His lips tasted of champagne and of the cigar he had smoked in the bar. Before she could separate from him again, his arms closed around her.
“Not only the world, but my heart with it.”
The first thing that crossed Isabelle’s mind in the morning was not how nice it was to once again wake up next to a man. The feel of soft breathing beside her, a warm body. Nor was it anything about how good it felt to be desired and caressed as a woman. The first thing she thought when she opened her eyes was: What have I done?
A soft groan rose from her throat, and she hurriedly pressed her lips together. But Raymond, lying on his back, relaxed, went on sleeping soundly. No snoring escaped his lips; no frown marred his face. Even in his sleep, he looked self-possessed, almost superior. Isabelle edged away from him with care, not wanting to wake him with some careless movement. She wanted to get out of the bed, to run away, far away! She wanted to be alone, to think about what had happened. To breathe in some fresh air, clear her head so she could think coherently. But she stayed where she was. In the bed that she had made.
She and Raymond. He was a handsome man and always so attentive to her. The ball, the wine served in the palace, and then all the champagne at the bar . . . She was not surprised that she had lost her head. She hoped that she had not made too embarrassing a spectacle of herself. If only she could better recall all that had happened! But the previous night was like a patchwork quilt in her memory, with pieces missing everywhere.
But was she taking it too easy on herself by blaming all her levity and recklessness on the alcohol? Hadn’t last night been the natural consequence not only of that night but of all the weeks that preceded it? Had she simply refused to acknowledge the direction their relationship was going? And there was Daniel back home . . .
Her head swimming with thoughts, Isabelle stared toward the window. The heavy velvet curtains were still drawn. It would have been easy to extend the night, to pick up where they had left off hours earlier. To press her body to his, her body as a gift of love. Instead, Isabelle covered her nakedness with the silken bedcovers.
Lying in Raymond’s arms had not been uncomfortable. The opposite was true, in fact—he knew how to give a woman pleasure. A flame had been kindled, and yet their lovemaking had not turned the flame into an all-consuming fire, as it always had with Leon. All Leon had to do was touch her to make every fiber of her body tremble; with Leon, her heart overflowed with happiness, and her soul rejoiced with love. But where had her heart and soul been the night before with Raymond?
Raymond awoke a little later. He blinked twice as if to reassure himself of reality, then a smile spread across his face. He propped himself on one elbow, kissed Isabelle softly on the forehead and said, “Thank you for last night. It was wonderful.”
Isabelle smiled back tensely. Before she could ask him to leave her alone, he had already stood up and was gathering his clothes from where they lay strewn around the bed.
“Breakfast in two hours?” Without waiting for her answer, he left the room.
A gentleman to the core. And understanding, too. Filled with relief, Isabelle looked at the door he had just walked through.
Now they were sitting on opposite sides of a table in the hotel’s breakfast room.
“May I order you an egg? Or some smoked fish?” asked Raymond, handing the basket of bread across to Isabelle.
“Thank you, yes. Something savory would do me good.” She nodded in the direction of the high windows. “Another sunny day. Good traveling weather, isn’t it?”
“The heavens smile when angels travel—isn’t that what they say in Germany?”
They laughed together. Two travelers, two people who liked each other, who passed the marmalade and honey and made conversation. And who talked to each other like strangers.
In the train to Frankfurt—the first leg of their homeward journey—Raymond began the conversation that Isabelle had been fearing since she awoke.
“Isabelle . . . ,” he began, and Isabelle knew exactly what was coming from the way he intoned her name. She looked around, as if for an escape route or someone to distract them, but just at that moment the first-class compartment was empty. “Until now, I have chosen my words with care, but now that I would like to confess my love to you, I no longer know how to begin.” He lifted one hand in a gesture of helplessness.
Silence, sometimes, is golden, Isabelle wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She had never experienced Raymond at a loss for words.
