The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The following morning, despite only a few hours of sleep, Clara was up early. The cry of the rooster, the chirping of the crickets, the shouts of the workers already out in the vineyards—all these morning sounds seemed so strange and refreshing. Instead of tying her hair up in her usual severe bun, she wove it quickly into a single, loose braid. Then, barefoot, she went to the kitchen and, with some effort, got a fire going in the stove. When she had two large pots of water set to heat, she went into the hallway and opened one door after another. Pantry. Utility room. Laundry. And here, the bathroom, just as she’d imagined a bathroom in such a grand house might look. A washbasin, a mirror, an ornate iron shelf painted white and topped with a stack of towels, and an enamel tub directly under the window. When Clara opened the window, the sweet perfume of roses wafted in. Following an inspiration, she went behind the house, plucked several handfuls of purple rose petals, and gathered them in her apron. A few fresh leaves from the peppermint growing between the roses, a few stalks of lavender, and last of all a handful of verbena—did Isabelle even know what treasures she had in her garden?

Back in the kitchen, she added a third pot of water to the stove and tossed in the peppermint and lavender and some of the rose petals. The water in the pot turned a pale green before taking on a pink tinge, and the delicate smell of roses spread through the kitchen. Then she went in search of soap. In the laundry, she found a ceramic jar. She expected there would be brown, sudsy lye inside, but when she lifted the lid, the soap was white and clean and fragrant. Maybe the French added perfume to their soft soap? Clara carried her discovery back to the bathroom. The soap and her herbal concoction would produce a lovely aroma in the bath.

“What are you doing up so early?” asked Josephine, who appeared in the doorway. “Isabelle is still asleep, and I’m still tired, too, frankly.” She underlined her words with a very unladylike yawn.

“We didn’t come here to rest,” said Clara, unperturbed. “Help me carry the pots with the hot water into the bathroom, then we can put more on to heat. When the herbal mixture is done, I’m going to fix a bath worthy of a queen for Isabelle! And I’ve got an idea for what comes afterward.”

“Aha,” said Josephine.

“Do you remember that time Isabelle invited us to Konnopke’s in Goethe Park and we ate potato pancakes?” said Clara, as they each took a handle of the large steaming pot.

Josephine’s already doubtful expression looked even more puzzled. “
Now
you remember those greasy things?”

Clara sighed. Sometimes her clever friend could really be quite thick. “What would you say if we made potato pancakes for lunch? There are potatoes in the pantry, and I found a few apples we can use for applesauce. Maybe we can tempt Isabelle’s appetite with something typically Berlin?”

Isabelle sank so deeply into the tub that only her nose and eyes remained above the surface. A few rose petals stuck to her lips, and she blew them away gently. The water was warm and smelled wonderful, thanks to Clara’s herbal infusion. Isabelle felt her cramped limbs loosening up a little.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Clara was looking triumphantly down at her. “If you’d like, I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Before Isabelle could reply, Clara set to work on her matted braid. Isabelle put up with the tugging and pulling, and she let Clara work the soap into her hair. Clara only meant well, after all.

“Head back!” said her friend, and the bucketful of fresh water splashed over Isabelle’s head. “You’ll be feeling much better after that,” Clara added, when Isabelle, a moment later, wrapped a towel around her head like a turban. “Stay in the tub a little longer, and I’ll bring you a cup of verbena tea. That will give you a boost.”

A few minutes later, Isabelle accepted the cup from Clara and sipped obediently at the pale-green tea. Then she watched as Clara left again and felt relieved.

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Clara’s efforts. The bath was nice. The tea, too. And the smell of frying potatoes drifting from the kitchen to the bathroom was very tempting indeed. But it would have been all the same to Isabelle if she’d rubbed herself down with a cold cloth, drunk water, and eaten the potatoes raw. Nothing now was how it had been, and a handful of rose petals wasn’t going to change that. Nor was the perfectly ironed black linen dress that Clara, with a motherly smile, had hung over the valet stand next to the tub.

Over lunch, Isabelle asked her friends questions so they would describe what was going on in their lives instead of prodding at her. Josephine talked about her flourishing bicycle business, and Clara talked at great length about her son, Matthias. The potato pancakes tasted good, and Isabelle even ate a second one.

