The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (29 page)

“You can rest tonight, but now the job is to get the grapes into the presses. We don’t want to let madame down, do we?” Claude implored the men again and again. “The widow Feininger isn’t sitting around. This evening, there’ll be a big pot of pork sausages, mustard from Dijon, fresh bread, and wine, as much as you like. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?”

And so the men kept working, despite aching backs, tired arms, and sore legs, until the sun dropped below the horizon.

Instead of hauling everything back down to the vineyard, Isabelle served dinner for the pickers by candlelight out on her terrace, although neither Claude nor Grosse could join them for that. They were in the press-house, supervising the processing of the grapes picked that day. Before the harvest began, Claude had managed to hire a few of the older men from the village to operate the press—it was tricky work, and too much depended on it to put it in less experienced hands.

“For the next few days, we won’t be eating or sleeping much. That’s just the way it is at this time of year, madame,” Claude had said, almost apologetically, when she asked him where he was going when it was late and everyone else was just sitting down to eat. Isabelle promised she would check in on him later.

When the pot of sausages and the breadbasket were empty, one of the men unpacked a violin and started to play. Unlike Isabelle, all the men seemed to know the song, and they clapped and sang along with the violinist.

Isabelle couldn’t stop smiling, and she opened a few more bottles of wine.

The first day was over. They had done it!

Chapter Thirty-Two

The pickers were back among the vines by four in the morning. Isabelle had read that the best way to retain the fine, fruity aroma of the grapes was to harvest them early in the morning.

“In return, you can finish earlier!” she had told the men from Charleville, convincing them to get back on their feet again after so few hours of sleep. With Gustave Grosse watching over the work in the press-house, Claude was left to supervise the vineyards alone, so Isabelle was doubly surprised to see him appear in the kitchen at midday. Instead of spending the first few hours helping with the picking, she was preparing breakfast, lunch, and dinner for thirty hungry men.

“Has something happened?” Isabelle asked.

He shook his head. “The men are doing the best they can, but thirty pairs of hands simply aren’t enough to do the work that used to be done by fifty. We need more pickers, or we’re not going to get the harvest in on time.”

Isabelle furrowed her brow. “What difference does one day more or less make? As long as the weather holds . . .”

“We’re talking at least a week. That’s how much longer we’ll need,” said Claude. “And I doubt this spell of good weather is going to hold. If you look to the west, that narrow, dark band on the horizon does not augur well. I can already feel it in my bones: there’s a front coming. It’s still a long way off, but that can change fast. We need more people, and we need them urgently, madame.”

His dog barked as if to endorse its master’s words. Isabelle tossed the dog a sausage that had been meant for the bean stew. She looked in desperation at her overseer. “For heaven’s sake, where am I supposed to find more pickers?”

Daniel’s eyes burned as if he had washed them with salt water. His arms were so tired that the slightest movement was a chore. His legs were as heavy as lead, his feet swollen, his shoulders . . . he couldn’t feel his shoulders anymore. And he no longer heard the din and frantic activity in the press-house at all, though it surrounded him day and night. Being able to sleep eight consecutive hours again—eight? Two or three would do!—seemed impossible. And yet he felt optimistic, standing, as he had for days, beside the Trubert press while he oversaw the men filling and working it. So far, not one of their own people or any of the foreign pickers had gotten sick or injured, and there had been no fights or other trouble. With a little luck, they would get through the last three or four days of the harvest without incident. Daniel yawned and rubbed his tired eyes, then Henriette’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Well, are you pleased with the quantity and quality?”

In the low light of the press-house, he turned to Henriette. “It could be worse,” he said. In truth, he was extremely satisfied with the harvest. The grapes were almost flawless and had a fuller aroma than they did the year before. But sharing that satisfaction with Henriette would have spoiled it for him.
She’s your boss. She has a right to know things like that
, he berated himself in the same instant, but he still did not say any more.

They stepped out into the open air together. After the darkness of the press-house, the bright sunshine hurt Daniel’s weary eyes. A deep gong rang loudly. The gong had become a tradition at the Trubert estate, and it was rung to signal the start of every meal.

“You look as if you could use some food yourself,” Henriette said, and stroked Daniel’s arm.

“A good idea,” he replied, pulling his arm free of her touch. At the thought of eating, he stomach growled. He could not remember the last time he had eaten.