“I have met many women in my life, but none was ever good enough for me. All my life, I’ve dreamed of a woman like you, and I was on the verge of losing hope. Then I met you, and my dream came true after all. Do you still remember the first time you came to my shop? To me, then, it felt like a fateful encounter.”
Isabelle’s smile was constrained. “Fate, coincidence—who can say for certain?” Life had taught her not to read too much into such events.
He waved one hand dismissively, as if to keep away anything that might divert him from expressing his thoughts.
“Since I’ve known you, my days have been brighter, as if the sun has been shining down forever.” To underline his words, he gestured toward the radiant blue sky curving over the landscape around them. “Dear Isabelle, could you imagine a life at my side? We could travel, spend our nights in magnificent hotels, see the world. My place in Reims is luxurious and big enough for both of us. We could run my business together. You with your charm, and me with my expertise.” He took both her hands in his; Isabelle felt the pressure and warmth of his fingers. “Isabelle, marry me, and I’ll give you a heaven here on earth. I think I’ve shown on this journey, at least a little, that I am capable of that, haven’t I? The honor alone of being allowed to sit at the German emperor’s own table . . .”
Had he been trying to bait her with that? She frowned, and then she said, “And I am thankful for all of that. But your proposal still comes . . . very suddenly.”
“Suddenly? After last night . . .” Raymond smiled. “When a woman gives herself to a man, he can surely take that as a sign of her favor, can’t he?”
Embarrassed, Isabelle turned her eyes away. So this is what she got . . .
For a long moment, neither said a word. Then Raymond spoke again. “Think about how good it would be. After all your hard work, it’s time—high time—that you enjoyed your life. You’re young; you’re beautiful. Why would you want to waste your beauty and energy growing grapes? Look no further than Henriette Trubert to see what that kind of life can do to a woman.”
Isabelle laughed for a moment. “That’s all well and good, but then who’s supposed to look after the estate? I have no interest whatsoever in selling; that place is my husband’s legacy, and I will do everything I can to keep it safe for my daughter.”
“So far, you haven’t exactly had an easy time of it. Without Daniel’s help and my own, you would hardly have managed it at all,” Raymond replied, rather directly. “Daniel Lambert grew up on your estate, and he knows it ten times better than you. With him to lease the place, the vineyards and the entire operation would be in the very best hands. Let him look after all of it—you’d be doing the right thing!”
Isabelle nodded, considering the idea. Daniel Lambert and the Feininger lands were as interwoven as the tendrils of two grapevines growing side by side. In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing among the vines, trimming a too-long shoot, tying another in place. All these things were second nature to him. Daniel . . . A wrench of longing tugged at her heart.
Raymond, encouraged by her nodding, went on. “And your daughter, of course she would have the best of care. There are outstanding homes in Reims; the Sisters of Notre Dame have an excellent name when it comes to . . . special children. Many of my well-to-do customers have left their children in the care of the sisters. They—”
“Marguerite in a home? Never!” Isabelle interrupted him sharply. Her heart began to beat faster, as if she were confronted with a terrible danger. �
�Marguerite is the best thing that ever happened to me. She belongs to me, and whatever may come, I will never separate from her. No one, no man in this world, would be worth separating from her.” Her eyes sparkled fiercely, if she were ready to physically defend her daughter there and then.
“I know how much your daughter means to you,” Raymond said appeasingly. “It was a suggestion on my part, no more. There are so many possibilities, and possibilities can always be discussed, can’t they?” Suddenly, his voice sounded like an out-of-tune instrument.
“Please give me some time.” With those words, Isabelle had broken off their discussion.
Frankfurt. Saarbrücken. Metz.
A silence had settled over them, a silence that grew more agonizing with every passing minute. With every small movement she made—shifting in her seat, fetching something from her handbag, opening the window a fraction—she sensed Raymond’s gaze on her. He was waiting for her answer. And he expected a yes.
