The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (34 page)

By the time they arrived in Hautvillers, it was snowing so heavily that he could hardly see the horse in front of him. He hoped that Ghislaine had saved something for him to eat; his stomach was growling audibly. But it was not only his hunger that was causing such a strange sensation in his stomach; it was also the thought that he would once again see Isabelle Feininger.

The vintner dropped him at the bottom of the street. There was still a light on inside Ghislaine’s house, Daniel realized as he drew closer, but most of the neighbors’ houses were already dark. When Daniel looked across to Isabelle’s place and saw a light there, too, his heart sank. She had already gone home.

Without warning, a piercing scream cut through the night, so raw and penetrating that not even the heavy snowfall could muffle it. The scream had come from Isabelle’s house. Daniel felt hot and cold at the same time. He threw his bundle on the ground and ran to her door. He banged and shook at it, but nothing stirred on the other side.

“Isabelle!” he called out, and threw himself so hard against the solid oak that the iron fittings groaned loudly. But the door didn’t budge.

Another scream. Shrill. Fearful. Kicking in the door was an impossibility. Did Claude Bertrand have a key to the house? Or the Guenins? A long, lamenting wail, like that of an animal caught in a trap, jerked him back to the moment. Damn it, he had no time to lose. He tore off his jacket, wrapped it around his right fist, and smashed in one of the windows beside the door. Glass shattered, falling into the snow and inside the house. Daniel knocked away the shards of glass still caught in the frame. Then he climbed through.

Breathing heavily, he stood in the entry hall in which he and Ghislaine had spent their childhood.

“Isabelle?” he called out.

It was pitch-black on the ground floor, but he knew the house inside out. Without hesitation, he charged up the stairs to the second floor, where he could see some weak light.

He found Isabelle curled up on the floor of her bedroom.

“Daniel . . .” Her eyes were glassy, and she whispered, “The baby . . .”

Then Daniel was next to her on the floor. He slipped his hands under her arms and pulled her up. “Come on, let’s get you onto the bed.” Isabelle screamed again, so full of pain that Daniel paused for a second, then heaved her onto the mattress. His heart was beating hard as he stroked her pale face. Her eyelids were fluttering so fast that he was afraid she’d fall unconscious at any moment.
How many hours has she been in such agony?
he wondered, deeply worried.
And why wasn’t anyone with her?

His eyes quickly scanned the room where, many years ago, his parents had slept. No bowls of hot water, no clean sheets or towels, no scissors or knife to cut the umbilical cord—there was nothing to show any sign of preparations for a birth. The contractions must have taken Isabelle by surprise.

Daniel could not remember ever having felt so helpless in his life. In a wine cellar, he could handle any crisis that emerged, but when it came to giving birth, he didn’t have the first clue what to do.

“Isabelle, I’m here. You have to tell me what to do!”

He tried to get her to look at him, but Isabelle’s body arched in pain again.

“Get Ghislaine. She can—”

Her cry rang loudly in his ears. The thought of leaving her alone, even briefly, was horrifying to him. But he turned away and, taking the stairs two at a time, sprinted from the house and along the street, running as if his own life depended on it.

Ghislaine kneeled between Isabelle’s legs. Sweeping her hair out of her face, she said, “Daniel, sit behind her and prop her up. I can already see the head. One or two contractions, and the baby will be here!”

Isabelle, overcome by a new surge, screamed. Then she felt Daniel’s arms around her. He held her head in both hands and stroked her sweat-soaked hair tenderly out of her face.

“You can do it, Isabelle. You’re the bravest woman of them all. You’ll be through it soon, soon!”

His words, spoken so close to her ear, soothed her. But the next moment came the irresistible urge to push. She felt the baby’s head slide out of her along with a rush of liquid, then the rest of the body followed. But the baby didn’t cry immediately.

“You have a girl,” said Ghislaine, and sniffled a little.

“But she’s not crying. Why isn’t she crying?”

