The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (36 page)

“Daniel thinks I should offer this champagne for the end of the year’s festivities. A rosé with a shade of vanilla and a hint of strawberry, plus . . .”

“Accents of sponge soufflé . . . and lemon zest,” Raymond added. He and Isabelle laughed conspiratorially.

Clara shook her head. How could anyone taste all that from one mouthful of the stuff? And both of them had exactly the same experience? It was very mysterious to Clara. While they went on talking about aroma, color, and taste, Clara covertly looked around the inside of Raymond Dupont’s living room. Dark-green silk wallpaper covered the walls, and gold-framed paintings of hunting scenes kept the room from appearing too gloomy. A chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. It was at least six feet across and hung with many different forms: droplets, crystals, spheres, prisms. The furniture was all made of pearwood and richly inlaid.

Immeasurable wealth, and yet it all seemed so undemonstrative. Raymond was not a man who acted self-important or came across as a braggart. It wouldn’t matter if Gerhard treated patients until midnight every night or if she combed through every shop in Berlin for beautiful things; they would never have enough money or good taste to achieve anything like what Raymond had in that room.
Gerhard would turn green with envy if he could see all this
, Clara thought, and almost regretted not having her husband at her side.

“I think you could well and truly conquer the European market with this champagne,” said Raymond after a second mouthful. “People would gladly accept another glass of this champagne—the perfect drink for the parties that will mark the turn of the century. Providing, of course, one can find the right customers for it.”

“The turn-of-the-century champagne . . . The winds of change are blowing,” Clara murmured in German, before she could stop the words coming out.

Raymond Dupont raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“
Champagne de vent de siècle
, roughly,” Isabelle repeated in French. “It’s a little wordplay my friends and I once came up with.” She tilted her head to one side. “I wonder if that would be a good name for my champagne? They say one should always take an original tack with the marketing.”

Raymond nodded. “True enough, but the name should not be as complicated as that. Besides, what does wind have to do with a rosé as captivating as this?” He raised the glass to look at it in the light of the chandelier. “If you would allow me a personal observation, my dear Madame Feininger, the color reminds me of the red tone of your hair. There is something feminine and delicate about it, but at the same time, it does not lack any strength.”

“Daniel said the exact same thing!” cried Isabelle in astonishment.

Clara noticed how Raymond’s brow momentarily furrowed at Isabelle’s remark. Aha, he was jealous of the cellar master!

It had already occurred to her on her last visit, following Leon’s death, that their host had his eye on Isabelle. No man sent so many get-well wishes, pralines, and champagne baskets without an ulterior motive. But Isabelle seemed oblivious to the man’s courting. And she always wanted to be so worldly! Clara smiled to herself.

“What would you say if this unusual color were to make an appearance in the name of your new champagne?
Rougette Feininger
—that has a wonderful ring to it.”

“
Rougette Feininger
.” Isabelle looked intensely from the man opposite her to the glass in her hand and back again. Her eyes shone brightly, and she said, “That’s a perfect name! Raymond, you are truly a treasure!”

For a moment, Clara thought her friend might stand up and kiss him. He, at least, seemed to be expecting as much, the way his eyes gleamed. But instead, Isabelle reached across the table and took Clara’s hand. “Dear Clara, what do you think?”

“It’s a wonderful name,” said Clara with a smile. “It’s just . . .”

“Yes?” said Raymond and Isabelle at the same time.

Clara bit her lip. Wouldn’t she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Gerhard was right when he accused her of putting her nose in wherever she felt like it and making a fool of herself.

“Oh, come on. What is it?” asked Isabelle impatiently.

Clara pointed to the champagne bottle. “The label! Excuse me for putting it so bluntly, but it looks so . . . plain. Besides, it says 1892, and I have to ask myself what that number has to do with the turn of the century. I don’t know what it would cost or if it’s even possible, but couldn’t you get a new label designed? Something that looks more feminine and more . . . modern? Then one would see at a glance that a fresh kind of wind is blowing in your cellars.”

Before Isabelle could say a word, Raymond Dupont cleared his throat. “My compliments, Madame Gropius, I could not have put it better myself.” He bowed to Clara, and she immediately blushed.

Then Raymond took Isabelle’s hand. “In the Champagne region, there is a great tradition of women making outstanding champagnes, or at least putting their names on them. The most famous champagne queen of all time was the widow Clicquot, the
veuve
Clicquot.” He stood up, crossed to a sideboard, took out a bottle of champagne, and held it for Clara and Isabelle to see.

Clara read the large letters on the cognac-colored label. “Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin.”

“I know that your husband’s death is still painful for you, but perhaps you should also throw your widow status into the ring? What do you think of Veuve Rougette champagne? We add a visually arresting label—with your portrait on it; why not? I already have an idea for that. Isabelle, the buyers will be lining up for your champagne!”

What a day it had been! Although the trip to Reims and the party had taken their toll, Isabelle was too exhilarated to sleep. She flopped into a deep armchair in front of the fireplace in the living room, listening with one ear for any sound from Marguerite, who was in her cradle in the next room. The child had already been asleep when Isabelle collected her from Ghislaine, and it had been difficult to get her to wake up for a feed. Her sweet daughter! A surge of motherly love washed over Isabelle with such force that it almost made her cry.

With a shawl around her shoulders and her feet pulled under her, Clara sat opposite Isabelle in another armchair. She did not try to stifle a generous yawn. The clock on the wall struck ten.

“Tired?” Isabelle asked. She hoped her friend didn’t want to go off to bed too soon. There was so much to talk about!

Clara shook her head. “I wouldn’t say no if you offered me another glass of your outstanding champagne. I never get to drink anything so good in Berlin.”

