The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (11 page)

Isabelle, whose nausea had only worsened with Carla’s enumeration of the ingredients, said miserably, “It’s really a very . . . special sausage, isn’t it?” She could not stand the smell of the innards anymore.

A short time later, the hostess returned to clear the table. With her eyebrows raised, she looked at Isabelle’s all-but-untouched plate.

“You didn’t like it? You’re probably just used to boring old potatoes.” The disdain in her voice was unmistakable. “You’d better get used to it. There’ll be a lot more that you’ll have trouble swallowing.”

Chapter Eleven

“We had a wonderful evening. We drank wine and chatted away and laughed.” Micheline Guenin sighed wistfully. “Claude tells such good stories. I could listen to him for hours.”

A smile flickered on Isabelle’s face as she looked from the washbasin to her neighbor, who was leaning against the window. Micheline sounded like a young girl in love!

She had gone to visit the Guenin sisters briefly to borrow a piece of soap. The basket of dirty wash was overflowing, and she could not put off the chore any longer, as much as she would have liked to. When Micheline had offered to help her, she accepted gladly. Since entering Isabelle’s house, the old woman had been going on about her evening at Le Grand Cerf. The picture she painted of Claude Bertrand was completely different from the one that Isabelle already had of him. Claude recited poetry? His cryptic humor had Micheline in tears? Well, it was always said that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

As wonderful as the evening had been for Micheline Guenin, Isabelle herself had found it terribly frustrating. And then, on the way home, Leon had told her that the agent from Trubert had apparently stolen away all their American customers. Isabelle had been stunned, scarcely able to believe what she heard. What an outrage!

She and Leon had sat up together in Jacques’s office until late in the night, debating what this meant for them. Leon, for the time being, was ready to write off the American customers and look for others closer to home, but Isabelle was not so willing to admit defeat. She wanted to write a letter to all the customers explaining the situation and asking them to reestablish the business relationships Jacques had started. In the meantime, Leon could court a new clientele in France. With this plan, Isabelle had fallen asleep at around two in the morning, exhausted but at least a little calmer.

The air in the laundry was so stiflingly hot that sweat was rolling down Isabelle’s forehead. With wet hands, she tugged at the window, but apart from breaking a nail, nothing happened. She sighed and made a mental note to repair the window as best she could when she was done with the laundry.

“Should I add more soap, or is it too foamy already?” she asked, looking at the opaque broth in the vat in which her delicate knickers and camisoles were drifting around like belly-up fish. Micheline was too busy staring dreamily out the window to answer, so Isabelle reached for the scrubbing brush as she had always seen Irmi, her mother’s maid in Berlin, do.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t!” Micheline cried. “Fine things like those need a gentle hand. Look, like this.” She reached into the lukewarm water with both hands and began to knead the thin fabric carefully.

Isabelle watched attentively. Running a household was a lot of work but also a lot of fun, she had been surprised to discover. Just the previous afternoon, she had hauled all of the Persian rugs out of the house, slung them over a rail, and beat them until the color came through properly again. Now, whenever she went through the rooms, the first thing that caught her eye were the carpets, and she was happy with what she’d achieved. She would have been ten times happier to take the first orders from Leon and process them, but as long as there was nothing for her to do on the business side, she could certainly make herself useful around the house.

“Done!” said Micheline, pulling Isabelle out of her thoughts. Leon’s underwear and Isabelle’s lace knickers and camisoles were already hanging wet and white in neat rows on the clothesline.

Almost tenderly, Micheline smoothed a pair of Isabelle’s underwear flat. “What I wouldn’t have given to be able to wear something like this when I was young. But for whom?”

Isabelle, who was emptying the washtub, looked at the older woman. “May I ask why you . . . I mean—”

“Why I never married?” Micheline finished Isabelle’s question. “It was how it is so often: the man I wanted married someone else. And I had no interest in the men who were interested in me. When it became clear that Marie and my brother would be childless, I thought it would be best if I stayed on the estate. An extra pair of hands couldn’t hurt, right? Not with all the work that needs to be done.”

Isabelle smiled and nodded. But a moment later, she grew serious again. “Your brother and Marie must have been very sad when they realized that God was not going to give them any children.”

