The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (26 page)

She felt tears coming to her eyes and fought them back.

“Me, a champagne maker—that would truly be the greatest adventure of my life,” she said, her voice raw.

“I’ve got another idea!” Clara cried out, and both Isabelle and Josephine turned and looked at her expectantly.

Clara took a deep breath. “If Isabelle actually manages to make her once-in-a-century champagne, then we absolutely
have
to try to meet again next year on New Year’s Eve.”

Isabelle was taken aback for a moment, but then she laughed and said, “It’s a deal! But only if I can offer you a bottle of the best Feininger champagne of all time.”

They took each other’s hands, as they had when they were younger. Isabelle expected them to renew their old “to the turn-of-the-century wind!” covenant.

But both Josephine and Clara seemed to hesitate.

“Before we make any promises, perhaps we should talk about something else,” said Clara slowly. “Something we really haven’t talked about much at all.” She looked at Isabelle intently. “You’re going to be a mother, Isabelle. And it’s time you started to think about that. Those two things at the same time, ringing in a new century with a glorious champagne and a wonderful child—isn’t that something?”

The next morning, Isabelle woke with the first light of dawn. After a quick bath, she crept quietly out of the house. The others could sleep awhile longer—what she was planning to do, she had to do alone.

The cemetery of Hautvillers was surrounded by a ramshackle knee-high wall and covered by the shade of a huge weeping willow. Leon’s grave was in the last row. It was the first time since the funeral that she had visited it. Extraordinary fear had prevented her from taking this step before that day. Fear of the irrevocable certainty it would bring? Of the knowledge that it really wasn’t a bad dream? Isabelle’s sigh was picked up by the soft rustling of the weeping willow in the morning breeze and carried away.

There was no gravestone yet, only a wooden cross marking who lay beneath. Leon Feininger, the great love of her life. The father of her child. Instinctively, she stroked her belly with her right hand. Beyond the low cemetery wall, she realized she could see the Feininger vineyards; the sight of the vines gave her some solace, and she was glad she’d come. For a long time, she stood still and quiet, while deep inside she untied one knot after another. Leon was dead. He had taken his dreams with him to the grave. But her life went on. She would dream for two—or rather three. She smiled at the thought, her hands resting on her belly.

Earth sprinkled with white beads of chalk covered the grave. There were a few stalks of grass coming through, as well as thistles, dandelions, and other weeds. She had not thought to bring a shovel or hoe, so Isabelle began to pull the weeds out of the earth with her bare hands. In a vase in front of the cross was a single withered pink rose. Had Micheline brought it when she came to visit her brother Albert, who lay at the other side of the cemetery? She had not thanked Micheline even once for all she had done. Isabelle replaced the faded rose with three lilies she had cut in her garden. From now on, she would take care of the flowers herself. Her handled trembled a little as she stroked the chalky earth.

“Hello, Leon. It’s me. I’ve got quite a lot to tell you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Heavenly Father, Creator and Lord over the earth, we are gathered together today to praise thee and to commend thee for everything thou hast done for us. We thank thee for the blessings thou hast bestowed upon us. And we ask thee to let everything that grows ripen unto the day of harvest.”

Isabelle swallowed the bitter taste that had entered her mouth as the pastor spoke. Praising God for all the good He had done? That was not something she had been capable of for a very long time. But even so, there she was, in the Hautvillers church, where every seat was taken and more people stood in the rear. She still found it difficult to be around people, but she couldn’t stay away from the harvest service—for the
Champenois
it was at least as important as the Christmas or Easter service.

Strange
, she thought, as the congregation began a hymn,
how every church in the world has the same smell
. In Berlin, in the Palatinate, here—they all smelled of myrrh and mothballs, of poorly aired clothes, sweat, and sins. Isabelle did not know the words, so she just moved her lips and pretended she did. She looked around the church, noticing how the altar was decorated with a cornucopia of vines and grapes.

It was the first time since Josephine and Clara’s tearful departure three days earlier that Isabelle had left the house. Her fear that she would again feel as alone and abandoned as she had in the months before their arrival had quickly proved unfounded. So close to the harvest, the most important season in Champagne, the people of the region closed ranks even more than usual: Claude, Micheline, and Marie had insisted that she walk to church with them, and now they were sitting together in one of the middle rows.

And beside them sat none other than Gustave Grosse, who had returned a week earlier. “I told you I’d be back in time for the harvest,” he had said with a shrug.

Isabelle hadn’t known whether she should hug him or slap his face. She had immediately told him that his habits would have to change, that they had a lot to do that autumn, and that they all had to pull together to make it work. Grosse listened to every word, then asked for an advance on his salary.

Josephine and Clara had listened to their exchange in silence. “Am I mistaken, or did your cellar master reek of alcohol earlier? I must say, he doesn’t seem the most trustworthy type,” Josephine remarked later. “If I were in your shoes, I’d start looking around for a good cellar master as soon as I could.”

Isabelle had sighed and nodded. She was happy to at least not have to deal with the approaching harvest alone. After that . . . well, she would see.

