The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (39 page)

“Being able to sleep in any place at any time . . . it’s a talent only babies and young children have.” He stroked the sleeping child’s cheek tenderly. Then he looked up at Isabelle. “Satisfied with Lucille?”

Isabelle nodded. “More than you know. She’s a gift from heaven. When I put Marguerite in the pram just now, Lucille gave me a rather doubtful look, as if she would have preferred to keep Marguerite with her.” She smiled. She had never thought that a stranger might love her child as much as she herself did. “Why did you leave so soon earlier? I wanted to share a toast with you, to a good year for winegrowers.”

“A good year for . . . !” Daniel snorted softly. “We don’t need snacks or parties for that, but hard work, sweat, and God’s blessing.”

“Oh, Daniel,” said Isabelle, her expression a little pained. “Yes, I’m proud of the painting, and I was happy to show it to everyone. But all the rest . . . I’m not doing it for the fun of it! You know how important this trip is for us. We can’t survive without new customers. I’m happy that Raymond is offering me his help so generously.”

“Generous?!” The mockery practically dripped from the word. “Haven’t you ever asked yourself
why
he’s doing it? He could sell Feininger champagne directly from his shop, but no, he has to go away with you on a long trip to promote it!” He tore a handful of grass out of the ground and threw it away angrily. “I can picture it exactly, you know. How he’ll present you as
his
‘champagne queen.’ The two of you, staying in elegant hotels, you on his arm . . .”

“Champagne queen—that’s nonsense! I’m just a housemaid in disguise.” Isabelle laughed, but it sounded false. It wasn’t as if the same thought hadn’t occurred to her. Sometimes Raymond looked at her strangely, as if he, like Daniel, had fallen a little bit in love with her. And then there was the way he’d remarked, just before Christmas, that he would marry the woman of his dreams in an instant. Had Clara perhaps been right? And now Daniel, too?

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Raymond is just as charming with every woman,” she said delicately. “Why should he behave any differently around me? And he didn’t organize this trip especially for me, as it happens. He planned it to deepen his
own
clientele. You really are seeing things that aren’t there.” As she spoke, a small smile played around her lips. Daniel sounded like a jealous husband!

Instead of answering, Daniel pulled over his backpack, untied the top, and took out a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, sausage, a bottle of champagne, and two glasses.

Isabelle’s brow furrowed when she saw the second glass. Had he been counting on her coming out here? Or had he been planning to share his repast with someone else?
Now who’s the jealous one?
she asked herself scornfully.

He handed her a piece of the bread and sausage and opened the bottle. He poured a little into his own glass, sniffed it for a second, then held the straw-yellow liquid against the light of the setting sun. Satisfied with what he saw, he took a mouthful; when that seemed to measure up, he poured both their glasses full.

With anyone else, Isabelle would have seen this routine as pedantic. Or even worse, as pompous. But with Daniel, every gesture showed no more than his love for champagne.

“People are rarely what they appear to be at first glance. Few act with noble motives; most have only their own interests at heart,” he said, handing her a glass. “I just don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

“I know,” Isabelle replied gently. They clinked glasses, and when she drank, the liquid was soft and spicy on her tongue.

She thought about how comfortable it was to sit there with Daniel and say nothing as they looked out over the valley. His body radiated more warmth than a heavy wool blanket.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if he were to take me in his arms, right now?
The thought flitted through Isabelle’s mind before she could stop it.
And what if he really did?
she immediately wondered, her inner voice harsh.
You’d turn away like some straitlaced virgin, reprimand him, and blather something about “unnecessary complications.”

Would she really?

If she were to be honest with herself, she had to admit that the more she was around Daniel, the more attractive she found him. His very nature, which she had come to know more in recent months, was of honesty and kindness and perseverance when it really mattered. She could rely on him and trust him. But she liked his wavy hair and his copper-brown eyes, too. On his forearms, wispy red-gold hair covered his lightly tanned skin.

Isabelle looked at him out of lowered eyes and saw the pulse beating at his throat. And suddenly, she felt lonely and vulnerable.

