The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  May 2 was grim and gray, and it might have been a November day but for the spring growth on the grapevines and trees. Fog hung over the vines and made no sign of lifting, and the mercury barely rose above fifty degrees. Dressed in her traveling clothes, she gave her serious-looking reflection a final once-over before leaving the bedroom. In the mirror, she saw a woman who looked as if she were about to go to the gallows rather than on a fabulous journey, but she was simply unable to plaster on a smile. Her feet felt heavy as she descended the stairs.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked Lucille, who was standing in the kitchen humming a tune to herself and peeling kohlrabi for lunch. The question was unnecessary, for Marguerite was sleeping peacefully in her crib by the window.

  Lucille smiled. “As soon as Marguerite wakes up, I’ll warm some water and give her a bath. Our little darling always loves that. Don’t worry, madame. I’ll watch out for her as if she were my own.”

  “Don’t worry.” Easier said than done. Isabelle sighed, gave her sleeping daughter a kiss, and went out to the vineyards. It was time to say good-bye to Daniel.

  She had not reached the first row of vines when she saw Micheline coming toward her, or rather, running toward her.

  “Micheline . . .” Isabelle began, but the older woman waved off the pleasantries and did not slow down as she passed Isabelle.

  “No time, Isabelle, no time, I have to get more . . . !”

  “More?” More what? Frowning, Isabelle watched her friend scurry past. As much as Isabelle hated good-byes, a quick adieu couldn’t hurt, could it?

  When Isabelle finally spotted her cellar master among the vines, she frowned more deeply. Dressed in gray protective overalls, Daniel was standing among the vines with their delicate spring leaves and spraying them with a strange-looking liquid. Beside him stood several metal drums that presumably contained whatever it was he was spraying. He was so focused on his work that he did not hear her approach.

  “Daniel! What in the world are you doing?”

  He jumped at her voice. Then he put the spraying equipment down on the ground and went to her.

  “Isabelle . . .” He did not seem especially pleased to see her.

  “What are you doing?” Isabelle asked again. “And what’s gotten into Micheline? She just ran past me like the devil was after her.”

  Daniel sighed deeply, his eyes wandering from the metal canisters to her. “Oh, Isabelle, I wanted to spare you the bad news on the morning of your departure.”

  “What bad news?” Isabelle almost shrieked.

  “Yesterday evening, Micheline discovered some galling on the underside of the young leaves on some vines in her northern parcel. The galls are little brown growths that don’t belong there.”

  “So what?” asked Isabelle, her impatience growing. A bit of discoloration on the leaves wasn’t the end of the world, was it?

  “It means that phylloxera aphids have returned to Hautvillers. A few years ago, we had an infestation of the things; that time, we got off lightly. This year, God only knows.”

  Isabelle took a deep breath. “But . . . who . . . how . . .” This couldn’t be happening. Isabelle’s knees grew weak just thinking about it. She sat down helplessly on one of the drums.

  Of all the bad news that might affect her vines, this was the worst she could think of.

  In recent years, phylloxera had decimated large areas in the southern part of Champagne. Hundreds of livelihoods were lost, and it would probably be generations before the vineyards were fully restocked. The vintners she had met in Troyes, who were trying to sell their champagne to the Americans, had had tears in their eyes when they told her about the blight that had befallen them.

  “How could this happen?” she cried in despair, and with a hint of accusation in her voice. “What makes you think that they’re here in our vines, too?” She stood up, almost in a panic, and plucked off a few young leaves. “Look! They’re perfect. The prettiest May green you’ll see. If we have to worry about anything, then it’s the Ice Saints just around the corner.”

  “Misery loves company—you’re right about that,” said Daniel through gritted teeth. “The fact that our vineyards aren’t yet showing any signs means nothing. Phylloxera live underground. They latch onto the roots and spread a deadly fungal infection in the process. The fungus kills off the roots. By the time we would see the first signs on the plant itself, it’s too late. But if they’ve reached Micheline’s vines, the danger is on the way!” He kicked so furiously at the ground that he broke out little chunks. Then he pointed to the spray bottle. “That’s a mix of water, sulfur, and copper.”

  “Insecticide? That should take care of them, shouldn’t it?” Isabelle looked trustingly at Daniel.

  He shrugged. “It might stop them from spreading this far. But if they’re already here, then nothing will help.”

  In her mind’s eye, Isabelle saw an image of grapevines picked clean. Vines with neither leaves nor grapes. Dry, lifeless wood . . . is that what would greet her on her return?

  “Oh, Daniel.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She had a sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to jump up and run away, to flee the constant stream of problems.

  “Don’t hang your head just yet. If we’re lucky, this particular storm will pass us by,” said Daniel softly, and he sat on one of the canisters beside her. He took her hand and squeezed it. For a long moment they sat there, staring at nothing.

  It was Daniel who broke the silence. “I have an idea that I’d like to discuss with you. It would protect us from the phylloxera once and for all.”

  Isabelle turned to listen.

  “I’d like to replace all our vines, bit by bit, with phylloxera-resistant rootstock.”

  “Phylloxera what?”