“Oh, they had a child,” Micheline replied, which took Isabelle by surprise. “But the little one was not well. Not . . . normal.” Micheline was visibly sad as she relived the misfortunes of the past in her mind. “A boy. He was three weeks old when he died—it was a terrible thing. The doctor told them that there was a danger that the next child would be just as unwell, and Marie decided not to even try. After that, the three of us grew even closer.”

Micheline’s story had begun to give Isabelle the chills. But a great love in her old age . . . she would wish that for Micheline with all her heart.

“Not everything in our lives goes the way we once dreamed it might. But sometimes you get a second chance. And I don’t care what Marie says about it, I’m going to take that chance!” Micheline’s eyes shone as she turned back to the window, as if she hoped to see Claude outside just at that moment.

“Did Monsieur Bertrand mention to you that he might like to find a new job?” Isabelle held her breath.

Micheline looked back at her in surprise. “No! Should he?”

Isabelle hurriedly assured her that he did not.

“Well, you really put a fright into me,” said Micheline, laughing. “I can’t begin to imagine Claude moving away. Enough of that! You said earlier that you had a lot of work ahead of you today; if you like, I’d be happy to help you with some of it. Over there, all I’m going to hear are Marie’s admonitions and how improper a romantic liaison is at my age. Honestly, I’m not in the mood for that at all.”

A short time later, the two women were hard at work on the furniture in the living rooms, rubbing in a special liquid with old rags. It was a polish made of a few spoonfuls of oil, red wine, and a pinch of salt—a secret recipe of Micheline’s that quickly took care of all the scratches in the lackluster wood. That afternoon, when Isabelle stood back and admired their handiwork in the golden sunshine falling through the high windows, she felt pride and satisfaction.

“It might sound strange, but I’m in love with this house,” she murmured. “Whenever I go through the rooms, all I want to do is touch the furniture or stroke the velvet curtains. Whenever I walk past one of the windows, I have to stop and enjoy the magnificent views.” A little embarrassed, Isabelle smiled at Micheline. “Even today, I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else again. I feel so . . . like I’m where I belong!”

When they were done with the furniture, Micheline showed Isabelle how to cook potatoes and brew coffee properly.

“There’s so much to learn. In the house, the yard, the vineyards. In Jacques’s study, too. And all of it is important one way or another. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it all in,” Isabelle cried despairingly.

“Give yourself a little time, my dear. Reims wasn’t built in a day, either,” said Micheline with a wink. Then she untied her apron and said good-bye for the day.

Isabelle watched the old woman leave. She should give herself time? She and Leon had no time to spare! The last bit of money they had was disappearing like morning frost in the March sun. The competition had snatched Jacques’s American customers away, and they’d exploit every other weakness she or Leon showed, any way they could. They could only protect themselves if they kept their eyes and ears open and came to grips with the estate as quickly as they could.

Turning her thoughts back to the house, Isabelle wished Clara would send her a few cookbooks with simple recipes. Then she could at least check off the kitchen and cooking and spend her time on more important things.

When, a few days later, the postman really did bring a package for her, Isabelle let out a shriek so loud that it made the man jump. “Mail from Berlin!” As she signed for the package, she glanced past the postman and caught sight of Daniel Lambert on the opposite side of the street. He knocked on the door of the house of
la maîtresse
and went in without waiting.

Isabelle’s face darkened. It came as no surprise to see him at
that
house. Visiting a prostitute in the middle of the day seemed just like him.

The postman followed her gaze, and said, “Ah, Daniel is visiting his sister, Ghislaine.”

Isabelle looked at the man for a few seconds before she could speak. “What did you say? Daniel Lambert is the brother of
la maîtresse
—” She slapped her hand over her mouth, shocked at her own words.

But the postman merely grinned. “Didn’t you know? He owns half of Le Grand Cerf, and he advises Ghislaine on what wines to buy. And should I tell you something else?” The postman leaned a little closer conspiratorially, and Isabelle automatically stepped back. “A long time ago, both of them lived here, in your house! That was when the estate belonged to the Lambert family, but it’s been many years now.”

“I knew that Daniel Lambert had lived here. But that Ghislaine was his sister and that she also called this home . . . some things are clearer now,” Isabelle murmured to herself. No wonder Ghislaine was so hostile toward them. In her eyes, Leon and Isabelle were, as Jacques had been, interlopers who’d snatched away their family home.