“Not to worry. She’s breathing. She’s just a quiet one.” Ghislaine’s hands shook as she wiped down the small smeary body with a corner of the soiled sheet and handed the child to her mother. Daniel pulled open a cupboard and rummaged inside for a clean blanket. When he found what he was looking for, he tenderly wrapped Isabelle and the child in it.

Isabelle smiled gratefully. “A Christmas child.”

Ghislaine was standing beside the head of the bed, her hands folded as if in prayer. But then she suddenly called out, “Scissors! I need scissors to cut the umbilical cord. And hot water. I hope Micheline has all that ready.” She ran down the steps toward the kitchen.

Exhausted but happy, Isabelle looked down at the tiny creature in her arms. The girl had eyes set far apart, tiny ears, and a small bud of a mouth. She looked at least as exhausted as Isabelle herself felt. Apart from the red shimmer of fuzz on the child’s head, Isabelle could see no resemblance to either Leon or herself.

“But you’re still too small for that. Isn’t that true, my Marguerite?”

Marguerite. For weeks, she had been wondering what to call her child. A boy would have been Leonard, of course. But for a girl, making a decision had been difficult. Now the name had come to her out of nowhere. Marguerite. What beautiful eyes she had, with their long lashes, and those perfect rosy lips . . .

“Marguerite? It’s a good name. She is an exceptional beauty,” said Daniel, as if he could read Isabelle’s mind. “Like her mother.”

Isabelle held Marguerite’s tiny wrinkled left hand in her own and said with a smile, “You’ve hardly been in the world a minute, and you’ve already learned your first lesson about men: don’t believe a word of their smooth compliments. The way we both look right now is very far from attractive.”

Before she knew what happened, Daniel’s lips touched hers. Isabelle had never felt so much empathy in a kiss, so much warmth and tenderness. With her eyes closed and the infant’s warm body pressed close, she gave herself over to Daniel’s lips. They only separated when they heard the clatter of feet on the stairs and Ghislaine’s and Micheline’s excited voices.

“You’ve saved my life yet again,” said Isabelle, with tears in her eyes. “I’d been looking forward to seeing you again so much. But when you didn’t come to Ghislaine’s, I—” She swallowed, then said, “I thought you were spending Christmas Eve with a new love in Épernay.” She rocked Marguerite lovingly in her arms as she spoke.

“A new love?” said Daniel gruffly, and shook his head. “You’re the one my heart longs for, and you know that well enough. Whether you like it or not, I’m staying here to look after you. I don’t want to be saving your life every minute, but I’m sure I can get your cellars and vineyards in order. I know my way around here a little, after all.” He grinned mischievously.

“But what about Épernay?” asked Isabelle in disbelief.

He waved it off as if it were nothing.

Then my greatest wish would come true
, Isabelle thought. But just as a huge weight lifted from her heart, a sense of trepidation came over her. Daniel Lambert as her
chef de cave
, could that work out at all? What if he wanted more than she was prepared to offer? She liked him very much. She could trust Daniel, and she knew that. He was a man of character and principles. It often felt as if they thought and felt the same way. If she were to be honest with herself, she had missed him a great deal during his time in Épernay. Even so, the birth of her child only added to her worries and obligations, and she could hardly add a new love on top of everything. Besides, she would feel like she was cheating on Leon.

“I don’t know if I can afford a cellar master as famous as you. Besides—” She broke off when Marguerite made a small whimpering sound. Isabelle looked first at her child, then at Daniel, and a frown crossed her face.

“Is she hungry?” For a moment, she felt panic. She had been hoping that the nurses in Épernay would show her how to breast-feed. Now she would have to find out for herself.

As she unbuttoned her sweaty dress, Daniel turned away and went to the window. Isabelle sank back into the pillows, then she lifted Marguerite to her right breast. The baby’s small mouth closed hungrily around her nipple, and her daughter began to suck. The moment was so deeply affecting for Isabelle that a tremor shook her body and tears came to her eyes.