  “Grapevines that are resistant to the aphids. You need to have what they call vignes-mères—mother vines or rootstock—that are absolutely resistant to phylloxera. This rootstock would then have our grape varieties grafted onto it. They specialize in producing these vignes-mères in the south, and I’d like to order plants for our vineyards from there. Not for all of them at once, of course, but we should start with at least a few acres. What do you think?”

  More costs, thought Isabelle anxiously.

  “But aren’t we already too late in the year?” she asked. “I remember reading in one of Jacques’s books that new vines are always planted in March.”

  “Better late than never.” Daniel shrugged. “Besides, the two women we’d need to have for the grafting—the two real experts—wouldn’t have had any time in March. Every year, they spend March and April working for Henriette Trubert.” His expression darkened at the thought of his old employer.

  It was no different for Isabelle. The old witch was one step ahead of her, yet again.

  “I have no doubt that it’s all very expensive,” she said despondently.

  “I know a few of the vignes-mères suppliers very well. I could try to arrange a deferred payment with them. I’m sure they would agree to being paid in three months’ time. And as far as the two women are concerned, they’re incredibly fast. They can do up to fifteen hundred plants a day and do outstanding work. If you agree, I’ll book them for two days at the end of May.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Isabelle sighed.

  “If we want to survive in the long-term, then no.” Daniel embraced her and kissed her tentatively on the forehead. “We’ll make it! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”

  Pressed to Daniel’s chest, Isabelle noticed from the corner of her eye Claude leading the two horses out of the stall. He would hitch them to the wagon and drive it around to the front of the house. And suddenly, the torment of parting was too much for her. What would she have given to be able to stay there in Daniel’s arms? But at the same time, any doubt she had had about her pending journey dissolved instantly in the face of this new threat. The pain she felt at leaving, her fears—she had to forget all of it. She took a
deep breath and said, “You’re right. We can’t capitulate to a tiny aphid. I’ll go sell your champagne. For what we have ahead of us, we’ll need every franc I can bring back home.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Faster! Faster! Gallop, you miserable nag!”

  “Come on, White Princess!”

  Wringing her hands, Isabelle stood in the grandstand at Vienna’s Freudenau Racecourse and, like the other spectators at the racetrack, cheered on her favorite. She had no eye for the virtues of the facility itself, the beautiful country meadows on which it was situated, or even for the radiant May day that flooded the track and the visitors with sunshine from a clear blue sky. The place smelled of sawdust and horse sweat, expensive perfume and excitement. But all that held Isabelle’s attention were the goings-on down on the track, even though, when they had first arrived, Raymond practically had to force her to bet a few coins on one of the horses. Isabelle had no desire to stand there like a spoilsport, so she chose a mare simply because she liked her name. And now it looked as if White Princess might actually gallop home first.

  “Run, White Princess, run!” Isabelle cried. In her excitement, she dug her fingers into Raymond’s right arm. The women around them had long before given up their aplomb and were jumping around and cheering or cursing, depending on which horse they had bet on. The men acted more casual about the whole affair, but if one looked more closely, one could see that they gripped their walking sticks so tightly their knuckles turned white. One man sucked so forcefully on his cigar that the ash tumbled onto his jacket.

  The last race of the day finished with White Princess placing second. Isabelle still beamed; she would never have believed that a visit to the racecourse could be so exciting.

  “What amazing fun that was!” said the owner of the Hotel Imperial, patting at her red cheeks with gloved hands. “Maybe I should get out of my office more often!” She giggled girlishly.

  Her friend, Countess Esterhazy, nodded. “We needed a Frenchman to come along and drag us out of our ivory tower.” She spontaneously squeezed Raymond’s arm. “No wonder we look forward so much to your visits. You’ve always got something new on the boil.”

  “If you say so,” replied Raymond, with both charm and modesty. Then he looked around at the group that had gathered around him. “May I invite you all, ladies and gentlemen, to a little refreshment? Fresh strawberry cake at the Spritzer Café and perhaps a glass of champagne?”

  Isabelle smiled when Raymond offered his arms to the two women and led them in the direction of the elegant café on the fringe of the racecourse. Chatting happily, the rest of the group followed them.

  “Well, my dear widow Feininger, what do you think of our Vienna?” asked Gottlieb Bauer, another of their little group and the owner of one of the most splendid restaurants in the city, at Stephansplatz.

  “It’s beautiful!” Isabelle reeled off the list of the sights she had already visited. She was also astonished by the outstanding celebrity of Raymond’s business contacts. Most were purveyors to the Imperial and Royal Monarchy, but his clientele also included Countess Esterhazy. If the countess decided that she preferred a particular drink or dish, then its respective vendor would do well to have plentiful stock of it, because half of Vienna would soon be following suit.

  “I am so glad to be able to experience so many wonderful days here in the city,” Isabelle said.

  “And Vienna is proud and happy to be able to welcome the renowned and beautiful widow Feininger as its guest,” Gottlieb Bauer replied.

  The group sat down at a sunlit table by the window. Small bouquets of roses decorated the table, which had been set with white damask, Nymphenburg porcelain, and silver cutlery. Two champagne coolers stood by the table—it came as no surprise to see the Veuve Rougette in them: Raymond had already informed the owner of the café in advance about exactly what he wanted. Her escort was a perfectionist, no more and no less.