After they had finished eating, Josephine asked Isabelle for a short tour of the estate. Isabelle agreed. They had come all the way from Berlin on her account; the least she could do was show them around.

They went through the courtyard and visited the horses and the peacocks. Their brace of chicks had now grown into lovely young birds—the cries of admiration and adoration from Josephine and Clara showed Isabelle that her friends were impressed. For Clara, the peafowl were the most amazing discovery; she thought they looked elegant and “aristocratic.” At the sight of the blackberry bushes loaded with ripe fruit, Clara let out a little shriek. “The berries have to be picked and preserved immediately. You’ll have a wonderful supply for the winter.”

Isabelle only nodded slowly.

When they walked beyond the garden and into the vines, her friends’ delight only grew. “All these vineyards belong to you?” Josephine said, her eyes wide.

Isabelle smiled and said, yes, they did. She crouched and picked up a handful of earth. “See the light-colored particles? That’s chalk. It gives the soil good drainage. Grapevines don’t like to get their feet wet. And do you see the little colored spots?” She lifted her hand and let a little earth sift through her fingers. Concentrating, Clara and Josephine followed the motion with their eyes. “The soil here is particularly rich in minerals, and you can taste that later in the champagne. The people here claim that the
terroir
here is unique . . . It’s a little like magic.”

Her friends listened reverently.

“This special soil, the care we take, and the good weather sent by God—that’s the holy trinity here in Champagne,” Isabelle went on. “A champagne dealer in Reims explained it to me like that, and I’ve never forgotten his words.”

“Am I just imagining it, or is there a special light here?” said Clara, lifting her hands to take in the landscape all around. “It’s like everything is coated with gold.”

Isabelle nodded. “That comes from the chalk in the soil, too, they say. It takes the harshness from the sunlight, and the colors are less glaring, more muted, as if a painter has gone to extraordinary lengths with his work.”

The wine cellar with its various levels and long corridors and the sight of the thousands and thousands of champagne bottles left the Berliners speechless. It was so cold! And it smelled so odd! Like earth and chalk and wine, all mixed together. When Isabelle told them about the useless one-eyed cellar master, her voice took on an ironic, almost joking, edge, and she noticed how Clara and Josephine exchanged an exultant look.

Isabelle smiled gently. What had
she
felt the first time she saw old Jacques’s estate? The open, sweeping lands and the imposing wine cellar—hadn’t she been just as fascinated as her friends were now? Hadn’t her heart opened at the sight?

“As wonderful as it all looks, the Feininger estate is in serious trouble, and not only since Leon’s death.”

Josephine and Clara were both shocked to hear how another producer had stolen away their American customers.

“Have you found new customers?” Josephine asked.

Isabelle smiled bitterly. “Our champagne is far too sweet for European tastes. The people who drink champagne want an elegant, dry wine, not the kind of sweet champagne my old-fashioned cellar master brews.”

“But . . .” Clara looked helplessly at the countless bottles. “You mean that . . .”

Suddenly, it felt good to Isabelle to destroy the romantic imaginings of her two friends. Almost with pleasure, she said, “All of this is worth as good as nothing. I’m rich in land and champagne bottles but poor as a church mouse otherwise. Apart from a mountain of problems, I’ve got nothing.” Without another word, she left her shocked friends there and went back upstairs. It served them right!

In her bedroom, exhausted, she let herself fall onto her bed. Clara had changed the sheets and covers that morning. But instead of snuggling into the fresh bedclothes and feeling better, a sense of abandonment, of being forsaken, rose inside her. Nothing was the way it had been—and fresh sheets couldn’t change that.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Over the next few days, Clara tended carefully to Isabelle, her tone invariably encouraging. She cleaned and polished the house as if she were trying to win some sort of competition. There was tea in the pot and freshly baked cake—Isabelle had to make an effort to accept so much charity graciously. But in reality, all she really wanted was to be left alone. Why couldn’t Clara see that? Josephine, to Isabelle’s relief, kept more to herself, but Isabelle suspected that she was active in the background. She was probably fixing up the chicken stall with Claude or busy with some other work around the estate. That had always been her friend’s forte, fixing broken things.
Then she’s in her element on the Feininger estate
, Isabelle thought grimly. She’d probably already been through Jacques’s account books in search of orders that simply didn’t exist. Isabelle could well imagine the look of horror on her friend’s face! She should never have said a word about the miserable state of the business. If she’d only acted as if things were going well, then they wouldn’t be so unbearably
caring
all the time!

