“Did I hear you correctly? We have no business scheduled for today?” she asked when she had folded Lucille’s letter again and tucked it into her handbag.
“You have just over a third of your champagne stock left. I’m sure you’d like to create as much of a furor with that in your hometown as you have in Munich and Vienna, wouldn’t you?”
“If anyone has caused a furor, then I would look no further than yourself,” Isabelle replied rather ruefully. “I’m coming to think that my being here isn’t really necessary at all. You are the one persuading these people. You and Daniel’s artistry.”
So they had already sold most of it! Raymond had the exact numbers in his order book—he received a commission for every bottle sold, after all—but Isabelle had kept a rough count in her head as well, and she was happy to have that confirmed. She tore excitedly at the crumbly croissant on her plate.
Raymond refilled her coffee. “Practicing your false modesty, my dear? Every one of my customers has assured me of how happy they were to meet the beautiful, clever widow Feininger in person.”
Isabelle smiled. “Let’s not argue about who is more responsible for our success. The main point is that our trip is a success!”
“That, my dear, is beyond doubt.” Raymond took another sip of coffee. “I do, in fact, have one appointment late this afternoon, but I won’t be introducing your champagne there. My other brands have to have some exposure, too. But until five this afternoon, we’re as free as two birds.” He made a playful fluttering movement with his hands. “We could take a walk through the city, go to one of the many museums, visit the Spanish Riding School, or stroll through the garden at Schönbrunn Palace—whatever you feel like.”
Isabelle leaned back in the soft upholstery of her chair. “A day for nothing but pleasure,” she said pensively. “I can’t remember the last time I had a day like that. At home, it’s always work, work, work. You finish one task, and the next one is already waiting for you.”
“A woman like you ought to be enjoying her life, not spending her days slaving like a farmer’s wife,” he said reproachfully. “May I make a suggestion? Let’s just go for a walk. I am certain we will see Vienna at its best.”
And they did. They ambled along Mariahilfer Strasse, where elegant shops were lined up side by side. So many beautiful things! Again and again, small cries of delight escaped Isabelle. When her feet began to ache, they stopped a carriage, which took them to the Hotel Sacher. There, they drank hot cocoa, and Raymond nagged Isabelle into trying a slice of the hotel’s famous Sacher torte.
“If you keep forcing food into me like this, I won’t fit into any of my dresses anymore,” she protested, laughing, then immediately stabbed the chocolate cake with her fork.
In Alfred Gerngross’s department store, Isabelle spent a good hour going through their enormous selection of fabrics. Her dresses still fit her, to be sure, but her wardrobe, most of which had come with her from Berlin, was hopelessly old-fashioned. Alongside the stylishly dressed women she was meeting, she felt like an ugly duckling, and she did not want that to happen the next time she went abroad. She had just decided on a length of taffeta and another of silk. She wondered aloud about which seamstress in Hautvillers she could entrust with the valuable cloth, and Raymond asked whether they might not do better to look for a ready-made dress.
They moved on to Herzmansky’s store on Stiftgasse, where Isabelle stared in disbelief at the racks of hundreds and hundreds of dresses. Day dresses and opulent ball gowns made of fine silk and warm woolen fabric. Matching gloves, hats, and scarves were displayed in glass cabinets, and the store even sold shoes. Isabelle would have loved to try on every dress, but when she saw the prices, discreetly attached at the hem of each dress, she blanched. A single dress cost more than she paid Claude and Daniel together in a month!
Raymond, noticing her reticence and interpreting it correctly, said, “You have brought me a great deal of luck on this trip, Isabelle. Not only has your champagne sold well, but the other brands I represent have also. Allow me to make a gift to you of two or three dresses, please! And look at these wonderful shoes; you should try them on, too.” He repeated his offer so insistently that Isabelle finally gave in.