Hesitantly, Daniel turned back to her. Looking at the mother and child, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He smiled gently and said, “It looks like little Marguerite will be putting some demands on her
maman
for quite a while. That makes it so much more important for you to have help in the vineyards and in the cellar. Together, we can turn the Feininger estate back into one of the great estates, I promise you!”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “You would really give up your job in Épernay to help me?”

He nodded. “What I do there is so dull I might as well get a job in a factory.”

“And . . . if it doesn’t work out, after all? Daniel, please don’t get your hopes up too high,” she said softly, talking about far more than just the business.

“And don’t you think too much about it.” He moved back to the bed, placed one arm around her shoulders, and pointed toward the window and the dark, snow-covered vineyards beyond. “Look at the vines in winter, the way they hibernate. Their branches are so thin, it’s hard to imagine that in just a few short months, they will come back to life. But they will, and that’s why we nurture them and protect them. There’s no security in it, certainly no guarantee of success, only the hope that something good will come from the work we do.” He looked at Isabelle. His eyes were full of love and confidence as he said, “I ask for nothing else from you, Isabelle. Give us the time to ripen together, and to grow.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Isabelle was the happiest woman in the world. The birth had exhausted her, but she could not stop gazing at her daughter in admiration. Only occasionally did she put Marguerite in the cradle that Ignaz Chapron had, in fact, built for her from half a wine barrel, which was now beside her bed. Whenever she could, she carried Marguerite in the crook of her arm or lay down with the baby on her stomach. The tiny fingers and fingernails, the little feet, her heart-shaped mouth, rosy skin, and red fuzz—Marguerite was simply perfect! And she was an exceptionally quiet child; she slept a lot and rarely cried. At the same time, feeding her required all of Isabelle’s strength and patience. Sometimes, Marguerite acted like she was hungry but then turned her little head away the next moment. At other times, she suckled for a few moments, then fell asleep at Isabelle’s breast. Making sure she was well fed sometimes took hours.

“Is it normal for an infant to drink so poorly?” she asked Ghislaine, worried.

Ghislaine shrugged. “Some children are big eaters; others are not. You have to be patient. She will probably start to eat better soon.”

“Marguerite is just a very special child,” said Micheline, though she looked a little sad as she said it.

Isabelle squeezed her friend’s hand compassionately; Micheline had remained childless.

Ghislaine and Micheline kept Isabelle well provided with good food, and the other neighbors also came by to see mother and child. They all poured out their admiration for Marguerite, except Marie, who remained somewhat reserved. At the start, Isabelle was a little taken aback by the behavior of her neighbor, but then she recalled a conversation with Micheline in which it had come out that Marie’s own child died shortly after birth. It probably still hurt the woman to be around a newborn baby, Isabelle sadly realized.

Claude and Daniel came by every day, and they kept her updated on the vineyard and cellars. Since it had become clear that Daniel would be the cellar master for the Feininger estate, the old overseer hadn’t been able to stop smiling.

“Finally, things are turning for the good!” he said, at every chance he got. And Isabelle nodded vehemently every time. Raymond had predicted that she would not be able to find a cellar master anywhere in Champagne. Now, she not only had her Christmas-born child, but also the best cellar master anyone could name! So much good fortune all at once struck her as a little uncanny. But more good news was to come.

“Things are, let’s say, rather chaotic down in the cellars,” said Daniel when he visited her two days after Christmas. “I’m spending most of my time looking for things. Grosse neglected to mark most of the barrels, but I’ve managed to figure out what’s what by tasting. You’ve got good fundamentals, something we can really build from.”

Isabelle’s relief was palpable; in fact, she could have shouted for joy. And it got even better when Daniel said, “As far as I’ve been able to judge, the wines you’ve got after the first fermentation are clean, and the quality is good. Thank God you were able to stop Grosse from spoiling them. I’ve also turned up a few old treasures down there, things I’m guessing you don’t even know about. Mature champagnes and reserve wines, all about six years old. They come from the days when I was still working for old Jacques. If we mix everything together, we’ll end up with a very decent wine for the end of next year.” He grinned.