But with every rattling mile in the train, Isabelle put more and more distance between her and her traveling companion. And with every mile that drew them closer to Champagne, her conviction grew that the night she had spent with Raymond had been a mistake. A serious mistake. The whole trip, the new customers, the prestigious orders that had secured her financial future—she would be grateful to him for all of that, forever. And though gratitude and affection might be siblings, they were not lovers.
In Reims, they went their separate ways. Isabelle promised that she would be in touch. Raymond replied with a small nod. He had enough experience in life to know that no answer was also an answer. Whether he could accept that was another matter entirely.
Isabelle had sent a message to Lucille from Berlin to advise her she would soon be home; she had not, however, been able to tell her the exact day on which Claude should drive into Reims to collect her. But in front of the Notre Dame cathedral, as usual, there were horse-drawn coaches willing to take paying passengers to Épernay, Hautvillers, or wherever else they were headed. Isabelle quickly negotiated a price with one of the drivers. Instead of sitting inside the coach, she asked the man if she might sit next to him on the driver’s seat. She needed desperately to breathe some fresh air.
With a cluck of the driver’s tongue, the horses got moving. The last stretch. Isabelle breathed in deeply, trying to calm her inner trembling. She would soon be home! Finally, after all these weeks, she would be able to take Marguerite in her arms and kiss her again. She would see Daniel, too. And her vineyards. And then there was Micheline, Ghislaine, Claude, and Lucille. Her friends . . . she had brought something with her for each of them, and for Marguerite, of course, she had several presents. She wanted to ask the driver to go faster, but she knew she would be asking in vain; the coachmen did everything they could to protect their horses and keep them fit for pulling heavy loads of champagne.
While Isabelle struggled with her impatience, the horses trotted sedately through the forests that lay between Reims and the vineyards of Hautvillers.
And then it came—the moment she had unconsciously been waiting for throughout the entire journey. The forests cleared, and in front of them lay the Montagne de Reims, the endless sea of grapevines. Gently rolling hills that fell away and rose again, lush green over the silvery, chalky earth, and in between the deep-red blooms of the roses.
A blissful smile spread across Isabelle’s face. The gentle breeze carried the scent of the roses to her, and once again, the magic of the Champagne region took her as a willing captive, just as it had the first time she had arrived there.
How little I knew back then, thought Isabelle. How self-important and presumptuous. No wonder Daniel had looked down on her, the city girl, and mocked her. Many things had changed since then. She had changed, and the trip with Raymond had contributed to that. Now, at least, she knew what she did not want: a life in a gilded cage. She had escaped from that once before, and she would never again allow such shackles to be put on her. She did not need that kind of security; her vineyards, her vines, and her friends gave her all the protection she needed.
All around, winegrowers and their helpers were at work with hoes, shears, and other tools. They stamped on spades to loosen the earth, carefully tied young shoots in place, snipped off superfluous leaves.
What tasks would be keeping Daniel and Claude busy right then? And what about the phylloxera? Isabelle moved back and forth restlessly on the driver’s seat; she could hardly wait to finally be home again and to hear all the news. Home . . .
The idea was simultaneously so comforting and so affecting that Isabelle could not contain a small sob.
“Everything all right, madame?” the coachman asked.
To his astonishment, she laughed out loud. Yes, now everything was all right.
The four wheels of the coach had not stopped turning when Isabelle jumped down from the driver’s seat. She opened the door to her house while the driver unloaded her copious luggage. No one responded to her calls, but instead of being disappointed at the lack of fanfare on her return, Isabelle smiled. She knew exactly where everyone would be.
She was still wearing her good city shoes, and the ground underfoot felt as soft as a velvet carpet. The blue sky with its wispy, feathery clouds was as beautiful as a painting. She made her way calmly in the direction of the vineyards. Now that she was finally home, there was no longer any need to hurry.
Soon, she was approaching the first vines. The leaves were a lush green, the grapes the size of cherry pits, and she saw no signs of phylloxera.