While Raymond sat in a leather armchair and accepted the offer of a glass of cognac, Isabelle followed one of the saleswomen into a spacious changing room. She tried on first one dress and then another, proudly presenting them to Raymond, who turned out to be not very helpful, because he found all of them beautiful. Isabelle giggled. It was like being a child again, when Papa accompanied her and Maman when they went shopping.
“Send them to the Hotel Imperial,” Raymond instructed the saleswoman when he had paid for the three dresses that Isabelle liked the most. Then she took his arm, and they stepped back out on the street. Isabelle, dizzy from trying on so many dresses, followed him blindly, and it was only when they had gone several blocks that she realized they were not walking in the direction of the hotel, but back toward the store where she had first looked at all the fabric.
Raymond, who saw the puzzled look on her face, stifled his smile. “Thought we were finished, did you? No, it can’t be that only Mama Isabelle gets to pretty herself up; we’re going to buy some of that lovely material, and you can have something beautiful tailored for your little daughter as well. I’m sure I saw you admiring some delicate pink lace earlier.”
Isabelle was in seventh heaven.
The blissful feeling did not subside later that evening. “What a good idea to come here,” said Isabelle, taking a bite of her grilled mackerel.
When Raymond returned from his business meeting, he did not take her to an elegant restaurant as he normally did, but out to Vienna’s expansive Prater park. Now, they were sitting in one of the rustic restaurants that offered simple fare in the shadow of the huge Ferris wheel. It was a warm evening, and the Prater was full of young couples in love, holding hands and laughing as they strolled among the trees and across the meadows. The smoky smell of the mackerel that Raymond and Isabelle had decided on for dinner mixed with the scent of the roses, in full bloom, that climbed the wooden wall of the restaurant.
Were the roses in her vineyards blooming, too? she wondered. As quickly as the question appeared in Isabelle’s mind, so did it disappear again. Hautvillers, the vineyards, the phylloxera—it was all so far away.
“The simplest things in life can be wonderful when one enjoys them together,” said Raymond and he smiled fondly at her. “What is it they say? Joy shared is joy doubled.”
Isabelle nodded. “And nothing is worse than loneliness.” Like the time after Leon died, she thought to herself. For a moment, neither said a word, but then Isabelle dragged herself out of her gloomy thoughts. She took a sip of her wine and said, “This trip . . . to be honest, I was a little afraid of it. I had no idea what was waiting for me out here. And now, every day is more beautiful than the one before it. If I just think of all the wonderful people I’ve had the honor to meet . . . and the elegant hotels, the many unforgettable moments. Like this one.” She swung one hand wide, a gesture encompassing the whirl of activity in the Prater. “I truly believe that today was one of the loveliest days of my life.”
“And yet, the best is still to come: your triumphal march to Berlin!” said Raymond.
“Triumphal march—that remains to be seen,” Isabelle replied, frowning.
She was, of course, looking forward to seeing Josephine and Clara again. Clara especially, from whom she had not heard since her last visit and to whom she wanted to take a huge bouquet of flowers to apologize for her own unforgivable behavior.
“Visiting my old hometown again—frankly, the thought makes me feel a little panicky. Back then, you know, I left Berlin literally overnight and followed Leon blindly. My father had completely different marriage plans for me, and after I left, he cut me off; I was supposed to marry into Berlin society, and those people, I’m quite sure, did not think very much of my actions. And now I’m s
upposed to sell my champagne to the same high society?”
Raymond, who had been listening closely, laughed out loud. “Don’t lose any sleep about Berlin society. Between us, we’ll have them wrapped around our little fingers. But your parents . . . have you really lost contact with them completely?”
Isabelle nodded unhappily.
“That can be changed,” said Raymond slowly. “An arranged meeting . . .”
Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t know.” One hand went to her throat as if to loosen a too-tight collar. “Meeting them again, after all that’s happened?”
Raymond smiled gently at her. “It’s just a thought, no more. I want you to be happy and to feel comfortable. Nothing else matters.”
