The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (28 page)

Instinctively, Daniel looked along the way that Henriette had gone. Even though she acted with utter indifference whenever Isabelle’s name came up, Daniel did not believe for a second that his employer had so easily resigned herself to Isabelle’s decision to continue running the Feininger estate and actually make champagne. Now that Henriette knew that his loyalty had its limits, she would look for other ways and means to get what she was after. Who would her new allies be? Or had she long ago found a willing adjutant for her intrigues? He knew that Gustave Grosse had been slinking around the Trubert estate recently. Was Grosse the person Daniel had to warn Isabelle about? He had no proof that Grosse intended any harm to Isabelle, just an uneasy feeling about the man. And what if he scared Isabelle unnecessarily? That was the last thing he wanted.

As they went their separate ways, Daniel decided to keep a closer eye on Grosse in the next few days. And he would ask around—for now, he could do no more.

Chapter Thirty-One

“What do you mean, the pickers haven’t come?” Isabelle glared at her cellar master in disbelief.

It was early in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to rise beyond the valley, its crimson rays dousing the landscape in an almost surreal light. The previous evening, she had informed Claude and Grosse that the harvest was to begin today. Claude had already hitched the horses to the wagon, loaded up dozens of baskets of different sizes and all the shears he could find, and rolled away toward the vineyards, where he and Gustave Grosse were going to distribute the baskets and shears to the pickers. Isabelle had followed them on foot, her heart beating hard and a smile on her lips. Her first harvest! Finally, it was starting. She would not miss the opportunity to say a word or two of greeting to the pickers. At least, that had been the plan . . .

“I can’t explain it,” said Gustave Grosse, his eyes scanning the vineyards. “The lazy oafs simply didn’t show up even though we’d agreed on everything.”

As he spoke, Claude came running up with a grim expression on his face. “They’re working for the Truberts! Henriette promised them a higher wage and a bottle of wine a day for every picker. They ran like rabbits.” Claude was puffing angrily, but Isabelle could see that the old man had turned almost white with fear.

“But . . . that’s not right! They’re camping on my land, so they should come and do their work for
us
! Tell them I’ll pay just as much as Henriette.”

Claude’s expression turned even darker. “I told them that. They wouldn’t listen!”

Dazed, Isabelle sat down on one of the border markers that separated her land from her neighbor’s.

“What now?”

“I could go and ask Micheline if they can spare a few men,” Claude suggested halfheartedly—he seemed far from comfortable with the thought. The Guenins would certainly not be happy about giving up any of their pickers.

“Forget it! We won’t get far with a handful of men,” Gustave Grosse immediately countered.

“Maybe we can still find some workers among the itinerants?” Claude was beginning to sound desperate.

“As if you’ll find anyone sitting around a campfire unemployed today.” Grosse spat on the ground beside him in disgust.

“I thought you had everything under control, and now this,” Isabelle growled at Grosse. She had questions she wanted to ask: Had he actually spoken with the pickers at all? Was he more interested in working against her than for her? But the idea of this level of deception was simply too monstrous to consider, let alone voice.

Her first harvest. And now it was all threatening to come crashing down. She was close to tears. What was she supposed to do now? Go to Henriette and confront her? The old fox would just shrug it off, as she had when her salesman had stolen away Jacques’s American customers. Isabelle let out a strangled scream. The notion that her workers were now harvesting Trubert grapes while her own fruit rotted on the vines was almost more than she could stand.

She looked over toward the Trubert estate, then at the other villages dotting the wide landscape. At harvest time, as Claude had explained to her weeks earlier, they were practically deserted. Every man, woman, and child was either busy in their own vineyards or in those of an uncle or a neighbor. She looked to the heavens for help.
Oh, Leon, what would you do now?

Something sparked in her mind. It was not exactly a thought, but something far more vague. Then a voice. A sentence.

“If you ever need our help, just let us know.”
She had never in her life needed help more than she needed it now! But who had made her that offer? Who, when, and where? She frowned, trying to remember, but it was difficult. Leon’s funeral . . . strangers in cycling outfits. A cycling club, from . . . Charleville? The members had come to pay their last respects to Leon. A smile played around her lips as the memory came to her.

The two men looked at her in disbelief. What was there to smile about now?