“Thank God,” she murmured to herself. At least that particular disaster seemed to have passed them by, and the Ice Saints, too. If it looked this good everywhere . . .
When she heard the sound of hoofbeats behind her, she turned around. It was Claude with the horses and cart.
“Madame Isabelle, you’re back! How wonderful to see you again!” He brought the horses to an abrupt halt. “Lucille and little Marguerite are with Daniel and the others in the southwest vineyards, all the way back. Come, I’ll drive you!”
Isabelle jumped deftly up onto the seat. In the back of the cart, on the open tray, she saw a large basket with bread, carafes of water, sausages, and other food. She smiled. “Have you been feeding the workers while I was away?”
“Someone had to,” Claude grumbled. “Dear Lucille eats no sausage or ham herself, so she doesn’t serve it to anyone else, either. Daniel and the day laborers kicked up a fuss when all they saw on the table was cheese and bread.”
Isabelle laughed. “Looks to me like you’ve been keeping everything well under control in my absence.” What day laborers? she wondered at the same time. Well, she would find out everything that mattered soon enough. From Daniel.
“Oh, we’ve been working shoulder to shoulder. But we missed having you here terribly,” Claude replied. Somewhat abashed, he looked straight ahead and added gruffly, “I, for one, am very glad to see you back.”
“And I’m so happy to finally be home again,” said Isabelle. “And starting tomorrow, I’ll be preparing the meals again!”
“That I’m happy to hear, madame. But tell me, how was your trip? Did the people like our champagne?”
“They liked it very much indeed,” she replied proudly. “Thanks to Monsieur Dupont, we’ve sold all our 1899 stock. Now we just have to keep our fingers crossed that the new customers are satisfied and stay with us in the years ahead,” she said, though the last words were spoken more to herself than to Claude. Raymond Dupont wouldn’t work against her, would he? Out of spite at her rejection? No, she could not believe he’d be like that. The man was loyal through and through.
“Now you. What’s new in the village?” she asked, and not just to distract herself from her thoughts, but because she really wanted to know.
“Oh, this and that,” Claude said mysteriously. “I’ve just come from the church down below . . . We should have met on the way up here.” He looked at her with a mischievous grin. “Micheline and I wan
t to get married, before the harvest. I went to talk to the minister about it.”
“You’re getting married? Congratulations!” Isabelle cried. “That’s fantastic. But . . . why now?”
Her elderly overseer shrugged. “Well, we wanted to tie the knot earlier, to be honest. But last year was all so topsy-turvy. But now that Daniel is here, and everything is looking so good . . .”
Isabelle nodded, deeply moved. She laid one hand on his arm. “Last year took it out of all of us. But with every catastrophe, you were there for me, and I’ll never forget that. Thank you,” she said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Claude redden.
“See the men over there?” he said, and pointed to a group of young men, many of whom were familiar to Isabelle. “Those are the day laborers I was telling you about. Hardworking lads, they’ve already helped us replant part of the vineyards. With the new vines Daniel brought in, we won’t have to worry about the phylloxera in the future. And you won’t see a weed in sight; the men are more than worth their wages. Everything is in very good shape.”
Isabelle could clearly hear the pride in his voice.
But at the same time, she was only half listening to him. Her gaze was fixed on the child’s crib with the white canopy that was set up in the shade, among the picturesque vines. A few steps away, Lucille was clearing weeds from between the rows of grapes.
“Marguerite . . .” Isabelle felt the tears come to her eyes. She jumped down from the coach.
“Madame! Welcome back!” Lucille’s face lit up when she saw Isabelle coming through the vines. Right away, she picked up Marguerite carefully from her crib and handed the child to her mother, then retreated a few steps.
“Marguerite, your mama is home,” Isabelle pulled her daughter close and closed her eyes as she held her tight. She had been waiting so long for this moment.
“Isabelle,” she heard the next moment. No more than a whisper. And the greatest declaration of love she could imagine.
The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) Page 44