“Mix everything together? Don’t play modest for me!” Isabelle teased. She sat up expectantly in the bed. “When do we start with the
assemblage
?” Weak from the birth or not, she didn’t want to miss that important moment.

Daniel laughed. “Easy, easy! The still wines are in a resting phase, and that will last another five or six weeks, until mid-February. We’ll only start with the
assemblage
then. So you’ve got plenty of time to get back on your feet.”

“A resting phase?” Isabelle said with surprise. “Then why did Grosse want to start blending the champagne before Christmas, even though I’d told him mid-January?”

“No idea,” said Daniel grimly. “Though we’re better off waiting a few more weeks.” He seemed to be struggling with something. Then, slowly, he said, “I can’t prove it, but for a long time I’ve suspected that Grosse has actually been serving a different mistress altogether, one who certainly doesn’t have your best interests at heart. In any case, I’ve seen him talking with Henriette Trubert more often than I’d expect.”

“Henriette and Grosse?” Isabelle’s brain began to churn as if a dozen steam engines were turning at once. Grosse—a saboteur. A bungler, employed and paid by Henriette Trubert?

Suddenly, the many pieces of the mosaic, the small stones she’d been stumbling over in recent months, came together to form a single picture. The missing pickers. The exploding bottles. His disgusting adulteration of the wine. Why hadn’t she put two and two together? How could she have been so stupid? Stupid and blind!

“He’d better brace himself! I’ll pull the truth out of him like a carrot out of the ground,” she said dourly. “And then I’ll go to the police and—”

Daniel interrupted her with a gesture. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do the same. But it wouldn’t work. Grosse is stupid, but not so stupid that he’d admit anything to you. There’s no proof, which means we can’t make a move against either him or Henriette.” His eyes flashed with suppressed anger. “But if the man ever crosses my path in the night, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

“You wouldn’t get your hands dirty on someone like him, would you?” said Isabelle, shocked. The fierce look in Daniel’s eye worried her. “In Germany, we say that revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. After a moment of silence, he said, “You’re right. Let’s focus on what really matters. Let’s make a champagne unlike any other! A success like that will hit Henriette harder than anything else will. We have a saying here in France, too: success is the best revenge!”

Two days before the new year, Raymond Dupont drove out to Hautvillers with flowers in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other to invite Isabelle to a New Year’s Eve party. She invited him in, and they spent a pleasant hour chatting together by the fire. But she turned down his invitation. Traveling to Reims in the middle of winter with an infant, even one as quiet as little Marguerite, seemed an impossibility.

Ghislaine and Daniel also invited her to spend New Year’s Eve with them—and Isabelle was tempted to accept. In the end, though, she decided to spend the last night of 1898 alone with Marguerite. She wanted to reflect on what a year it had been, the most turbulent she had ever experienced. So much had happened, both good and bad. People had let her down, and people had pleasantly surprised her, too.

As the hands of the clock ticked toward midnight, Isabelle shed a few tears. There was still a chasm inside her that had once been filled by Leon. She thought of her parents, too. They were grandparents now and didn’t even know it.
It probably makes no difference to them
, Isabelle thought bitterly. She wondered whether the day would come when she and her parents would make contact again . . . perhaps a letter, one day . . .

And how were Josephine and Clara? The three friends wanted to celebrate their turn-of-the-century wind together the following year, but would they manage it? The transformation of the nineteenth century into the twentieth—what a great moment that would be. The notion frightened Isabelle. After everything she had been through, she hardly dared to even speculate about what the next few weeks would bring.

At the stroke of twelve, she opened a bottle of Feininger champagne. She looked over at Marguerite, who was sound asleep in her cradle. Her daughter was quite a beautiful Christmas gift. Daniel was right: she thought too much about things. Wasn’t it better to enjoy the moment?

