupont today? If we want to make it to Reims by lunchtime, you should drag yourself out of bed.”

  Isabelle was so cheerful these days! It was such a contrast to Clara’s previous visit, in the aftermath of Leon’s death.

  “Good morning, you two.” Clara stretched languidly, then smiled and tickled little Marguerite’s feet. Instead of kicking her legs as Matthias would have, Marguerite just rested her head against Isabelle while she looked at Clara with her large eyes.

  Outside, a cloud crossed the bright winter sun, and inside, Clara’s mood darkened a little. When she thought of the terrible task ahead of her, she came close to tears. How would Isabelle react when she told her that? She pushed herself to a sitting position and forced herself to think of other things.

  “Are you really sure that I’m supposed to come with you to this birthday party? I don’t know anyone, and I don’t even have a gift for Mr. Dupont. Maybe it would be better if I stayed home and looked after Marguerite.”

  Isabelle dismissed her doubts with a wave of her hand. “I probably don’t know anyone there, either. And when Raymond heard you were visiting, he expressly invited you along, too. It’s important for me to see him; I need to get his advice on marketing our new champagne. Besides, Ghislaine is already looking forward to watching Marguerite. Now climb out of bed and make yourself beautiful. If you like, we can do each other’s hair, and you’re more than welcome to borrow one of my dresses. No doubt Raymond has invited only the crème de la crème of Reims society.”

  Clara felt a nervous twinge in her stomach. She hoped she’d be able to behave herself appropriately in such a smart crowd.

  Sensing Clara’s insecurity, Isabelle said, “Don’t worry. We won’t stay out too late. I still have to pick up Marguerite from Ghislaine later tonight.” She gave her daughter a kiss on her forehead.

  Marguerite . . . The sight of the child awakened a deep sadness in Clara. Maybe it would be good to spend the evening in Reims. Elegance and luxury all around instead of a conversation that she would rather put off until the end of time.

  Raymond Dupont looked around with satisfaction at the guests seated at his birthday table. The mayor of Reims was there with his wife and daughter, and they were accompanied by other honored guests from the city. Louis Pommery had come from the eponymous wine estate, and his sister and brother-in-law, Guy de Polignac, sat beside him. Then Joseph Krug II, Maurice and George Roger with their wives from Épernay, and Henriette and Alphonse Trubert—the champagne-making elite of the region were gathered at his table. The only one missing was Edgar Ruinart; the old man had an audience with the czar of Russia—something Raymond had accepted as an excuse for missing out on his party.

  Apart from the champagne barons, Raymond had invited a prima ballerina from the Paris Ballet, with whom he had spent an exhilarating night on one of his journeys, as well as a breathtakingly beautiful actress from the theater in Reims. Both women seemed spellbound whenever he opened his mouth to speak. The title “Madame Raymond Dupont” for both of them seemed to promise as much prominence, wealth, and fame as any comtesse or baroness. In the light of the chandeliers, their fake diamonds glittered across their revealing décolletages and in their elaborate hairdos. The scent of their excessive perfume drifted across the table until, in Raymond’s exceptionally sensitive nose, it congealed with the delicious odors of the fine food into a florid mess.

  But even if they had smelled as delightful as a May morning, for Raymond the two women were only there to decorate his table, like the long-stemmed roses and the napkins fringed with Brussels lace. A hunter like himself did not appreciate the rabbit throwing itself in front of his rifle—if the women did not know that, then they had a great deal to learn about life and men.

  The woman sitting to his right, however, was of a completely different kind! Isabelle Feininger. She, too, wore jewelry. She, too, had her hair elaborately braided and pinned. But with Isabelle, it all seemed more natural, a more casual elegance. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The same was true of the way she handled herself in such illustrious company. With her wit and her s
timulating observations, one was happy to overlook her occasionally stumbling French. It was quite usual for the nobles of Europe to speak fluent French; it was the language of court, after all. But for an ordinary citizen of another country to speak French so well was remarkable; that, at least, was the unanimous opinion of the men seated around the table. The women, however, regarded Isabelle more dourly. The ballerina, especially, cast baneful glances in Isabelle’s direction whenever she could, but Isabelle ignored them.