Isabelle took a deep breath, and then she said, “I have an idea. I admit it’s rather crazy, but I want to leave no stone unturned.” She pointed to the wagon loaded with baskets and shears. “Monsieur Grosse, you can pack those away for today, but with a little luck we will be able to start with the harvest tomorrow. Claude, I want you to help me with the wagon; we have a long road ahead of us.”

The road to Charleville was mainly through flat land, but the pregnancy had made Isabelle’s back hurt, and with every pothole they hit, she winced. Claude kept giving her concerned looks, but Isabelle simply gave him a brave smile in return. Now was not the time to start whining. She had one chance and no time to lose. The grapes were waiting.

In Charleville, a sleepy town about as big as Épernay, it was easy to find what she was looking for. The local cycling club’s oval racetrack was displayed prominently on a large sign at the start of the town and showed them which way they had to go.
Please, God, let me find a few men riding laps . . . men with the time and willingness to help me out of this!
She prayed as Claude brought the wagon to a stop at the entrance.

Luck was on her side. The chairman of the club, who had expressed his condolences to Isabelle at Leon’s funeral, was there. He remembered Isabelle immediately. He showed her into the small clubhouse and offered her some water, then asked an elderly woman working at the bar to make her something to eat. Isabelle accepted gratefully and asked that someone take something out to Claude, who was waiting outside with the horses.

“What’s on your mind? How can we help you?” the chairman asked her then. He was a tall, gaunt man around fifty years of age.

While Isabelle, who actually hated the idea of having to ask anyone for help, haltingly explained the situation she was in, more and more cyclists joined them at their table. Perhaps the Charleville men felt flattered that she had come so far just to find them. Perhaps it was her plaintive appearance—or her pregnancy—that made them so attentive and sympathetic.

“I’d pay for your work, of course. And every picker will get a bottle of champagne a day. If you drink it or sell it or take it home would be up to you.” She smiled, looking from one man to the next.

She had hardly finished when the chairman looked around and said, “Leon Feininger had a great sporting spirit. How could we not lend a helping hand to his widow, right, men?”

A murmur of agreement rose from those gathered.

“I’m a teacher, but if someone shows me how to pick a bunch of grapes, I think I can pick it up fast enough. Good thing we’ve got the autumn vacation right now,” said the man sitting directly across from Isabelle.

“I’ve got more vacation than I want,” sniffed the man beside him. “Since my boss let me go, all I have is vacation, but no money. I’d be glad to earn a few francs.”

“Me, too!” threw in another. “Then I can get that new bicycle sooner and finally whip you on the track.” The men laughed.

“Picking grapes isn’t hard,” said one of the older riders—Isabelle had heard the others call him Yves. “My brother and I used to help out every year with the harvest in Bordeaux; we’ve got family there. If I ask Luc, I’m sure he’ll come, too.”

The men were already talking about the trip to Hautvillers—by bicycle, of course. They had no problem with camping in Isabelle’s barn. “After a day’s work in a vineyard, you’ll be tired enough to sleep standing up,” said Yves.

The chairman grinned with satisfaction and said, “Well, madame, I think you can count on twenty to twenty-five of us. When and where do you want us?”

As soon as the horses had had enough time to recover, Isabelle and Claude made the return journey to Hautvillers. There was still a lot to do before their helpers arrived.

The following morning was dry, and it promised to be another beautiful day, not too hot and with no threat of a thunderstorm; one could not ask for better harvest weather.

“Pick a vine and start at the bottom; work your way up with a great deal of sensitivity.” Gustave Grosse was talking to almost thirty cyclists from Charleville; the men were standing in a circle around him at the start of the first vineyard. Each carried a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, and a few of them were eating bread with cheese that Isabelle had prepared. Claude had told her it was crucial for the men to get a good breakfast before they started work.

Despite everything, Isabelle had worried the entire night about whether the men from Charleville would keep their word. Starting at sunrise, she had kept a lookout over the valley, and when she finally saw the armada of bicycles working their way up the hill to Hautvillers, she was so relieved that she almost burst out crying.

Choking back tears, she had told the cycling club chairman, “I’ll never forget this.”