  Raymond, of course, could have sought out each of his customers individually in their respective places of business. He could have sat himself down at a table, pulled out a list of what he had to offer, and introduced one champagne after another. But traveling like this, he sold champagne in a far more elegant and less obtrusive way, with a style that Isabelle had first had the opportunity to observe in Munich.

  Raymond took his customers out of their usual surroundings, offering them something out of the ordinary, and relying on what he called the “champagne state of mind”—a great help when it came to placing large orders—to develop all by itself. For many Viennese, a visit to the racecourse might be nothing special, but for these men and women, corseted tightly within the inflexibilities of social convention and business appointments, Raymond’s invitation was an adventure. At first, it had confused Isabelle that one hardly so much as mentioned champagne during such outings. Now, she smiled as she remembered their first meeting in Munich.

  They had spent hours sitting in the English Garden with the owner of Munich’s largest gourmet food shop. Like Isabelle, the woman was a widow, and together they had talked about the breeding of standard poodles, the businesswoman’s personal hobby. With every stud that the woman spoke rapturously about, Isabelle grew more and more unsettled. At breakfast, Raymond had boasted that he was counting on an order of twelve hundred bottles of Feininger champagne, so when—blast it all!—would the talk finally swing around to business? Isabelle had put together a carefully worded speech about the ambitious goals that she and her cellar master were pursuing, and it seemed that no one wanted to hear a word of it.

  “Word of your success as a breeder has naturally spread far beyond Munich,” said Raymond when the woman was done telling them in detail about her most recent litter. “Though I don’t own one myself, I love dogs above all other animals. As a token of my recognition for your breeding work, I had a crate of Feininger champagne sent to you last week,” he went on. “A first-class Feininger rosé—nothing else would do. I trust it was the right choice for you and the buyers of your puppies?”

  Horrified, Isabelle inhaled sharply. Her champagne was supposed to be sold in the woman’s famous gourmet shop, not set before any old dog owners!

  “Ah, the widow’s pink champagne. Just delicious.” The woman nodded with satisfaction. “You know,” she said in her strong Bavarian dialect, “the people only ever expect the best from us, not only with the dogs, but with everything.” She turned away from Raymond and looked at Isabelle. “It’s a good champagne you’ve got there, Frau Feininger. And such a pretty picture on the bottle. I wonder if the artist might paint my dogs? How many bottles of Veuve Rougette could we have?” The last question was again directed at Raymond.

  Raymond’s face transformed to a look of concern. “Not as many as I’m sure you would like,” he said with regret.

  “But—” Isabelle began, only to be immediately interrupted by Raymond’s warning glance.

  “Oh, come now,” the businesswoman had said, poking Raymond playfully in the ribs. “Getting me all excited and then ducking? That’s not fair! Two thousand bottles is what I want. We’ve got a big year this year!”

  “So what do you say, shall we take a ride on the Ferris wheel in Prater after this?” said Raymond now, when they all had their strawberry cake in front of them and had clinked their glasses of Feininger champagne.

  Instead of answering, the owner of the Hotel Imperial peered as if in a trance at the countless tiny pearls in her glass. Countess Esterhazy, too, seemed to have no great interest in a ride on a big wheel. “Ravishing,” she sighed, over the top of her glass. “My dear widow Feininger, you have created a wonderful drop here! From now on, this is the only champagne I drink,” she announced, and took another big mouthful.

  Isabelle smiled delightedly.

  “A wise decision,” said Raymond, and lifted his glass in a toast to the countess. “There is only one drink on earth that can make a beautiful woman more beautiful—champagne! I would add that rosé certainly does justice to its name
; it adds a special rosy hue to a lady’s complexion.”

  “Then I shall make sure I keep a little private stock of Feininger Rougette,” said the manageress of the Hotel Imperial, patting her cheeks, again pale, affectedly.

  “And what about a little for me, my ladies?” said Gottlieb Bauer then. “If I may be permitted, I would very much like to stock Veuve Rougette myself. In the coming months, Stephansplatz will host celebrations practically back-to-back—not including New Year’s Eve. I can tell you now that the guests at my restaurant will have a great thirst for champagne.”

  Raymond smiled mildly. “It will take me a small miracle to satisfy all your wishes, you know!” He winked gleefully at Isabelle.

  “Today, we’re going to treat ourselves to a day off, just for us,” said Raymond during breakfast the next morning in the elegant dining room of the Hotel Imperial. Isabelle, who was reading a note she had just received from Lucille, nodded absently. Marguerite was developing wonderfully well, Lucille wrote, then she listed all the things that she and little Marguerite had been doing together. It seemed the young woman had gotten into the habit of going out into the vineyards with the pram and lending a hand among the vines. She enjoyed the work very much, Lucille wrote, and the fresh air did Marguerite good. How reassuring. And yet the thought of red-cheeked, full-breasted young Lucille working side by side with Daniel did not please Isabelle at all. More important, though, she appreciated the brief updates, which reassured Isabelle that Marguerite was not wanting in any way while she was gone.