The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (32 page)

“Our bill, madame! And could you spare us a bite to eat and a bit of water and hay for the horses?”

Once the bottle merchant and his helper had eaten a chunk of bread with butter and the horses had been tended, they set off toward the next of their Hautvillers customers.

“Until next year, madame!” the driver called cheerfully from his seat atop the wagon.

She nodded vaguely. Who knew what next year had in store? Drained, she wrapped herself up in a blanket on the chaise longue in the living room, where a warm fire crackled in the tiled stove. A hot bath? She was too tired to even think about it!

When she awoke the next morning, it took her a moment to realize where she was. The fire had long since burned out, and the room was chilly. Had she really spent the entire evening there, with nothing to eat and wearing dirty clothes? Shaking her head, she set off for the kitchen. Claude was right. She really had to start taking better care of herself. To make up for it, she prepared a hearty breakfast.

Afterward, she left the house and took her kitchen scraps out to the chickens. It had begun snowing lightly again, but this time Isabelle had no eye for the beauties of nature. After she had collected the eggs, she headed straight for the wine cellar, where she needed to give Grosse a talking-to. He could at least have told her about the delivery of corks and bottles so she hadn’t looked like an idiot!

She already had one hand on the solid handle of the main door when a sharp but muted roar from inside the cellar made her jump. Cannon shot? In her cellars?

Isabelle put down the basket of eggs and pushed the door open, at first just a little, then wider. Good God, what had that been? An explosion? Isabelle looked around helplessly. No sign of Claude anywhere near. What if her cellar master had been hurt and needed help? She didn’t want to put herself or her unborn child in danger.

“Monsieur Grosse?” she shouted through the open door. “Gustave? Is everything all right?” When she heard no answer, she gingerly stepped inside and took a few steps toward the stairs. A new detonation sounded, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Monsieur Grosse! What’s going on down there? Say something!” Her heart was beating hard and her knees were shaking as she leaned over the railing.

“Everything’s fine,” she heard from one of the lower levels.

Isabelle’s relief almost made her dizzy. As quickly as she could, she descended the stairs to the floor below. On the second to last step, she trod on something soft and round, and her foot slipped out from under her. She automatically clenched both hands around the railing—a fall would be all she needed!

Angry, she looked down to see what she had slipped on. A cork! What the devil was a cork doing on the steps? With her lips pressed together and her eyes on the floor ahead of her, she went on in the dark.

The next moment, she almost fell over in shock. Big, pointy shards of glass; smashed necks and bases of bottles; dangerous little glass slivers; and more corks covered the floor and some of the steps. Champagne was spreading over the ground and collecting in puddles; white foam was sticking to everything.

“Dear God—what is going on here?”

Grosse, in the low light of a gas lamp, was halfheartedly at work with a dustpan and broom. He glanced up at her only momentarily.

“A minor mishap, madame. A few bottles exploded. It happens sometimes. I’ll clean it all up immediately, and then it’s done.”

“Minor mishap? Have you gone completely insane? This is hundreds of bottles! A small fortune just went to waste here!” Isabelle was screaming so loud that her voice broke.

“Now don’t go getting so upset,” said Grosse, and it seemed to Isabelle that he was trying to hold in a smile. “It’s only last year’s champagne, and you don’t like it anyway.”

“Oh, so that means it’s all right for the bottles to explode? You . . . you are the clumsiest oaf I have ever laid eyes on!” Shaking with fury, Isabelle snatched an unbroken bottle from a rack on her left and threw it at Grosse’s feet in disgust. “If that’s the case, then here’s another one! And another! And another!” She pulled out one bottle after another and smashed them before the astonished eyes of her cellar master, who was now standing up to his ankles in champagne froth.

“Is it a
major
mishap yet?” she asked, her voice icy. “Now get to work and clean it up!”