The weeks passed, Isabelle regained her strength, and the day of Clara’s arrival drew closer. Isabelle cleaned the house until it sparkled. She wanted everything around her clean and beautiful. A new life. A fresh start. She wanted to see it in every vase filled with evergreen, in every polished silver platter, and in every dust-free volume on her bookshelves.

“Now the jacket and the cap, and you’re nearly done!” Isabelle pressed a kiss to Marguerite’s head. How fine and fuzzy her hair was! First, she put the baby’s arms into the sleeves, then she carefully buttoned up the heavy woolen jacket. The entire champagne region had been covered in frost since the New Year. Now, added to her concerns for what the unusual chill would do to the vines, she had her concerns about Marguerite. For a child so small, catching a cold could end badly, and it was better to avoid the risk altogether. She added a warm cap and a scarf made of angora wool. As always, Marguerite let Isabelle dress her without crying or swinging her arms, which Carla Chapron had told her was common among other children.

“So little and you’re already a fashion plate, aren’t you?” Isabelle smiled, picked her daughter up, and laid her down in the pram that she had ordered through a department store in Reims. In the entry hall, she pulled on her own warm jacket and scarf, which she’d especially need later on, down in the cellars.

Today was the day of days. Today, she and Daniel would begin blending the champagne. In recent weeks, Daniel had tasted the contents of every barrel in her cellars and had selected the wines that he wanted to use for this year’s cuvée. Now she would get to see the cellar master’s art. Daniel’s concentration had to be complete and all his senses alert to be able to imagine what the final result would taste like when he blended the wines. Even though Marguerite hardly ever cried, what if she did today and disturbed Daniel at such a crucial point in the process? Besides, it was far too cold in the cellars for an infant.

Although Isabelle had thought Clara would watch Marguerite, her friend’s arrival had been delayed until the end of the month. Luckily, Ghislaine always offered to look after Marguerite when Isabelle had something to do. “It’s good practice for me,” she said. And Marguerite was already accustomed to Ghislaine. So they set off for Ghislaine’s, but when Isabelle knocked, she found Ghislaine dressed in her best clothes. “Alphonse has invited me to Paris for a few days!”

Isabelle nodded. She understood. Time to spend with her lover was a rare commodity for Ghislaine.

She knew, too, that Micheline, whose duties included being the cellar mistress at Champagne Guenin, would be busy blending her own champagne. Isabelle pushed the pram over to Carla Chapron’s house, but the cooper’s wife was in bed with a cold.

What now? Would Claude be prepared to look after Marguerite? She had not even finished the thought when she remembered that her overseer was away in Épernay to buy new fencing materials for the peacock pen.

Coming up to the Guenin house, she paused. Maybe she could ask Marie Guenin? She hadn’t seen her elderly neighbor for weeks. While Micheline was her friend, the only connection Isabelle had with Marie was that of good neighbors, but neighbors could help each other out, couldn’t they?

Isabelle knocked on Marie’s door. But instead of the door, one of the ground-floor windows opened. Marie looked out. Isabelle had the sudden impression that the old woman’s face might break into a thousand pieces.

“Yes?” said Marie, her mouth tight.

“Good morning, Marie! I wanted to ask if you might be able to look after Marguerite, just this once.” Small white clouds appeared in front of her mouth in the winter air as she uncertainly put forward her request. “It would only be for two or three hours,” she added. “I have to go down to the cellars.”

As usual, Marie had her hair tied back in a tight braid, which made the skin on her face look unnaturally tight. A slight nervous twitch beneath her right eye quivered as she looked first at Isabelle and then at Marguerite in the pram. Her lips were pinched, and when she finally opened her mouth to reply, all the color had drained from her face.

“Isabelle, please don’t think ill of me, but . . . I can’t take your child. I would do any other favor for you, but bringing that child to
me
, of all people . . . no, I’m sorry.”