The journey took her via Mailly-le-Camp and Arcis-sur-Aube to Troyes, and from there to Essoyes. Isabelle had written the painter a letter explaining what she wanted. Renoir had immediately sent her a cordial invitation to visit him at his house in the country and had added that it would be an honor for him to paint a champagne widow.
I hope he finds me pretty enough for his canvas, Isabelle thought as the coach rolled through the blooming countryside. In the meadows between the cultivated fields, wild daffodils competed with primroses, and crocuses and blue hyacinths were in full bloom. Sweet aromas drifted in through the half-open window of the coach, heralding the promise of the warm months ahead, and the annually recurring miracle of nature’s reawakening was the main topic among the other travelers in the mail coach.
Essoyes was a picture-book village. Whitewashed houses had small front gardens, lethargic cats lolled on sun-drenched windowsills, and washing lines had gleaming white sheets fluttering in the wind. A place where the world is in order, thought Isabelle, as she walked through the village with her bags, but then she immediately corrected herself. She had thought exactly the same on her arrival in Hautvillers. What dramas are unfolding behind these flower boxes and windows? she wondered, passing by one particularly pretty house. Or was it just normal life, with all its highs and lows? The thought consoled her.
To her surprise, the great artist did not live in a grand mansion, but in a completely normal house with a huge garden. Wherever Isabelle looked, she saw rose bushes and the canes and shoots of climbing roses, but they were only just beginning to bud.
“I regret not coming in June, now. The sight of all the roses in bloom must be extraordinary,” she said as she followed Renoir through the garden and into his studio.
The painter nodded. “It’s one reason I prefer to live in the country. I see the shifting seasons far more directly out here. They are as perishable as our own lives.”
Isabelle smiled thoughtfully. “On days like this, I feel like I’m in the summer of my life. So many aspirations, so much drive to do something, but I know the feeling can vanish again tomorrow. Then I’m left more with the sense that the autumn of my life is already here.”
“Autumn has its good sides, too, but you, my dear Madame Feininger, seem to me to be spring itself!” the painter said, and his smile deepened the lines of his face. He opened the door to his studio and ushered her inside.
It was almost as bright inside as out, a result of the high, uncurtained windows. Countless canvases were stacked against the walls, and Isabelle wondered what was on them all as she breathed in the smells of paint and turpentine.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir pointed to a wooden stool in the center of the room, a few feet from his easel.
“Please be seated, Madame Feininger, and we can start right away. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”
Before she sat down, Isabelle reached into her travel bag for the champagne bottle she had brought with her and set it on a small table covered with tubes of paint. “My customers are supposed to celebrate the turn of the century with this champagne. If you like, I’d be glad to open this bottle for you so that you can get to know the taste of it.”
Renoir, however, turned down the offer with a shake of his head and instructed her again to sit on the stool. “A new label with your portrait, am I right?”
Isabelle nodded as she sat on the stool. “It should look more feminine than the old label, more elegant and modern. The aim is to make the bottles stand out from the masses.” The sunlight fell through the window directly onto her face and she squinted, but a moment later her eyes had adjusted to the brightness. Her face relaxed, and her shoulders sank. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the sun’s warmth.
“Tell me something about your estate and your plans,” Renoir said, and Isabelle told him about the new start she and Daniel were making with the place together. When she spoke about her turn-of-the-century wind, the painter applied the first brushstrokes on his canvas. When she had finished telling him about what she and Daniel were doing, he looked up and said, “You speak with so much fire and commitment! I can almost picture your estate in my mind. And your youthful esprit, your passion—if your champagne is only half as captivating as you are, Madame Feininger, then it will be a tremendous success. I can promise you one thing today: you will have the most beautiful label of all time—with you as my model in front of me, it will be child’s play.”