  Likewise, Isabelle paid her old nemesis, Henriette Trubert, no attention. When, earlier, she had become aware of Henriette’s scrutiny, Isabelle had nodded to Henriette with a gesture at once chilly and regal. Bravo! Raymond had silently saluted her. In the Champagne region, it was impossible to avoid one’s enemies, so it was all the more important to encounter them with your head held high.

  “Well, how’s the suitor business going?” Henriette had asked him earlier that evening. He had been on his way to the kitchen to give his cook final instructions for the meal when she intercepted him. “I really hope that wedding bells will soon be ringing for you and your young bride. You’ve been lonely far too long.”

  Raymond had asked himself countless times what he had ever seen in this woman. The nosy way she pried into his life, and—even worse—the way she was now making him a pawn in her own game repulsed him. The only thing that mattered to Henriette was adding another precious stone to her crown with the Feininger estate. And why not? he had still thought the previous autumn, when she had spoken to him the first time about Isabelle. Let her get her claws on the Feininger lands, if they mean so much to her. But he had changed his mind. He could find a buyer for the Feininger estate anytime he liked. It would serve Henriette right if he took her aside at his wedding to tell her they wanted to sell the estate to someone else. Or that they already had.

  “Don’t worry on my account, my dear. With all my work, I have no time left to be lonely.” He had said nothing of the progress he had been making with Isabelle. And even if he had wanted to, it would have been hard for him to put it into words. He was reasonably sure that Isabelle liked him, or she would not always ask him for his advice. Or did she see him only as an adviser, the avuncular friend? Were there deeper feelings there? It was time for him to find out, before someone else got in ahead of him. He did not like that Daniel Lambert was now Isabelle Feininger’s cellar master. He would much rather have been her only white knight in her time of need. But why think about it? Daniel might be the best cellar master in the entire region, but he didn’t have Raymond’s ways and means for courting a woman. If everything went as he imagined it would, Isabelle Feininger would soon be melting like ice in his hands.

  Watching over his champagne glass, Raymond frowned. Joseph Krug was openly ogling Isabelle Feininger. And George Roger could hardly take his eyes off her. But hardly anyone so much as glanced at Isabelle’s friend. Poor nondescript thing.

  For a moment, Raymond didn’t know if he should be happy or upset at the attention Isabelle was attracting. But it consoled him to think that a single word from him would be enough to have her all to himself again.

  The five courses of his dinner were absolutely sumptuous, the champagne sparkled in fine crystal glasses, and the conversation around the table was just as light and sparkling without turning superficial. Everyone knew everyone else, and they certainly had enough to discuss for the next few hours. His physical presence as their host was no longer an absolute necessity. It was entirely up to him when he left the room with Isabelle.

  It seemed to him to be a good sign that the widow had come to him to ask him for his professional advice, despite the fact that she had Daniel Lambert working for her. Daniel might well be a genius in the wine cellar, but he had no idea at all about selling champagne. Which fitted in nicely with Raymond’s plans . . .

  How delicious she smelled! Of soap and mother’s milk. How good it would feel to lower his lips to her breasts and—aroused, Raymond shuffled a little in his chair, then turned to the woman he was imagining.

  “My dear Isabelle, you still had a question or two for me, didn’t you? If you like, I’m sure we can excuse ourselves for a little while and dedicate ourselves to your concerns.”

  “Daniel created this champagne when he was still Jacques’s cellar master. I had no idea I had such a treasure in my cellar.” Isabelle laughed excitedly while Raymond Dupont opened the bottle that she had given him.

  Clara could see from the fine film of condensation that had formed on the bottle that the champagne had now cooled sufficiently. She smiled and thanked Raymond for the glass he had poured for her. But she had no idea how to taste champagne properly. This was Isabelle and Raymond’s field; she was happy enough just to escape the exhausting company at the table, especially because she hardly understood a word any of them said. And she had put so much store in her good school French, she thought rather downheartedly, while the champagne dealer took a large mouthful from his glass.

  “Daniel thinks I should offer this champagne for the end of the year’s festivities. A rosé with a shade of vanilla and a hint of strawberry, plus . . .”

  “Accents of sponge soufflé . . . and lemon zest,” Raymond added. He and Isabelle laughed conspiratorially.