“Strange,” he murmured as his eyes swept across the vineyards. “Most of the Feininger vines still haven’t been harvested. But Isabelle Feininger wanted to start picking one day after us.” He saw pickers at work in only one vineyard close to her house, where Pinot Meunier grapes grew, but the vines were otherwise deserted. Isabelle . . . even in the bustle of the harvest, the German constantly found her way into his thoughts—which surprised him.

“Considering your newfound interest in the widow, I thought you would already know, my dear,” said Henriette. “But I’ll tell you what poor Isabelle’s problem is: her pickers have all abandoned her. With the handful of people she has, she’ll never manage to get her grapes in!” There was satisfaction—or triumph—in Henriette’s words.

Daniel turned quickly to Henriette. “What? But why . . .” Was
l’Allemande
such a terrible boss? Isabelle certainly did not seem to be a slave driver. Had she been unable to pay the pickers? But he could not imagine that; she had the money from the Americans, after all.

The corners of Henriette’s mouth rose in a spiteful smile. “And this is the best part: I managed to get the regular Feininger pickers to work for us. They’re picking in the Leblanc vineyard and all the others I’ve bought in the last year. Everybody has a price—I’ve been convinced of that for a long time, and it’s proved true. For a few more francs and a bottle of wine a day, getting them was easy. Oh, Daniel, don’t tell me you didn’t notice that we’ve got fifty more pickers than usual!” She shook her head and clucked her tongue.

Daniel had, indeed, hired the pickers, but his best foreman managed them in the vineyards. He glared at Henriette in disbelief. “You stole Isabelle Feininger’s pickers?”

“If looks could kill . . . ,” Henriette cooed, taking a step back in exaggerated fear. “Don’t be like that, my dear. If you’d done what you were supposed to do in Troyes, I wouldn’t have been forced to take such steps, and the Feininger land would be mine by now.”

“What a greedy old viper you are.” He couldn’t believe he worked his fingers to the bone day and night for her.

“A viper who gets what she wants,” said Henriette maliciously, then she turned away. “The food’s getting cold. You’d better hurry.”

Though he felt like nothing more than walking away, he followed Henriette into the empty warehouse that they had converted into a cafeteria for the harvest workers. He had no appetite anymore, but there was something else—or rather, someone else—he wanted to deal with.

It didn’t take Daniel long to find out who headed the clan that should have been working for Isabelle: Pedro Garcia Àlvarez. It didn’t surprise Daniel in the least since it was well known that Àlvarez always asked for more from his employers than he passed on to his people. Because few vintners cared where there money went as long as the work was done well, Àlvarez lined his own pockets without his people finding out about it. What was equally well known was that the Spaniard was a Casanova from whom no woman was safe. Àlvarez cheated his people out of their hard-earned money and cheated on his wife as well.

Until that day, Daniel had had almost nothing to do with the man, but that was about to end.

The Spaniard sat at one of the best tables, directly beside where they served the food. While the plates of most of the pickers were empty, and the men and women were getting up to go back to their strenuous work, Àlvarez was treating himself to seconds. When he saw Daniel approaching, he paused momentarily, then calmly continued eating.

Daniel stood in front of the man. “I need to talk to you, right now.” He nodded toward the warehouse door.

“And if I don’t need to talk with you, monsieur?” Àlvarez replied languidly.

“Fine with me,” said Daniel with a shrug. “I can just as easily talk to your people. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear how
skillfully
you negotiate their wages.” He gestured to those leaving to wait a moment longer.

Maria Àlvarez looked curiously at her husband.

“Something the matter?” asked one of the workers. A restlessness stirred among them.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come with me now,” Daniel whispered to Àlvarez. The Spaniard followed him without another word.

While Isabelle served potato soup to the pickers, she kept glancing at the sky with concern. The sun was still beating down mercilessly, but along the horizon, there were high white streaks of clouds.

“Your soup’s delicious, madame,” said one of the cyclists, holding his bowl out to Isabelle. Forcing a smile, she filled the bowl again. She wanted the men working, but she knew how hard the picking was. To be able to get through the afternoon shift at all, the midday break and a fortifying lunch were vital. Soup packed with meat, plus bread, cheese, and vegetable fritters—every day, she put out more on the table.

Oh, let them eat in peace and enjoy the break
, she thought with resignation as she scraped the last bit of soup out of the pot for herself and sat down at the table to eat.
An hour more or less isn’t going to make a difference; either way, we’ll only get half of it in.

A sparrow hopped from the sunlight into the shadow cast by the long dining table. Ignoring the crowd of men, the bird hunted for fallen crumbs, and Isabelle tossed it a crust of bread.