Renoir completed Isabelle’s portrait in just five days. It showed a young woman with a mature expression: her vibrant eyes shone with a mix of confidence and mischievousness, as if she were about to say, “Hello, life, what challenges do you have in store for me now?” After all that life had thrown in her way in the past year, it astonished Isabelle to see that she still possessed such radiance. The colors were both expressive and soft, caressing more than vexing the eye. Isabelle was so enchanted by her likeness that almost the moment she arrived home again, she invited her neighbors and friends to her place to present “her Renoir” to them.
Now, early on a Saturday afternoon, standing in the kitchen with Lucille and arranging cheese snacks and fruit on a silver platter, she could hardly wait to see how the others reacted to it.
“It’s just gorgeous!” Micheline cried, clapping her hands enthusiastically.
“A portrait by one of the most famous painters in the world.” Carla Chapron sighed longingly. “What wouldn’t I give for something like that.” She looked at her husband, standing beside her, as if challenging him, but the cooper pretended not to notice.
“Now, don’t go getting ideas; you’re not nearly as pretty as that,” said Ghislaine, good-naturedly mocking her friend. She was standing with the others in front of the small semicircular table on which Isabelle had set up the painting.
“Ghislaine!” hissed Carla immediately.
But Isabelle only laughed. “She’s not exactly wrong. Monsieur Renoir really painted me in the best possible light. But I don’t mind at all. For the champagne label, the portrait has to be as beautiful as possible. Isn’t that true, Monsieur Dupont?”
The champagne dealer nodded. “You look like a true champagne queen! If you will allow it, I’ll take it to my label maker first thing on Monday, then I can show you the first drafts of the design at the end of next week. Once you’ve decided on a label, we should get it to the printer immediately. We have no time to lose if we want to present Feininger champagne in its new brand-new guise on our sales tour.”
Isabelle nodded. “What do you think of it?” she asked, turning to Daniel, who had so far been silent. His champagne glass was still full, she noticed. Suddenly, it seemed incredibly important to her to get his approval, too.
Daniel shrugged and said, “If you think it’s worth going to all this trouble. I believe the quality of our new champagne speaks for itself.” His smile seemed forced. He put down his glass. “I have to get back to the vineyards. Work is waiting.”
“But it’s Saturday afternoon!” Ghislaine said, perplexed.
It took an effort for Isabelle to hide her disappointment. “I’ll come along in a few minutes,” she said quietly.
Raymond Dupont, who had stayed in the background during this exchange, stepped forward and said, “I thought we might go over the final details of our tour?”
“If you look at it realistically, the entire world champagne market is dominated by about ten or twelve companies. We’re talking about the big names—Pommery, Moët & Chandon, and Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. These companies invest enormous amounts of money in advertising and other publicity, and their agents are at work practically around the clock. The opera, the racecourses, casinos—you’ll find the champagne sellers wherever the rich play,” Raymond explained, once the others had left and they were sitting opposite one another in the living room.
“Considering that competition, how am I supposed to get my foot in the door?” Isabelle asked with concern. She dared not even think what would happen if the sales tour was not a success
. It would be the end; she would be penniless. A large part of what she had earned from the Americans had already been spent. And almost every day, Daniel came along with new ideas about how the winery could be modernized and the vineyards replanted. And all of it cost a mountain of money.
She shifted Marguerite from her right arm to her left. She looked so cute when she slept!
Raymond opened to another page of his dark-brown leather-bound notebook.
“The year before last, more than twenty-four million bottles of champagne were sold—I think we’ll manage to sell yours as well.” He smiled encouragingly at Isabelle. “With the quality and the attractive exterior, and by that I don’t just mean the bottle . . .”
Isabelle felt her worries draining away again. “Oh, Raymond, what would I do without you?” Spontaneously, she leaned over and grasped his right hand.
“In this huge and extremely difficult market, the art is finding the right niche,” Raymond went on. “We can forget the Russian market. The agents from Moët, Roederer, and Ruinart are tripping over each other there. The English are great lovers of champagne, too, but a few of the big names have sewn up that market.” He waved his arm as if to say, But who cares?
“The Americans, as they always have, prefer sweet champagnes, which puts it out of my reach, too,” Isabelle added. “That really only leaves Europe.”