  Clara shook her head. How could anyone taste all that from one mouthful of the stuff? And both of them had exactly the same experience? It was very mysterious to Clara. While they went on talking about aroma, color, and taste, Clara covertly looked around the inside of Raymond Dupont’s living room. Dark-green silk wallpaper covered the walls, and gold-framed paintings of hunting scenes kept the room from appearing too gloomy. A chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. It was at least six feet across and hung with many different forms: droplets, crystals, spheres, prisms. The furniture was all made of pearwood and richly inlaid.

  Immeasurable wealth, and yet it all seemed so undemonstrative. Raymond was not a man who acted self-important or came across as a braggart. It wouldn’t matter if Gerhard treated patients until midnight every night or if she combed through every shop in Berlin for beautiful things; they would never have enough money or good taste to achieve anything like what Raymond had in that room. Gerhard would turn green with envy if he could see all this, Clara thought, and almost regretted not having her husband at her side.

  “I think you could well and truly conquer the European market with this champagne,” said Raymond after a second mouthful. “People would gladly accept another glass of this champagne—the perfect drink for the parties that will mark the turn of the century. Providing, of course, one can find the right customers for it.”

  “The turn-of-the-century champagne . . . The winds of change are blowing,” Clara murmured in German, before she could stop the words coming out.

  Raymond Dupont raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Champagne de vent de siècle, roughly,” Isabelle repeated in French. “It’s a little wordplay my friends and I once came up with.” She tilted her head to one side. “I wonder if that would be a good name for my champagne? They say one should always take an original tack with the marketing.”

  Raymond nodded. “True enough, but the name should not be as complicated as that. Besides, what does wind have to do with a rosé as captivating as this?” He raised the glass to look at it in the light of the chandelier. “If you would allow me a personal observation, my dear Madame Feininger, the color reminds me of the red tone of your hair. There is something feminine and delicate about it, but at the same time, it does not lack any strength.”

  “Daniel said the exact same thing!” cried Isabelle in astonishment.

  Clara noticed how Raymond’s brow momentarily furrowed at Isabelle’s remark. Aha, he was jealous of the cellar master!

  It had already occurred to her on her last visit, following Leon’s death, that their host had his eye on Isabelle. No man sent so many get-well wishes, pralines, and champagne baskets without an ulterior motive. But Isabelle seemed oblivious to the man’s co
urting. And she always wanted to be so worldly! Clara smiled to herself.

  “What would you say if this unusual color were to make an appearance in the name of your new champagne? Rougette Feininger—that has a wonderful ring to it.”

  “Rougette Feininger.” Isabelle looked intensely from the man opposite her to the glass in her hand and back again. Her eyes shone brightly, and she said, “That’s a perfect name! Raymond, you are truly a treasure!”

  For a moment, Clara thought her friend might stand up and kiss him. He, at least, seemed to be expecting as much, the way his eyes gleamed. But instead, Isabelle reached across the table and took Clara’s hand. “Dear Clara, what do you think?”

  “It’s a wonderful name,” said Clara with a smile. “It’s just . . .”

  “Yes?” said Raymond and Isabelle at the same time.

  Clara bit her lip. Wouldn’t she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Gerhard was right when he accused her of putting her nose in wherever she felt like it and making a fool of herself.

  “Oh, come on. What is it?” asked Isabelle impatiently.

  Clara pointed to the champagne bottle. “The label! Excuse me for putting it so bluntly, but it looks so . . . plain. Besides, it says 1892, and I have to ask myself what that number has to do with the turn of the century. I don’t know what it would cost or if it’s even possible, but couldn’t you get a new label designed? Something that looks more feminine and more . . . modern? Then one would see at a glance that a fresh kind of wind is blowing in your cellars.”

  Before Isabelle could say a word, Raymond Dupont cleared his throat. “My compliments, Madame Gropius, I could not have put it better myself.” He bowed to Clara, and she immediately blushed.

  Then Raymond took Isabelle’s hand. “In the Champagne region, there is a great tradition of women making outstanding champagnes, or at least putting their names on them. The most famous champagne queen of all time was the widow Clicquot, the veuve Clicquot.” He stood up, crossed to a sideboard, took out a bottle of champagne, and held it for Clara and Isabelle to see.