Chapter Thirty-Five

With tears of anger—at herself, especially—streaming down her cheeks, Isabelle threw some clothes into her suitcase. Why hadn’t she sent Gustave away on the spot? Taken away his key to the cellars and said, “Go! And don’t come back!” She slammed the lid of the case closed, picked it up and, groaning, carried it down the stairs. Then she took a deep breath and asked Claude to harness the horses and take her to Reims. He did as bidden, and when he helped her into the coach he asked, “Is everything all right, madame?”

“Nothing is all right, but that will change soon enough,” she muttered.

“How long do you expect to be away?” he asked.

“Perhaps one night; perhaps longer. I’ll be doing some Christmas shopping and otherwise just looking at different things . . . because I’m so sick of some of the things I have to look at around here!”

Reims was at least as lovely in the winter as it was in the springtime. The crystalline chill that blanketed the open countryside lost some of its bitterness among the buildings and city streets. And the people of Reims knew how to look after themselves in winter, as attested to by the luxurious coats of the women and fur-lined hats worn by the men.

Isabelle watched a woman in a particularly fetching sable coat stroll past, but her reverie soon evaporated. God knew there were more important things in the world than beautiful clothes! She took in the magnificent white sandstone buildings, gleaming in the wintry sunshine. Instead of decorative flowers, garlands of ivy and fir now graced the entrances of the elegant shops. The air was filled with the smell of chestnuts and roasted almonds and the pungent odor of hot spiced wine sold by street vendors. Isabelle bought herself a small bag of almonds but decided to pass on the mulled wine—the midwife had advised her not to drink any more alcohol so close to the birth. So she ate the almonds and admired the window displays, which could hold their own with those in Berlin, Paris, or any other big city. The
Champenois
certainly appreciated the finer things in life.

After purchasing some of the Christmas gifts, Isabelle decided to treat herself to a cup of hot chocolate at one of the many cafés. While she was waiting for it to arrive, she felt the tension ease in the back of her neck. Hautvillers and all the worries of the estate were suddenly far away. It was so good to simply sit there and do nothing! On her previous visits to Reims, she’d always been in a hurry: visiting government offices, shopping for food or for supplies needed around the estate, the visit to the notary after Leon’s death. But today, all she had to do was take care of herself. She decided that in the future, she would come into the city more often and not wait until she was ready to explode. A bit more shopping after the café, a visit to the hairdresser, and she would be ready for the most important point on her agenda for the day.

“For a few bottles of champagne to burst like that, well, it’s nothing unusual, my dear Isabelle. The whole business of making champagne is unpredictable, and no winemaker really knows today what he will have to deal with tomorrow. If you ask me, the carbon dioxide content of the bottles that exploded in your cellar was probably too high; they were under too much pressure. Or you might even say the champagne was
en furie
,” Raymond Dupont explained with a smile. The moment Isabelle had entered his shop, he had put everything aside and locked the front door to give her his undivided attention. It flattered Isabelle a little that such a busy man would give her so much of his valuable time.

“When I saw all the mess, I turned into a fury myself,” she said, gritting her teeth at the recollection, but deep inside, her anger had evaporated long before. She casually looked around his shop; the atmosphere of wealth and excess enveloped her like a warm blanket.

“In the past, fifty or a hundred years ago, the bottles were not as good as they are today. The cellar masters and growers were so afraid of exploding bottles that they wouldn’t venture into their cellars without an iron mask to protect themselves. Haven’t you ever wondered why so many of them have scarred hands? Or why your own cellar master only has one eye? Accidents with flying glass were part and parcel of the business back then.”

“There’s really nothing you don’t know about champagne, is there?” said Isabelle thoughtfully. “But you’re talking about the old days. My supplier from the Argonne, at least, assures me that his bottles are of the highest quality. If something bursts in my cellar, then it’s because my cellar master is incompetent.”

Raymond laughed brightly. “I wouldn’t dare contradict you!”

“If the incident this morning had been the only one . . . but there have been so many.” She lifted both hands helplessly. “I feel like I’m marking time, going nowhere. The mountain of questions and problems is simply not getting any smaller.”
And the cork and bottle deliveries put a considerable dent in my finances, too
, she thought.