Raymond laughed out loud. “The way you said that makes it sound like Europe is just a backwater. Wait until you meet my clientele—with a little luck, they will soon be customers of yours, too.”
It was late in the afternoon when Raymond left, and the sun was still high enough to bathe the countryside in its warmth. When Isabelle was finished feeding Marguerite, she laid her in her pram and pushed her outside. A little fresh air would do both of them good. In front of the house, Isabelle hesitated. Should she stroll into the village and pay Ghislaine and her new boy a visit? But following an instinct, she walked instead in the direction of the vineyards. As she pushed the pram over the bumpy grass path, she reviewed her conversation with Raymond. He had so many facts and figures at his fingertips—he really knew his field well. Unless things went completely wrong, their journey would indeed be a success. The thought should have made her happy, but deep inside, Isabelle felt a touch of unease that she couldn’t explain.
Her expression only brightened when she discovered who she had unconsciously been seeking. Daniel.
“So your admirers have already left?” he said, without looking up from his work.
“And you? Still not finished?” she replied, referring to the binding wire with which he was affixing an over-long vine shoot to a wooden frame.
Their eyes met, and they smiled.
While Daniel calmly went on tying other shoots in place, Isabelle lifted Marguerite out of the pram. Then she sat down on the soft, mossy earth and arranged her daughter on her lap, where she went on sleeping. Wistfully, Isabelle gazed out at the last thin rays of sunshine descending over the vineyards.
After a few minutes, without a word, Daniel sat beside her. Only then did she notice that he had a small backpack with him. Was he going into the village that evening, or maybe even to Épernay? Isabelle felt a pang in her heart.
“Being able to sleep in any place at any time . . . it’s a talent only babies and young children have.” He stroked the sleeping child’s cheek tenderly. Then he looked up at Isabelle. “Satisfied with Lucille?”
Isabelle nodded. “More than you know. She’s a gift from heaven. When I put Marguerite in the pram just now, Lucille gave me a rather doubtful look, as if she would have preferred to keep Marguerite with her.” She smiled. She had never thought that a stranger might love her child as much as she herself did. “Why did you leave so soon earlier? I wanted to share a toast with you, to a good year for winegrowers.”
“A good year for . . . !” Daniel snorted softly. “We don’t need snacks or parties for that, but hard work, sweat, and God’s blessing.”
“Oh, Daniel,” said Isabelle, her expression a little pained. “Yes, I’m proud of the painting, and I was happy to show it to everyone. But all the rest . . . I’m not doing it for the fun of it! You know how important this trip is for us. We can’t survive without new customers. I’m happy that Raymond is offering me his help so generously.”
“Generous?!” The mockery practically dripped from the word. “Haven’t you ever asked yourself why he’s doing it? He could sell Feininger champagne directly from his shop, but no, he has to go away with you on a long trip to promote it!” He tore a handful of grass out of the ground and threw it away angrily. “I can picture it exactly, you know. How he’ll present you as his ‘champagne queen.’ The two of you, staying in elegant hotels, you on his arm . . .”
“Champagne queen—that’s nonsense! I’m just a housemaid in disguise.” Isabelle laughed, but it sounded false. It wasn’t as if the same thought hadn’t occurred to her. Sometimes Raymond looked at her strangely, as if he, like Daniel, had fallen a little bit in love with her. And then there was the way he’d remarked, just before Christmas, that he would marry the woman of his dreams in an instant. Had Clara perhaps been right? And now Daniel, too?
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Raymond is just as charming with every woman,” she said delicately. “Why should he behave any differently around me? And he didn’t organize this trip especially for me, as it happens. He planned it to deepen his own clientele. You really are seeing things that aren’t there.” As she spoke, a small smile played around her lips. Daniel sounded like a jealous husband!
Instead of answering, Daniel pulled over his backpack, untied the top, and took out a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, sausage, a bottle of champagne, and two glasses.
Isabelle’s brow furrowed when she saw the second glass. Had he been counting on her coming out here? Or had he been planning to share his repast with someone else? Now who’s the jealous one? she asked herself scornfully.