“Merciful God, protect our grapes from rain and hail, protect our vines from the phylloxera . . .”

That was the very least that God could do, in Isabelle’s opinion. One row in front of her sat Therese Jolivet from the bakery and Carla Chapron and her husband Ignaz. Ghislaine and Daniel were also there, and next to Daniel sat Blanche Thevenin, the seamstress. Was she mistaken, or was Blanche unnecessarily close to Daniel?

“Merciful God, we beseech thee, hold thy sheltering hand over our vines. Give us the strength to overcome the strenuous weeks ahead . . .”

The Trubert family sat—where else?—in the front most row on the right of the aisle. The first row of pews on the left was occupied by the Moët and Chandon families, the biggest champagne producers of them all. They owned an unbelievable eight hundred and forty acres of land. True, their vineyards spread throughout all of Champagne, but the owners traditionally visited the harvest service in Hautvillers.

“Merciful God, release us from our cares, give unto us the gift of thy mercy, so that with thy blessing we may bring this year to a good and proper close. Fill our presses with grapes and fill our barrels with wine—for these things we beseech thee, O Lord. Be merciful unto us. Amen!”

“Amen!” repeated the churchgoers.

The pastor made the sign of the cross with his right hand.

“Go ye forth and praise our Father at a plentiful table!” Accompanied by the sound of bells, a buzz of voices rose as the congregation slowly filed out of the rows of pews.

“Amen,” said Isabelle, too. But instead of standing up with all the others, she stayed in her seat. For the first time that day, she raised her eyes to the large crucifix.

“You sacrificed your son, and my husband. Enough sacrifices have been made. Now help me, please, to come through the harvest well, because I won’t be able to do it by myself. Amen,” she murmured quietly, then she crossed herself a final time.

Claude, who was still standing in the aisle, looked back at her in surprise. “Did you say something, madame?”

Isabelle smiled and shook her head, then she stood up, too. “It’s strange. Church services always make me hungry, but I’m probably not the only one,” she said with a nod toward the people streaming toward the exit.

Micheline, ahead of her, laughed. “That’s a good thing, because the tables are going to be bending under all the good food. The harvest really takes it out of us in the next few weeks, so it doesn’t hurt to build up some strength in advance, right, Marie?” she said, turning to her sister-in-law.

Marie Guenin nodded. “In Hautvillers, this meal we share before the harvest is taken very seriously. Every house contributes something. And we vignerons provide the champagne. Who knows if the harvest will be a good one, or if we’ll have any reason to celebrate afterward? All the more reason to lift our glasses now!”

The evening before, the residents of the surrounding houses had carried their front doors into the village square and set them up on wooden trestles as tables. Before the church service, the women from the houses had covered the tables with white cloths and decorated them with woven garlands. In this way, they had created a single long table at which more and more people now found a place to sit. Greetings were exchanged, conversations were kindled, and the September sun, which washed everything in golden light, was praised.

Young and old, poor and rich—in the coming weeks, all of these people would work day and night, snipping off bunches of grapes hour after hour, lugging them in heavy baskets to the waiting wagons where they would be unloaded, then hauled away to the presses. They would defy the wind and weather and ignore the injured hands and aching shoulders. The grape harvest meant their income for the year ahead, and during it, everything else took second place. But they had this final day of exhilaration and freedom: the villagers were filled with the zest of life, and good cheer overflowed like the champagne that the vignerons had provided for the gathering.

Isabelle felt a lightness that had long been missing from her life. Arm in arm with Micheline, she walked toward the long table, where Ghislaine was putting final touches on the food platters. Today, everything had to taste wonderful and look perfect!

Morels in champagne sauce, salmon poached in champagne, snails cooked in champagne and garlic, calf cheeks, various spicy tarts—Isabelle could only stand and marvel at the dishes lined up side by side along the length of the table.

“Who made all this?”

“Well, who do you think?” said Ghislaine, grinning. She patted the seat next to her, inviting Isabelle to sit. “My cooks and I, and some of the winemakers’ wives helped, too. How would it be if you helped out next year?
Andouillette
, perhaps. I know how much you like it.”

Isabelle groaned. “Don’t remind me.” She looked into one of the pots suspiciously, where several sausages were floating in some kind of stock. “This isn’t them, is it?”

“Who knows? Maybe I really should try serving it to you again.” Ghislaine grinned even more widely. “What a shame that your friends had to leave. I think they would have really enjoyed this meal.”

They would have
, thought Isabelle.
And Leon, too
. In her mind’s eye, she saw him sitting beside her, chatting away. Her Leon—with his charm and humor, he had always been a welcome guest at parties.

Before she had time to get melancholic, Micheline, sitting opposite, tapped her hand. She pointed to a plate of sliced cold meats garnished with poached artichokes. “That’s from me. Want to try it?”

“I’d love to,” Isabelle replied. Next to her, she felt Ghislaine move over, and Daniel sat down between them. Blanche, the seamstress, was nowhere in sight, which Isabelle was grateful for. She could finally thank Daniel for whatever he had done for her in Troyes. Then she saw that he was not alone—he had Raymond Dupont with him.