Raymond took her hand. “Keeping in mind that you are—and please pardon the expression—a foreigner, you’re holding up very well indeed. That said, looking at the situation objectively, the task you’ve set yourself is simply too much for a woman to take on alone. If you at least had someone to help . . .”

“How very true,” Isabelle sighed. “Dear Raymond, I need a new cellar master urgently. Would you happen to know someone?” She squeezed his hand, which was still holding hers, excitedly.

But Raymond could only shrug regretfully. “I wish I did. I began asking around on your behalf some time ago. It was clear to me from tasting that too-sweet champagne you brought that your cellar master isn’t any good. But so far, despite all my contacts, I’ve come up empty-handed.” After a momentary pause, he went on. “It seems there isn’t a decent cellar master for miles around in need of work.”

Isabelle slumped in her chair. “A skilled cellar master is the only thing that can save me.”

“I wish I could help you, Isabelle. But manufacturing champagne is a ruthless business. Nowhere else in the world can one earn so much money with wine. In 1868, around fifteen million bottles were sold. Today, thirty years later, you can double that number. Every vigneron knows that, and every one of them will do what they can to be top of that heap! Now, so close to the turn of the century, the whole game has taken on a new dimension. Anyone with a decent cellar master would be stupid to lose him now.”

“Then you mean I might as well pack my bags?” said Isabelle, discouraged.

“Not at all! I’ll keep asking around for you,” said Raymond. “You should not give up hope; greater miracles have happened.”

Miracles! Isabelle had given up on miracles long ago. The very thought of going back to her daily battles with Grosse was almost unbearable.

“Now try to think of something more pleasant. A woman in your condition shouldn’t be getting so worked up,” he said, then he nodded toward the light-yellow box embossed with the emblem of the children’s shop down the street. “I see you’ve bought some things for your baby. Wouldn’t you like to show them to me?”

Isabelle allowed herself to be distracted by the tactic, and after she had presented the woolen baby clothes and Raymond had admired them, she did, in fact, feel a little better. But then Raymond said, “Have you already found a wet nurse and a nanny for the baby? Through my customers, I know of a number of women here in Reims who come highly recommended. Young women from the Alsace region are said to be especially doting.”

“A wet nurse? What makes you think I would need someone for that?” Without thinking, she placed one hand protectively over her belly.

Raymond seemed taken aback. “If I may be permitted to ask, are you planning to take care of both your child
and
the estate?”

Isabelle’s answer was tentative “We will have to wait and see.”

“Of course,” said Raymond. Then he stood up brightly. “And now, I think, we’ve spent enough time on problems! It would be my great pleasure and honor to invite you to dinner. A woman I know has just opened a new restaurant on Rue Buirette; the food is excellent.”

Candlelight, damask and hothouse roses on the tables, soft violin music in the background—Isabelle leaned back, relaxed, in her chair.

Raymond, studying the wine list, looked up and smiled at her. “Did I promise too much?”

Before Isabelle could reply, the restaurant owner appeared at their table. She and Raymond exchanged a few words, then he ordered for Isabelle and himself. Isabelle, who had struggled with the copious menu, was relieved.

In his shop, their talk had been mostly business, but now their conversation was much lighter. Raymond told anecdotes about his capricious customers—no names, of course!—and Isabelle told him about her cycling adventures. Raymond was deeply impressed to discover that she had taken part in a long-distance race in Denmark.

When the main course was served—capon stuffed with chestnuts—Isabelle felt better than she had for a long time.

“How is it that a man like you isn’t married?” Even as she asked it, she wondered if the question was appropriate.

But Raymond did not seem put off by her curiosity. “Maybe it’s just that no woman ever wanted to put up with an old codger like me for life.”

“I can’t believe that,” Isabelle spontaneously replied. “Old codger? But you’re so . . . so”—she flicked her left hand in the air as if trying to find the right adjective—“so wonderful.”

Wonderful?
he thought.