“Nothing simpler,” said Isabelle, and jumped to her feet. A minute later, they were raising their glasses to each other, enveloped in the warmth of their friendship. Over the rim of her glass, Isabelle peered intently at her friend. “Honestly, now—have you ever heard of that painter whom Raymond thinks would be the right one to paint my portrait for the champagne label?”

“Pierre-Auguste Renoir?” Clara nodded. “But only because there was a long story about him and his work in the last issue of
Gardener’s Monthly
. They even reproduced a couple of his paintings. I liked them so much I thought about cutting them out and framing them to decorate our living room.”

Isabelle frowned. “I see. And how does Renoir paint?”

“You ask some questions! As if I’m any kind of expert,” said Clara with a laugh, but then continued: “They call his style impressionist. Broad brush strokes, daring combinations of color. But the article also said that in recent years his work has developed, and he’s tending more toward classicism. Painting beautiful women is one of his specialties, and his portraits certainly have a special radiance and are brimming with
joie de vivre
. If you look at it that way, he’d be ideal for what you want to do.”

“But would such a famous artist paint a label for a bottle of champagne?” Isabelle’s brow furrowed again. “Raymond mentioned that he lives in the southern Champagne region, so paying him a visit would certainly be conceivable. Still, I don’t know . . .”

“If you ask him nicely enough, I’m sure he’ll say yes,” Clara said. “Besides, you’d be paying him for his work. Even artists need more than love and air to live.”

Isabelle nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right. Oh, I’m so glad I get so much support, from all of you!” She stretched her arms high in the air, and now it was her turn to yawn. “Daniel in the wine cellar, Raymond with his ideas about how to sell it and what to call it. And the label, of course. I know, I know, that was actually your idea,” she said, laughing, when she saw Clara’s offended look. “And now Raymond has asked me to join him on his next sales trip through Europe. He wants me to meet his most important customers and to make sure they buy my champagne—what did I do to deserve all this?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can answer that,” said Clara, her tone ironic. “The man has his eye on you. It’s as simple as that. I’m sure he’s looking forward to a ‘business trip’ with you very much indeed.”

“Nonsense! You certainly have an imagination. Raymond is a good friend. He knows I’m still in mourning for Leon and that I have a young baby—he would never try to court me in this situation.”

Clara’s silence said a great deal more than any answer would have. Isabelle had already decided to move on, but then Clara raised the topic again. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to push the idea aside. Considering the admiration in his eyes whenever he looks at you, he’d lay the world at your feet. You could still do what you want with your life, but without a care in the world, and in luxury to boot. A man who does all the work—sometimes that can be a great advantage.”

“And I’m supposed to marry him for that? Please, Clara, we’re not living in the Middle Ages,” said Isabelle defensively. She felt walls going up, deep inside. She and Clara had always had different opinions about most things in life.
Anyway, there’s Daniel to think about
, she thought.

“Time will tell,” said Clara.

Isabelle nodded vaguely. She had no desire to fight and decided to change the subject.

“Vienna, Munich, Berlin—I get so excited when I think about such a big trip. But I wonder if these are really the right cities for selling my champagne?” As she had done several times already that day, she vacillated between euphoria and gnawing doubt.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your Raymond organizes an audience for you at the emperor’s court. But what’s far more important”—Clara paused dramatically—“is that we could have another reunion, all three of us! After this trip, Gerhard won’t let me go again so soon. And now that Josephine is expecting, too, I know she won’t be taking a long journey. It would be perfect if you could come to Berlin.”

Berlin . . . The idea of it made Isabelle uneasy. She could see her friends again in Berlin, certainly, but also her parents. Did she really want that?

Sometimes it seemed to Isabelle that the day she left Berlin, she had been caught in a whirlwind that had not yet let go of her. New, exciting events were happening all the time, in her own life and in the lives of those close to her. Now Josephine was pregnant, too. All three of them, mothers—a few years earlier, none of them would have given the idea a second thought. Perhaps they had more in common than they realized?

“What do you think—could I take Marguerite with me on this trip? Or is she too young?” Isabelle’s biggest concern was where she could leave her daughter when she went off with Raymond. By the time they were on the tour, Ghislaine would be busy with her own child. Isabelle couldn’t expect her to look after Marguerite as well.

Clara sat up straight in her armchair. When she looked up, she had a strange expression on her face. “I think we need to talk about Marguerite,” she said.

“What about her?” Isabelle asked. Clara’s voice had taken on an odd, unfamiliar tone. A bead of sweat had formed on her upper lip, as if she were struggling hard with something.

Clara leaned forward. “There is something . . . not right about your daughter. You should take her to a doctor as soon as you can. A specialist.”

Her words came out of the blue and were as sharp as the lash of a whip. Isabelle let out a shrill, disbelieving laugh.

“
What
did you say?”

Clara looked at her and nervously wrung her hands. “Haven’t you ever noticed how sluggish Marguerite’s reactions are? When you tickle her, for instance? Or how slowly her eyes follow your hand if you hold a toy in front of her and move it back and forth? Infants usually bend their arms when they lie down, but Marguerite’s arms hang loosely. And isn’t she quick to tire when she suckles? I mean unusually quick to tire?”

“Have you gone mad?” Isabelle cried out. “You’re acting as if Marguerite is infirm, as if she’s some sort of halfwit! That’s the biggest load of . . . nonsense I’ve ever heard.” But as she spoke, a cold chill ran down her spine. She had the sensation of losing her mind then and there.

“Isabelle, please . . . I . . . I’m not saying this for my own amusement or on a whim! Marguerite is a beautiful girl. And I love her as if she were my own daughter,” Clara said. “But the way her eyes are farther apart than usual, her flat nose, her little mouth—those are all signs of . . . a very particular condition. I know I’m just a doctor’s wife, but—”