She wished the postman good day, then carried Clara’s package into the kitchen and set it on the table. She cut through the wrapping and lifted out three books: a cookbook, a general homemaker’s guide, and a smaller guide with tips for spring cleaning. Isabelle was amazed such a specific book existed. She opened it at random and read, “The best way to get rid of scale is with vinegar.”
Good to know
, Isabelle thought, remembering the buildup of lime that was half blocking the faucets in her bathroom. But far more valuable than any household tip was the letter from Clara. Isabelle felt a pang in her chest when she saw Clara’s crisp handwriting.

Berlin, March 1898

Dear Isabelle,

What a wonderful joy to hear from you! You hadn’t written a proper letter for so long and I was getting so worried.

Oh, Clara, what was I supposed to write about?
Isabelle thought, feeling a tinge of bad conscience.

But now my fears have been put to rest. An estate in Champagne—that sounds like just the kind of place where you could find happiness. Dear Isabelle, I see you in my mind right now, keeping the whole place organized, keeping the staff on their toes, and pitching in yourself wherever there’s a need.

Staff?
If you only knew
, Isabelle thought and smiled.

I still remember how you so wanted to find something to do with your life, how you couldn’t stand the idea of being stuck with the boring duties of a good wife to some businessman. And now, beside your attractive cyclist, it seems your wish is coming true. Now you can show everyone just what you have inside!

Isabelle was reminded of what a good listener Clara had always been, and she bit her lip to keep from tearing up.

I miss you terribly, you and our own dear Josephine, who also almost never has time to meet up, by the way. Don’t be angry with me if I admit this, but I had actually been thinking that you would turn your back on the Palatinate and come back to Berlin. I went to the library and read that the Palatinate is a very rural—some would say “backward”—corner of the German empire. Which I’m sure is not something anyone would say about the Champagne region, would they? After all, the most famous drink in the world comes from there! I’m sure you won’t ever want to leave, which means that Josephine and I will have to come and pay you a visit sometime. Well, I’m sure there are worse things than that.

A visit from her two friends? Isabelle’s heart began to beat faster. That would be wonderful!

As she looked up from the letter, a coach driving quickly up the street caught her eye. The team cut the curves so sharply that the postman, who was standing in front of Ghislaine’s house, had to jump aside to avoid ending up under the wheels.

What kind of inconsiderate oaf would drive a coach up here like that?
Isabelle thought angrily. But then the coach pulled up in front of her house, which was puzzling since she hadn’t been expecting anyone.

She recognized the elegantly dressed woman immediately. It was the same woman who had been sitting at the next table at the restaurant in Reims and who had given them unsought advice about which champagne to order. What was she doing here? And did she also recognize Isabelle? If she did, she gave no sign of it.

“I’m Henriette Trubert. I’ve brought you some bread and salt, which is how we wish someone the best of luck in their new home—it’s an old tradition among the
Champenois
.”

Henriette Trubert, from the estate of the same name? The woman who had stolen their American customers? What did she want from Isabelle? Isabelle brusquely accepted the bread, which had a clay saltcellar baked into the middle.

“Would you like to come in?” Isabelle asked, just to be polite, hoping that the other woman would turn the invitation down.

“I’d love to,” said Henriette Trubert. She smiled, baring her teeth.

“So have you settled in? Living in Champagne must be completely different from living in Berlin.”

Isabelle looked at the woman over the rim of her coffee cup. How did her neighbor know that she came from Berlin? “My husband and I feel very much at home here in Hautvillers. Apart from one or two . . . uncertainties, the way of life here is very romantic,” she replied primly.

“Romantic?” Henriette Trubert raised her eyebrows mockingly. “How nice for you, madame. For my part, I only know about the romanticism of the vines from a few idealistic oil paintings, and I’m quite sure the artists never so much as took part in a grape harvest. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough that making champagne is a year-round ordeal. In spring, you fear late frosts will destroy the young buds. In summer, you’re afraid of hailstorms, and later in the year, you pray to God that your cellar master can come up with the perfect cuvée. And if you’re lucky enough to come up with a good champagne one year, then you pray that no one starts a war, which will also ruin your business.” She shrugged in resignation. “We’re more like slaves than masters! And as if that weren’t enough, you’ve constantly got the competition breathing down your neck.”