He handed her a piece of the bread and sausage and opened the bottle. He poured a little into his own glass, sniffed it for a second, then held the straw-yellow liquid against the light of the setting sun. Satisfied with what he saw, he took a mouthful; when that seemed to measure up, he poured both their glasses full.
With anyone else, Isabelle would have seen this routine as pedantic. Or even worse, as pompous. But with Daniel, every gesture showed no more than his love for champagne.
“People are rarely what they appear to be at first glance. Few act with noble motives; most have only their own interests at heart,” he said, handing her a glass. “I just don’t want anyone to hurt you.”
“I know,” Isabelle replied gently. They clinked glasses, and when she drank, the liquid was soft and spicy on her tongue.
She thought about how comfortable it was to sit there with Daniel and say nothing as they looked out over the valley. His body radiated more warmth than a heavy wool blanket. Wouldn’t it be lovely if he were to take me in his arms, right now? The thought flitted through Isabelle’s mind before she could stop it. And what if he really did? she immediately wondered, her inner voice harsh. You’d turn away like some straitlaced virgin, reprimand him, and blather something about “unnecessary complications.”
Would she really?
If she were to be honest with herself, she had to admit that the more she was around Daniel, the more attractive she found him. His very nature, which she had come to know more in recent months, was of honesty and kindness and perseverance when it really mattered. She could rely on him and trust him. But she liked his wavy hair and his copper-brown eyes, too. On his forearms, wispy red-gold hair covered his lightly tanned skin.
Isabelle looked at him out of lowered eyes and saw the pulse beating at his throat. And suddenly, she felt lonely and vulnerable.
He turned to her then, and kissed her. His lips on hers. Soft, and yet so firm. As his lips parted, Isabelle had the sensation that a door to a secret garden had been thrown open. His breath was warm and carried prom
ise. Instinctively, she followed his movements. He tasted of wine but also of something more austere—it was the aroma of the vines, transformed into his very own scent. His lips wandered from her mouth to her cheek, her forehead, her eyes. He asked for nothing, gave all he had, and still Isabelle had the feeling of being unable to get enough of him. But then Marguerite squirmed on her lap, and he gently released her.
His eyes were filled with tenderness as he said, “While you’re away . . . promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
On May 2, Raymond and Isabelle planned to travel to Munich, the first destination of their tour. Vienna and her hometown of Berlin would follow; all in all, the journey would last several weeks.
To be separated so long from Marguerite and everything she loved and held dear . . . and not being in Hautvillers on the anniversary of Leon’s death—more than once, Isabelle came close to sending Raymond a note to cancel everything. But every time, she pulled herself together again. She had to look ahead. Marguerite’s future depended entirely on Isabelle’s own destiny. And that of the Feininger estate.
The closer the day of their departure loomed, the more nervous Isabelle grew. She had no time to help Daniel in the vineyards, and there were no more intimate moments between them. Isabelle didn’t know if she was supposed to be happy about that or not, but there was simply too much she had to organize for the time she’d be away. Raymond was taking care of all the details of the trip itself, but Isabelle had to make sure that many crates of Feininger champagne were dispatched to the addresses Raymond had given her in Munich, Vienna, and Berlin. Isabelle was surprised by the quantities Raymond had requested from her. She’d assumed that a single trial bottle per customer would be enough. It also struck her as unusual that some of the addresses to which the champagne was to be shipped were those of private homes. But Raymond no doubt knew what he was doing.
Another concern that occupied a lot of her time was her wardrobe. On this trip, she would not be traveling lightly. Raymond had asked her to be prepared for any circumstance—major receptions, private dinner parties with future customers, perhaps a visit to the horse races, or attendance at garden parties and the opera. Isabelle carefully selected everything from simple cotton dresses to elegant ball gowns, and packed it all between sheets of tissue paper in her luggage. It looks like I’m going away forever, she thought with a frown as she finally closed the belt around the last case.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 40