“I am happy. This whole trip is like a long, lovely dream. After all the troubles in the last few months, I never would have thought it possible to feel so . . . so at ease again.” She shook her head. “And I owe all of it to you.” She took his hand and squeezed it.
A carafe of fine mineral water stood on the nightstand, and beside it, a bowl of sliced fruit. The chambermaid had turned back the eiderdown for the night—in the Hotel Imperial, no luxury was spared when it came to the comfort of tired travelers. But Raymond felt anything but tired just then; in fact, he felt more fresh and alive than he had felt in a very long time. For a moment, he considered going back down to the bar for a cognac, but then he thought better of it. Early the next morning, they would be leaving for Berlin. The trip would be long and arduous, and it would be better to have a good night’s sleep behind him before embarking on such a journey.
Raymond was about to climb into bed when he noticed the cream-colored envelope lying beside the fruit bowl. His curiosity turned to a deep frown when he recognized the handwriting. What in the world did Henriette Trubert want from him?
Hautvillers, May 15
Dear Raymond,
I hope my letter finds you in good health. Everything is running as usual here in Champagne. Last week I was in Reims and decided to visit your shop. Your assistant there, Madame Colette, was as stiff as if she had swallowed a stick, and I am far from confident that your customers are happy with her, or if you will be happy with her revenues.
Raymond grimaced. It was May 22, so the letter had been posted a week earlier. Madame Colette was the spinsterish daughter of a vigneron. She certainly understood something of the industry, but had such an aloof manner that she could almost be described as unsociable, not an ideal trait when one worked in the sales field. His customers would have to accept it until Raymond found someone to replace her because if everything went according to plan, he would be traveling more often in the future.
Do you remember the trips we took together? We never made it beyond Paris, but we had some wonderful times, didn’t we?
Why was Henriette going back over that old history now? Was she getting sentimental in her later years? And, more important, why had she written him the letter at all? He could not remember telling her about the route he would be following, which meant that she must have gotten his address in Vienna from Madame Colette. He read on, and Henriette’s intentions quickly became clear: her insatiable nosiness. And greed.
I hope your courting of your wife-to-be has been a success? The mental picture I have of the young widow Feininger lying in your arms makes me very happy. You have been alone far too long, my darling. And loneliness makes old men strange. Besides, I’m sure you will do your best to talk your future bride into getting rid of that millstone, namely her estate, as quickly as possible. You should be free to share a wonderful, unfettered life, after all. And to travel to whatever far-off countries you like. You know I’m ready, and that I pay well. My offer will convince even you, my shrewd businessman.
Raymond did not know if he ought to laugh or be outraged at such brazenness. Typical Henriette!
But if anyone had a couple of aces up his sleeve, he did. Dear Henriette did not know it yet, but she was the last person in the world he would sell the Feininger estate to. But all of that was a long way off, and he still had a good deal of work ahead of him.
Work—the word sounded so dry. Winning Isabelle was not work, he rebuked himself. She was the most captivating being he knew. He could have sat for hours, just looking at her. It was no different for other men, he knew, and he practically nourished himself on the envious looks cast in his direction whenever he appeared with Isabelle on his arm. She was clever, articulate without being talkative, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. She could even laugh at herself—a talent very few people had. She was the woman he had spent his life waiting for. After all his professional success, winning Isabelle would be the crowning achievement of his life. Through her, he would dupe old age: when he was around her, he felt younger and more agile than he had in twenty years. “Madame Isabelle Dupont”—the name rang softly and harmoniously in his ears.
But did she feel the same way? Could she imagine a life at his side? After all the long coach rides and train trips, after all the excursions, dinners, visits to the opera, and everything else they had done together in the last few weeks, he still could not say with any certainty where he stood with her. It was clear to him that she felt some affection for him. She showed him as much, again and again, like that same evening in the Prater. And she admired him greatly as a businessman.
He frowned. Or did she still only see him as a fatherly friend?
Raymond suddenly had the feeling that he could not spend a minute more than necessary with this question. He dressed quickly, snatched up the key to his room, and went out.