“Madame—look!” Claude Bertrand, sitting beside her, jabbed her in the ribs. He was pointing to the road, where thirty or more men and women were walking toward them.

“What’s this now?” Wide-eyed, Isabelle stared at the group, which was led by a wiry man with receding black hair. His expression was anything but friendly.

Isabelle frowned. Was she mistaken, or were these the same people who camped down at the bottom of her garden? Were they breaking camp? Why else would they be walking around like this in the middle of the day?

“Christ!” said Claude Bertrand. “If that isn’t Àlvarez and his clan! That’s the lout who should have been working for us. Leaving us hanging like he did—I’ll tell him a thing or two!” He stood up angrily and rubbed his hands together as if he were about to attack the man.

“Claude,” Isabelle said, with a note of warning. “No arguments now, please. Let’s hear what they have to say first.”

Her overseer gritted his teeth, but he nodded as the Spaniard walked up to them, hooked his thumbs into his waistband, and rocked provocatively from his toes to his heels and back again. Then he said, “We’ve been sent. They say you need help.”

Isabelle looked at the man in confusion. “But . . . who sent you?”

The man dismissed her question. “That doesn’t matter. For good pay and food, we’re willing to work in your vineyards. That’s what matters.” He peered critically at the plates of the cyclists, as if to check that what Isabelle served was good enough.

Isabelle could have jumped for joy. This man was her savior! But she put on her sternest voice and said, “I’ll pay you the wage we’d already agreed. You can’t expect any more, not after you abandoned us. But I’ll gladly add a bottle of wine per day for every worker. Does that sound good?” She looked from one to the other and heard a general murmur of agreement. Their leader nodded.

She clapped her hands. “Then what are we waiting for? To work!”

“You’ll get pruning shears and baskets from me,” Claude added grimly. “Let’s get one thing straight: I want to hear you singing while you work. Have I made myself clear?”

The workers nodded while their leader spat disdainfully onto the ground.

“What did you mean by that?” Isabelle asked a little later, as the new pickers headed back into the vineyards with the cyclists.

Claude grinned. “Around here, we say that if you’re singing, you’re not stuffing your mouth with grapes. Not that we’d have to worry about that. These people must be sick of the sight of grapes by now. I just wanted to rile Àlvarez a little.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The two horses worked more the days of the harvest than they did through all the rest of the year. With their heads bent low, they leaned into their harnesses, hauling one brimming cartload of grapes after another to the press-house. Where the leather straps lay against their hides, the horses’ hair was dark with sweat, which in turn drew the flies. Although Àlvarez’s men and women already had the Trubert harvest behind them, they also pulled their weight at the Feininger estate. The cyclists, spurred by the hard work of the itinerant harvesters, picked up their paces. And row by row, the grapes disappeared.

The baskets were unloaded in front of the press-house, their contents inspected briefly by the cellar master. The grapes were then poured into the press, which could hold almost ten thousand pounds of grapes. When this quantity—called the
marc
—was reached, seven men positioned themselves around the wheel; when they turned it, the heavy plate known as the
mouton
sank onto the grapes, squeezing out their juice. The work had to be done with care so the red color from the skins didn’t mix with the juice, which had to stay as light and clear as possible. Two pounds of grapes would later be transformed into a little more than one bottle of champagne. It made Isabelle dizzy to think what a treasure, what wealth, was flowing through her press.

Thanks to Jacques’s books, Isabelle had a good idea of what happened when the grapes were pressed. Most valuable of all were the first five hundred gallons of juice. The first half of that was called the
première cuvée
. The next hundred and fifty gallons made up the
deuxième cuvée
, and the final hundred were the
troisième cuvée
. These five hundred gallons formed the basis for the most valuable champagnes. With every subsequent pressing, the flesh of the red grapes came into more contact with the skin, and the juice consequently took on a reddish coloration and lost some of its aroma. This juice could be made into very drinkable champagnes, but they were generally less elegant or full-bodied than those of the first pressing. Of course, every pressing was stored in a separate barrel.

But for all she had learned, nothing from any of the books had prepared her for the feverish atmosphere in the press-house, which held an almost magical attraction for Isabelle. Every night, when she had her duties as cook and hostess behind her, she visited the press-house and stood by the entrance, always taking care not to get in anyone’s way or disturb the complicated handling processes. Every night, as she stood at the entrance, she was struck by the unique smell of grape juice, fermented fruit, and sweat, and she breathed it in greedily; it represented the basis for her own future security and her great goal of creating her own champagne. And every night, not without anxiety, she marveled at what she knew was only a seeming chaos but in reality was the perfect coordination of many experienced hands.