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” Raymond grinned. “Then perhaps it’s that a wonderful man would also like to have a wonderful woman at his side?”

“So you’re selective,” said Isabelle triumphantly. Just as she’d thought.

“Selective, demanding, critical—too critical? Who can say for certain?” The champagne dealer gave a little shrug. “In any case, if I met the woman of my dreams, I would marry her in an instant.” He raised his wine glass, looking deeply into her eyes as he did so.

Isabelle, suddenly a little uneasy, looked away.

When Isabelle arrived back in Hautvillers late the following day, she felt refreshed and happy. The evening with Raymond, his undivided attention, the marvelous candlelight dinner—it had all been good. She had listened almost spellbound to the stories he told of his travels and his life. Afterward, he had accompanied her back to her hotel and kissed her hand charmingly in farewell.

“It would be my greatest pleasure to invite you to celebrate Christmas with me in Reims. I’ll be putting on a small dinner for some close friends,” he had said before departing. “We could take the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.”

As much as Isabelle enjoyed his company, she had turned down the invitation as nicely as she could. In her condition, she had no desire to spend an entire evening sitting at a table with people she didn’t know, even though they were Raymond’s friends. Apart from that, his remark about the woman of his dreams had unnerved her a little. The way he had looked at her as he said it . . . but she was a widow, and an extremely pregnant widow at that, who would be bringing a child into the world in the new year. It was hard to imagine that a man might see her as anything else, and she certainly didn’t have any interest in an affair. And yet it pleased her that Raymond wanted to get to know her better. As she opened the door of her house she concluded that going to Reims had been a fine idea and that Raymond Dupont’s company had done her good.

The next morning, there was a rapping on her door. When Isabelle saw Claude Bertrand’s face, she knew instantly that something bad had happened. Her feeling of well-being from the previous day evaporated, and the iron ring of worry and fear clamped itself around her chest again.

“Wolves have killed two of the sheep,” he said with a grim expression. “We have to come up with some way to protect the animals.”

Isabelle pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “But . . . didn’t you say they could stay out in winter and all we’d need to do was feed them hay?”

“Normally, that would be true. But if the wolves are going through the vineyards looking for food, it points to a hard winter ahead. And if they are successful once, as they were last night, then they’ll come again, maybe even in the daytime. Which means we have to shelter the animals in the stall.”

“The whole winter?” So many animals closed up in such a small space? She was no expert in raising sheep, but even she could see that what Claude was proposing was far from ideal.

Claude shrugged.

“Then what are we waiting for?” she said, buttoning her jacket.

“You don’t really want to
see
what’s happened, do you?” The horror in the overseer’s voice hung in the chill air as little white clouds.

“Who cares if I want to or not? I have to get a clear picture of the situation before I can make a decision,” Isabelle said. For a brief moment, she thought longingly of the warm semolina pudding she’d been planning to make. Again, a day not going as she’d planned. Again, new concerns.

The white snow was colored dark red where the two cadavers lay. The wolves—the paw prints suggested there had been a small pack of them—had fed well on the two dead sheep, going first for the innards. Stomach, liver, heart—none of those organs remained. One of the sheep was missing its head; a wolf had probably carried it off to a patch of bushes to eat undisturbed. Meat, intestines, and scraps of hide were strewn across a wide area, and the rest of the herd surrounded the dead animals.

Isabelle shuddered. The lump in her throat felt like lead, and tears came to her eyes. Compared to this, a few exploding champagne bottles were a trifle.

“I’m truly sorry, madame, but I didn’t expect something like this,” said Claude quietly as he stood beside her. “The wolves would normally be eating berries and fruits now. It’s unusual for them to take sheep this early in winter, and not a good sign at all. We’ll have to take better care of the peacocks and chickens in the future, too, or they’ll be at least as easy prey as the sheep.”

Isabelle wiped one sleeve over her eyes. “Are you saying the wolves would dare to approach so close to the house?” She couldn’t seem to do anything about the slightly hysterical tone in her voice.