Down in the bar, he was met by the sound of a piano being played softly. A few night owls, returning from the opera or the theater, were seated at small tables and drinking champagne or wine. Raymond took a seat at the bar and ordered a cognac. Then he leaned back to listen to the piano. It wasn’t long before his earlier train of thought returned.
In the first two weeks of their journey, Isabelle had been as skittish as a young horse under a saddle for the first time. Her thoughts were constantly turning to her daughter and the estate. Did they really have phylloxera to deal with now, too? What would the rootstock cost that Daniel wanted to order? Things had been particularly bad in Munich on the anniversary of Leon’s death, where she had come to breakfast distraught, her eyes red from crying. That same day, Raymond had scheduled an appointment with an important customer, but it would have been impossible to take Isabelle with him in that state. To sell champagne, or anything else, one needed to be in a good mood. So he had ordered a carriage and instructed the driver to take Isabelle for a long drive along the meadows beside the Isar river. The green of the meadowlands and the sound of wavelets along the shore had apparently done her good, for when they met again in the hotel late that afternoon, she was in much better spirits.
The pianist reached the end of his melody, and the guests responded with light applause. Raymond waved the young man over and pressed a coin into his hand. Then he asked him to play something jauntier. Maybe that would turn his head to happier thoughts. When he thought about it, however, he realized that he was not actually unhappy, but simply impatient. And Isabelle was not the kind of woman whose heart could be won in a hurry.
In any case, he sensed that her anxiety and thoughts about her home had diminished over the course of their journey, and that she was more . . . with him.
Raymond emptied his glass. The big question was, would she say yes if he asked her to marry him?
Deep inside, he believed that she would, but a grain of uncertainty remained. He hoped that, in Berlin at the latest, he would feel wholly confident. If everything went as planned there, Isabelle could hardly do anything else but accept him.
Chapter Forty-Two
It was an odd feeling to walk again through the streets where she had grown up, and Isabelle hoped she would not see her mother or father by accident. The farther she walked along Görlitzer Strasse, the stronger the feeling of strangeness became. Had it really been only two years
since her sudden departure? It felt like decades.
The old shoemaker’s shop was still there, and the pharmacy run by Anton Berg, Clara’s father. Reutter’s Emporium, the department store on the corner, had actually gotten bigger, and a milliner’s had opened up next door. Despite its inviting display, Isabelle had too much on her mind to spend very long looking at the pretty head coverings. From the Görlitzer train station came the brake squealing and hissing of arriving trains, while from the smithy operated by Josephine’s father came the penetrating stink of singed hooves. Luisenstadt still seemed to be a lively part of the city. Only at Josephine’s former workshop were the shutters closed, and the house that Isabelle’s friend had inherited from old Frieda gave an impression of being looked after but not lived in. Isabelle frowned. Hadn’t Josephine and Adrian moved in there after they were married? She hadn’t heard anything about them moving. Confused, she walked in the direction of Clara’s house on the next corner. Clara would know.
“Isabelle! What a surprise.”
“Bonjour, Clara!” Isabelle did an exaggerated curtsy. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say exactly when Raymond and I would get here, or I would have gotten in touch,” she said and handed Clara the bouquet. “That’s for you. I know I can’t possibly make up for my intolerable behavior when you visited, but I would at least like to apologize.” Less flippantly, she added, “I simply did not want to believe that something was wrong with Marguerite, you know?”
Hesitantly, Clara accepted the bouquet through the half-open door. “That really wasn’t necessary,” she murmured. “Is Raymond . . . also here?” She looked almost fearfully over Isabelle’s shoulder.
Isabelle laughed. “Oh, God no! I left him in the Grand Hotel. I prefer to meet my girlfriends unaccompanied. But don’t you want to offer me a cup of coffee? Or have I come at a bad time? I can go to Josephine first, and we could meet later on. Where is she, by the way? Did she and Adrian move?”
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 42