Supervised by Gustave Grosse, the press-house men worked day and night in two shifts. Filling the basket, pressing, scooping the grapes that clung to the sides back into the middle with a wooden scraper, pressing again—juice flowed from the grapes, and sweat streamed from the men.

The vineyards and the press were like two worlds, completely separate from one another but existing side by side. The longer the harvest went on, the slower the vineyard workers moved. No one spoke much; they were in tune with one another and certainly too tired to fight.

In the press-house, though, the atmosphere grew more tense with every passing day. A false word, a tiny shove, and a fight would ensue, only to be nipped in the bud by the cellar master. Time was much too precious to be wasted with fighting. But speed alone was not enough to do the work; the press demanded the greatest concentration: each type of grape and each pressing had to be pumped into separate tanks—
cuves de débourbage
—that were stored in a cellar one level deeper. There, the juice could rest, and contaminants like stems, skins, sediment, and insects were removed. Later, the juice was pumped through the complicated system of pipes into another cellar, where it would be stored again, this time in barrels, and undergo the first fermentation. For Isabelle, this was one of the trickiest stages of all. God forbid someone forgot to note the necessary information for a barrel or accidentally mixed two kinds of juice. That nearly happened once, and Isabelle was amazed to see the otherwise so apathetic Gustave Grosse start to rage at such sloppiness. She would gladly have been there herself to supervise, but she had to trust her cellar master and his workers.

Two weeks into the harvest, the vines looked as tattered as molted birds, and the pickers in their filthy aprons looked nearly as bad. At some point, the last vine was picked clean, and the barrels that had spent the year empty in the extensive cellars beneath the estate were all filled again with fresh grape juice.

As the harvest had drawn to a close, Claude had told her that throwing a party to celebrate was mandatory. Isabelle had merely smiled at her overseer. She had long ago made all the arrangements for just such a party, and she had done so in style.

Now, her terrace was lit up like a theater stage. White candles flickered on the long wooden table, and the full moon cast a generous silver glow over everything. Small bouquets of lavender and roses released their sweet scent into the warm September night and blended with the spicy aroma of the suckling pig that had been sizzling on a spit since early that morning.

Isabelle, her eyes shining, sat beside Claude at one of the tables, soaking up the atmosphere, which was so unlike anything she’d experienced before. The other seat beside her was reserved for Gustave Grosse. He and the men from the press-house were still finishing up but would join the celebrations soon.

A few of Àlvarez’s men played guitar and violin, and everyone sang, danced, laughed, ate, and drank. The night was long, and sleep was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

“Leon would have enjoyed a party like this,” Isabelle murmured.

Claude, who had been talking to the man sitting opposite, abruptly turned to Isabelle and said, “As successful as this harvest has been, you’ve done your husband the greatest honor. His legacy could not have been better managed.”

Isabelle smiled sadly. “Do you really think so?”

Claude nodded, then went back to his conversation.

He’s probably right. I can be proud that everything has gone so well
, she thought. Really, she felt pride along with many other emotions. The harvest was over. But she had no real time to rest, for new tasks already awaited her. Would she be able to cope with them, too?

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice Gustave Grosse until he was standing beside her. He smelled of sweat and grime. His eyes were bloodshot, his gaze almost mad as he held out a small glass of ruby-tinted juice.

“Here, madame! The last
vin de cuvée
we pressed. Would you like to try it?”

Isabelle held the glass up to the candlelight. “Isn’t it a little too red?”

“Don’t worry. The color will be eaten by the yeast.”

Only half-appeased, Isabelle lifted the glass to her lips. Instantly, everyone around her fell silent, and all eyes turned to her expectantly.

The juice tasted sweet and sticky, but that was all she could say about it. She looked at the people all around and smiled, then called out, “It’s going to be a wonderful vintage!”

Enthusiastic cheers rose on every side. Everyone had been part of the harvest’s success, and they all enjoyed this moment of triumph.

Tears came to Isabelle’s eyes. “Thank you all!” she called, her voice breaking. “You were wonderful.”

More cheering. Goaded into it by his friends, a good-looking Spaniard with blazing eyes—one of Àlvarez’s men—jumped to his feet, went to Isabelle, and bowed before her with a flourish.