It was good to have Clara and Josephine around. At the same time, though, everything inside her rebelled against their enforced closeness, and she withdrew to her bedroom for hours at a time. But even with eyes and shutters closed, the inner immobility that had paralyzed her for the previous weeks and months was diminished. Something had been set in motion. Sometimes she felt a flicker of dry humor, then a touch of resentment when Clara brought her yet another cup of tea. Were these stirrings the start of a return to normal life? Normal life—no one asked her if that was what she wanted or if was even
capable
of leading one again. And at the same time, she knew that her friends would not give up until everything was back on a steady course.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, Clara knocked on her bedroom door and came in. “Isabelle, your friend Ghislaine is downstairs. She’s invited all three of us to her restaurant. Shall we go? You haven’t been out for any fresh air yet today.”

Clenching her jaw, Isabelle watched Clara set her shoes by the bed and then go to the wardrobe to find a good dress. She ordered her around, treating her like a child who had to obey! Suddenly, she felt driven into a corner by Clara’s and Josephine’s ministrations. She sat up abruptly and screamed, “I don’t want to eat! I want to be left in peace! When will you finally get that into your damn heads?!” She snatched the shoes and hurled them across the room. One of them missed Clara by a hair.

Clara and Josephine opened the door to Le Grand Cerf and walked in to a round of laughter from a group of men standing and drinking at the bar. While Josephine looked around inside the French tavern with interest, Clara—who rarely entered such a place—was intimidated by the loud, relaxed atmosphere. She wanted to leave immediately, but after the endless discussion she had had with Josephine about coming here, she had to at least stay a little while.

“There you are!” Ghislaine called from behind the bar. “All the tables are full at the moment, but you can stand here. I’ll bring you something to eat.” As she spoke, she shooed aside several of the men taking up space at the bar, and they did as they were bidden without complaint.

Ghislaine set two glasses of rosé wine in front of them, then she motioned to a good-looking man with blond hair.

“Allow me to introduce my brother, Daniel. These are Isabelle’s friends from Berlin.”

Daniel nodded by way of hello, then returned to the conversation among the men.

“I’m so happy you’re here to support Isabelle,” said Ghislaine with a warm smile. “She and I . . . we both suffered at the hand of fate, and at the same time. I know what she’s going through. But at some point, I got on with my life, and she is still sick with grief. What can anyone do?” She raised her eyebrows helplessly, then went back to work.

“It would certainly help if Isabelle simply pulled herself together a bit,” said Josephine roughly. She was losing some of her patience with Isabelle. While she could see Isabelle was grieving, she simply could not fathom how anyone could let herself go like that while the pile of unfinished business rose higher and higher. Clara understood the depth of Isabelle’s misery, but she had no desire to fight with Josephine again just then, so she sipped at her glass and pretended to study the watercolors decorating the restaurant walls. On every one was a stag. And then she realized what the name of the restaurant meant—“the great stag.”

“Surplus champagne—did you ever hear of any such thing? Even the expression—surplus!—my God, these people don’t have a clue!” One of the men beside Clara had abruptly raised his voice.

“Not even the merest glimmer of a clue, or they’d know that you can only snap up things that actually exist!”

The men laughed and shook their heads.

“You might find surpluses in other industries, but certainly not around here,” another said in a tone both disparaging and snobbish.

The one beside him added, “All they’re after is a bargain, if you ask me. Lucky for me I don’t have to rely on customers like that.”

Clara frowned. She could follow the broad strokes of the exchange, certainly, but she didn’t understand the specifics of what they were talking about.

“Americans!” another sniffed. “What do you expect?”

“It was worth it to them to take out a full-page ad in the newspaper,” said the first man, and he tapped at a rolled-up newspaper that lay among the wine glasses, ashtrays, and empty plates.