But he had just waved it off. “Don’t mention it, madame. In an emergency, we cyclists help each other; we’re willing to set off in the middle of the night, if the occasion demands.”

Grosse continued his tutorial: “Never, never squeeze the bunches too much or damage them. If you do, they’ll start to ferment right away, and that would be a tragedy. If the skin gets damaged, it darkens the juice, and that’s something that has to be avoided at all costs. If you get rotten grapes or ones that aren’t yet ripe, throw them right to the ground, not in the basket, understood?”

The men nodded.

Claude had given half of the men a pair of shears and a small wooden basket each. The other half of the group was empty-handed; these men would act as
porteurs
and take the full baskets from the pickers, then tip them carefully into the large baskets, which they called
mannequins
. After a few hours, the men would swap roles. Grosse and Claude would supervise to make sure the system worked.

Isabelle spoke next. “We’re starting with this vineyard. These grapes are Pinot Meunier; their skin isn’t quite as delicate as that of the Chardonnay grapes, but they still have to be treated with the greatest care. Just imagine that you’re holding grapes made of glass in your hands,” she said. She had picked up that pearl of wisdom from one of Jacques’s clever books. Gustave Grosse tossed her a surprised and not particularly pleasant glance, which she happily ignored. She clapped her hands and said, “All right, let’s get to it—here’s to a good harvest!”

Isabelle could not remember anything ever being as much fun as picking the grapes. Wearing an old dress, her wild locks bound with a scarf, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, she worked alongside the men as well as her belly allowed. Cutting off bunches of grapes with the shears was not difficult, but it was more strenuous than it looked. The grapes were heavy in her hands, and the juice ran over her fingers so that, after a short time, both the shears and her hands were uncomfortably sticky. Even so, her small wooden basket filled so quickly that her
porteur
had trouble keeping up with her.

After two hours, she saw Claude approaching.

“I hate to disturb you when you’re working, madame,” he said with a smirk. “But the men will be expecting a solid lunch. Perhaps you should see to that instead.”

Feeling a little embarrassed, Isabelle straightened up.
My God
, she thought,
I’d forgotten about that completely.

Back in her kitchen, she quickly unfolded Clara’s last letter. She had asked her friend for recipes that would feed large numbers of people, and Clara had written back to her shortly after her return to Berlin.

Dearest Isabelle,

The time I spent on your winery will be etched in my memory forever, and I think each day about the next time we meet. Now I am back in my everyday Berlin life. And you must surely be in the middle of harvesting your grapes. It is nice to be home again, but I would so love to be with you, as well! I’d cook for all of you and draw a footbath for you in the evenings to soothe your aching feet . . .

Isabelle quickly scanned the well-intentioned but—just then—not particularly useful lines. On the back of the page, she found what she was looking for.

If you have to cook for many people, then the word you have to remember is potatoes!

Clara had written in her fine, flowing script, underlining the word
potatoes
heavily.

They are the most filling of all foods. Cook as many potatoes as you possibly can in your biggest pots early in the morning, and you can conjure up all sorts of different dishes from them.

Too late for “early in the morning”! Isabelle chewed at her lip as she filled several pots with a few inches of water. Luckily, she had a good fire going in the stove, and the water quickly came to a boil.

Render a little bacon, then bake the potatoes in the bacon fat until they’re golden brown.

Still reading Clara’s instructions, Isabelle reached into the potato sack next to the oven. Now she had to be just as quick with the potato knife as she had been earlier with the pruning shears!

Potatoes with chopped bacon, a huge plate with sliced green cucumbers, and a bowl of peaches, halved and drenched in champagne—if anyone found Isabelle’s lunch unusual, no one let on. Instead, the men dug in heartily and drank carafe after carafe of water and at least as many bottles of red wine. Isabelle worried that all the wine might go to the men’s heads, but at the same time, she was glad that her food had met with such a favorable reception.

It warmed Isabelle’s heart to watch the men sitting around the large wooden table that Claude had dragged out of the barn and set up at the foot of the vineyard. All of them laughing and joking, all in high spirits and enjoying the camaraderie that came so naturally to them. This was just as she’d imagined the harvest to be! She absolutely
had
to write about it to Clara and Josephine.

The work was hard and the hours long. Apart from the break for lunch, they did not stop again all day.