Isabelle smiled shyly at the champagne dealer from Reims. She owed him her gratitude, too, for all the encouraging notes he had sent her over the last few months, all of which, until recently, she had utterly ignored. And for the champagne he had sent, of course.

“You, too, Daniel?” asked Micheline, reaching across the table with her plate of sliced meat.

With her hands trembling slightly, Isabelle took the plate from Micheline and held it in front of Daniel. “May I offer you some of this, Monsieur Lambert?”

“Are you two still so formal?” Ghislaine cried in exaggerated horror. “High time we did something about that. Daniel, I’d like to introduce my friend, Isabelle. Isabelle, may I introduce my brother, Daniel? There, done!” she said, underlining her words with lively gestures.

“Fine with me. I’m Isabelle!” She reached out one hand to Daniel.

“And with me, as long as you don’t accuse me of being a saboteur again. Daniel.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “First it was Ghislaine with her
andouillette
, and now you. Is everyone today going to remind me of the sins of my past?”

The pressure of his hand was firm and the smile he gave her warm. Would he kiss her hand? She held her breath for a heartbeat.
How can you think that?
she admonished herself.

“Daniel, what do you think? Are we going to have a marvelous year, like we did in 1889?” said Micheline, changing the subject. “Or is it going to be an ordinary harvest, like last year?” Everyone sitting within earshot turned and looked at Daniel.

“I fear the latter,” he said. He raised his hand regretfully. “The grapes certainly haven’t turned out bad, but June was rainy and July not as sunny as I would have liked, and the grapes are not that sweet. I’m estimating that we’ll get ten percent alcohol, no more, with the sugar in them.”

Why is everyone hanging on every word he says?
Isabelle wondered. And what was he saying about a rainy June? Or about grapes that were not ideal? She had heard none of that before, she had to admit. None of that and none of many other things, she realized when she noticed Ghislaine’s belly. Was her friend pregnant again? The morsel of meat in her mouth became drier and drier, and it was difficult for her to swallow.

“It makes me happy to see you here, Madame Feininger,” said Raymond Dupont, dragging her back from her thoughts.

“The pleasure is mine, although I really have to get used to being around so many people again,” she replied, looking around. “I’ve been something of a hermit these last few months.”

“Come and visit me again in Reims! We could have dinner together or visit the opera or—”

“After today, no one in Hautvillers will have time for things like that,” Daniel interrupted the champagne merchant, and his tone was unusually harsh. “We have the harvest to manage. Right, Isabelle?”

Was she mistaken, or was he deliberately emphasizing her first name? And didn’t she hear some irritation, too, as he chided Dupont for making such an untimely suggestion? Isabelle looked from one to the other.

“Oh, when I think of what we managed back in 1874—remember? The first dry champagne, a fine effervescence without being fizzy, with finesse but without any of that sugary sweetness. Louise Pommery harvested later than she ever had before. The rest of us couldn’t believe it! We were completely flummoxed and didn’t know if we should do the same or not.” Marie Guenin’s gray eyes sparkled at the memory.

Micheline nodded. “Most of us harvested earlier. We were all terrified that the weather would change, but we Guenins decided to take the risk and leave the grapes on the vine for another two weeks,” she said. “But should we do it this year?” she asked, deliberately slowly and looking expectantly at Daniel.

Again, all eyes were on the cellar master. But he only smiled.

How strange.
Why is Micheline probing Daniel like that? And why doesn’t he simply answer her questions?
The
Champenois
were really a very mysterious bunch sometimes, Isabelle thought. Then she took a peach from one of the fruit platters; it smelled of sunshine, flowers, and a hint of perfume.

“Our dear Louise, God rest her soul,” Marie added, and Micheline sighed. “Without her and her courage to try something new, we’d probably all still be making sugar-sweet champagnes instead of our wonderful bruts.”

“What’s wrong with a sweet champagne, madame?” asked Gustave Grosse, who was sitting beside Claude.

Isabelle noted with disgust that she had lost count of how many times her own cellar master had refilled his glass with champagne. Nothing had changed there, certainly.

“Wrong, for example, is the way it sat like lead in my cellar—and still would be sitting if a sign from heaven hadn’t led me to the Americans in Troyes,” Isabelle said.

Everyone at the table laughed—all except Gustave Grosse.

Turning to Daniel, she said quietly, “Of course, I don’t know
what
you said to the Americans that had them eating out of my hand like that, but it helped. Thank you for that.”

Daniel gestured dismissively.

“I think we could use a sign from heaven, too,” said Micheline, looking intently at Daniel again.

“Have I missed something?” asked Isabelle, smiling. “Have you turned into some sort of oracle for a good or bad harvest?”

Daniel grinned and was about to answer when he suddenly stopped.

Isabelle followed his gaze and saw Henriette Trubert, dressed in a thundercloud of purple lace, approaching where they sat. There was no sign of her husband, Alphonse.