“Boss—would you honor me with the first dance of the evening?”

Later, all the gaiety and noise grew too much for her. The child in her belly was restless and tired, too. She slipped away from the festivities and walked toward her vineyards.

Moonlight glimmered over the landscape, and the outlines of the bare vines looked as if someone had traced them with a fine quill in an ink drawing. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Even the wild creatures out hunting in the night made no sound.

Halfway to the vineyards, Isabelle sat on a weathered bench. She breathed in deeply; the air was still permeated with the sweet smell of the grapes and the smoke from the many campfires that dotted across the landscape. The bonfire sparks lit the night like fireflies. Someone up in heaven also seemed to have lit a bonfire—a flood of stars sparkled like priceless diamonds across the firmament. Directly in front of her, the evening star glowed. Isabelle smiled. A deep feeling of peace filled her, and she willingly gave herself over to it.

“Leon,” she whispered, looking up to the sky, “believe it or not, we did it!”

What no one believed possible had come to pass. She had done it. Her first harvest was in.

No time to rest . . . but she had at least a little more time for other things, and she was looking forward to things slowing down. She had not seen either Micheline or Ghislaine for days, and she wanted to write letters to Josephine and Clara, telling them all about her harvest adventure. And then . . . Pondering, she stroked her belly. From now on, she would take better care of the child. Leon’s child. Instead of ignoring its presence, she would nurture and care for it as she did the vines.

She sighed deeply. In that moment, she did not want to think about all the other duties and tasks ahead. It did her good to simply sit and enjoy the silence, and she did not want to spoil that.

But a moment later, she saw a dark figure coming down the path. She frowned, suddenly put out: Who could want anything from her just then? Had two drunks started a fight that she—the boss, as the people had begun to call her—would have to settle? Or was someone coming to fetch her back to the fire? Wasn’t she to be granted just a few silent minutes to herself?

She only relaxed when she saw who it was.

“Isabelle?” Daniel Lambert looked surprised to find her there. “Don’t you have your big harvest party tonight?”

“Sometimes finding a quiet corner is the best thing that can happen to a person,” she replied.

“And sometimes not,” Daniel replied with a wry smile. “One can also enjoy such tranquility in company. May I?”

He gestured toward the seat beside her, and she nodded hastily.

For a little while, they sat side by side, neither saying a word. Daniel’s body radiated a pleasant warmth, and Isabelle unconsciously leaned toward him. “I guess the Champagne region is the only place in the world you can see stars like this.” She swept one hand across the spangled sky.

“And yet, some people see only the darkness but not the stars,” Daniel replied.

“I was like that myself, for a long time. I had to learn to see the stars again,” said Isabelle thoughtfully.

The silence that settled again was more charged than it had been. A light tremor ran through Isabelle; it was not uncomfortable but made her a little bit afraid. She moved away from Daniel a little, then stretched her arms over her head to ease her aching muscles, sore from hauling pots, pans, and mountains of tableware. As she did so, it occurred to her how good it would probably feel to lay her head on his shoulder.
Any other mad ideas while you’re at it?
she immediately scolded herself. “I’m slowly starting to feel like I’ve got more wine than blood in my veins,” she said. “A strange feeling . . .”

Daniel laughed. “Anyone born here has wine in their veins from birth. It looks to me as if you’re heading toward becoming a real
vigneronne
.”

She looked at him sidelong. “If I think of Henriette, I have to wonder if that was meant as a compliment or an affront.”

“That’s up to you,” he replied just as lightheartedly. Then he became more serious. “Well? Did Àlvarez and his people do a decent job?”

“
You
sent them?”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I only found out too late what was going on, or I would have done something much earlier.”

“Thank you,” Isabelle murmured after a few moments. “I don’t know why you’re doing all this for me, but without you I would have been lost . . . more than once.”

Then she felt his lips on her mouth. The contact was simultaneously as light as a feather and intense. As startled as she was by the sudden kiss, she certainly felt a flame spark to life inside her. Carefully, she opened her lips a little and felt his tongue, probing. He did not taste of wine, she was surprised to discover, but of clear spring water.

Just for a moment, she imagined what it would be like to make love to Daniel, to take her pleasure in his gentle touch, to respond in kind, experiencing that ecstasy and release together. But that could not be; she would never allow it! She was Leon’s widow, and she would be true to him beyond his death. Shocked, she pushed herself away from Daniel.