“Daniel, you’ve been very quiet,” one of the men said to Ghislaine’s brother. His tone was mocking as he continued. “Could it perhaps have something to do with an upcoming appointment in Troyes? A very important appointment that your boss arranged
just for you
?” The men laughed heartily again.

Daniel replied, “How could anyone object to visiting Troyes?” he said, and laughed with the others.

Clara smiled, too, but she wasn’t sure she had figured out what the men were really talking about. If she had understood right, there were some Americans who were looking to buy champagne. But why had the men laughed so long and loud about something like that? Finally, she screwed up her courage, tapped Ghislaine’s brother on the arm, and said, “Excuse me, but I couldn’t really avoid overhearing a little of your conversation. May I ask what . . . I mean . . .” She trailed off, feeling embarrassed, and looked away. Barging into a conversation like that was anything but polite, she realized. What must the man think of her? On the other hand, she thought she might find out something of use to Isabelle.

Ghislaine’s brother looked at her in surprise. Then his face lit up; he pushed a lock of hair out of his face and grinned broadly. He grabbed the newspaper, unrolled it, and leafed through it until he had found the page he wanted. Then, speaking so softly that no one around them could hear, he said, “Read this! And don’t let what the others say put you off—this might be very interesting to one special person.”

Feeling a little uneasy, Clara took the newspaper from him.

Josephine looked over her shoulder impatiently. “Could you tell
me
what’s going on, too?”

“Just a moment,” Clara murmured absently.

“W
ANTED
!”
was printed in English across the top of the full-page ad in large black letters. Beneath that, smaller and in French, she read,
“Désirez.”
Then came a short text in both English and French. As Clara scanned the words, her heart began to beat so hard it almost deafened her.

Grinning broadly, she turned to Josephine. “You want to know what’s going on? Then read this!” she said ominously, and tapped the newspaper ad with her finger.

Both women were so excited that it was impossible for them to enjoy the atmosphere of the tavern a moment longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as they finished the meaty ragout Ghislaine served, they left for home again.

“Americans are coming to Troyes to buy remnant stocks of champagne for their fleet of steamboats on the Mississippi!” Josephine giggled childishly. “That’s too good to be true!”

Clara nodded. “It’s a gift from heaven. Oh, maybe not, but it’s a chance you’ll only get once in a hundred years. A
once-in-a-century
chance!”

Josephine giggled again. “How fitting that the men want to buy champagne to celebrate the
turn of the century
.”

“And isn’t it wonderful that they’re taking care of it this year.” Clara laughed, too. A great load felt lifted from her heart. What a stroke of luck that they went to Le Grand Cerf, today of all days! What if they had never even seen the advertisement? She said a quick prayer of thanks to heaven as they marched through the growing darkness to Isabelle’s house. Now everything would be good again.

A cat dashed across the road in front of them, quickly followed by another, and a loud hiss sounded from the blackberry bushes on their left.

Josephine stopped walking. She looked confused. “There’s one thing I still don’t understand. Why were the people in the tavern laughing about it?”

Clara shrugged. “If I understood them right, there’s no such thing as ‘surplus’ champagne. Whether you get thousands of bottles in a particular year or only a few hundred, that in itself makes no difference to the price. But if it’s a champagne popular with the experts and only a small amount is available, the price can climb immensely. At least, that’s how Ghislaine’s brother explained it to me. Either the Americans don’t know that, or they just didn’t choose their words very wisely. Whatever the case may be, the winemakers see no need to sell off small ‘remnants’ cheaply. But it could be just what we need.” They started walking again, and Josephine fell into the same rhythm as Clara.

“You’re right when you say that we can be happy that the others are not interested in the Americans’ offer. This could be Isabelle’s saving grace. When I think about how much champagne she has in her cellars . . . it’s not exactly what I’d call surplus stock. It’s more like a sea of champagne.” Josephine laughed gleefully. “Oh, when we tell her about this!”

“Don’t get your hopes up about Isabelle’s reaction.” Clara sighed. “She’ll probably just repeat how nothing makes sense anymore.”

Josephine stopped walking again. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a good idea about how we can drag her out of her state.”