He turned to her then, and kissed her. His lips on hers. Soft, and yet so firm. As his lips parted, Isabelle had the sensation that a door to a secret garden had been thrown open. His breath was warm and carried promise. Instinctively, she followed his movements. He tasted of wine but also of something more austere—it was the aroma of the vines, transformed into his very own scent. His lips wandered from her mouth to her cheek, her forehead, her eyes. He asked for nothing, gave all he had, and still Isabelle had the feeling of being unable to get enough of him. But then Marguerite squirmed on her lap, and he gently released her.

His eyes were filled with tenderness as he said, “While you’re away . . . promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

On May 2, Raymond and Isabelle planned to travel to Munich, the first destination of their tour. Vienna and her hometown of Berlin would follow; all in all, the journey would last several weeks.

To be separated so long from Marguerite and everything she loved and held dear . . . and not being in Hautvillers on the anniversary of Leon’s death—more than once, Isabelle came close to sending Raymond a note to cancel everything. But every time, she pulled herself together again. She had to look ahead. Marguerite’s future depended entirely on Isabelle’s own destiny. And that of the Feininger estate.

The closer the day of their departure loomed, the more nervous Isabelle grew. She had no time to help Daniel in the vineyards, and there were no more intimate moments between them. Isabelle didn’t know if she was supposed to be happy about that or not, but there was simply too much she had to organize for the time she’d be away. Raymond was taking care of all the details of the trip itself, but Isabelle had to make sure that many crates of Feininger champagne were dispatched to the addresses Raymond had given her in Munich, Vienna, and Berlin. Isabelle was surprised by the quantities Raymond had requested from her. She’d assumed that a single trial bottle per customer would be enough. It also struck her as unusual that some of the addresses to which the champagne was to be shipped were those of private homes. But Raymond no doubt knew what he was doing.

Another concern that occupied a lot of her time was her wardrobe. On this trip, she would not be traveling lightly. Raymond had asked her to be prepared for any circumstance—major receptions, private dinner parties with future customers, perhaps a visit to the horse races, or attendance at garden parties and the opera. Isabelle carefully selected everything from simple cotton dresses to elegant ball gowns, and packed it all between sheets of tissue paper in her luggage.
It looks like I’m going away forever
, she thought with a frown as she finally closed the belt around the last case.

May 2 was grim and gray, and it might have been a November day but for the spring growth on the grapevines and trees. Fog hung over the vines and made no sign of lifting, and the mercury barely rose above fifty degrees. Dressed in her traveling clothes, she gave her serious-looking reflection a final once-over before leaving the bedroom. In the mirror, she saw a woman who looked as if she were about to go to the gallows rather than on a fabulous journey, but she was simply unable to plaster on a smile. Her feet felt heavy as she descended the stairs.

“Is everything all right?” she asked Lucille, who was standing in the kitchen humming a tune to herself and peeling kohlrabi for lunch. The question was unnecessary, for Marguerite was sleeping peacefully in her crib by the window.

Lucille smiled. “As soon as Marguerite wakes up, I’ll warm some water and give her a bath. Our little darling always loves that. Don’t worry, madame. I’ll watch out for her as if she were my own.”

“Don’t worry.”
Easier said than done. Isabelle sighed, gave her sleeping daughter a kiss, and went out to the vineyards. It was time to say good-bye to Daniel.

She had not reached the first row of vines when she saw Micheline coming toward her, or rather, running toward her.

“Micheline . . .” Isabelle began, but the older woman waved off the pleasantries and did not slow down as she passed Isabelle.

“No time, Isabelle, no time, I have to get more . . . !”

“More?” More what?
Frowning, Isabelle watched her friend scurry past. As much as Isabelle hated good-byes, a quick adieu couldn’t hurt, could it?

When Isabelle finally spotted her cellar master among the vines, she frowned more deeply. Dressed in gray protective overalls, Daniel was standing among the vines with their delicate spring leaves and spraying them with a strange-looking liquid. Beside him stood several metal drums that presumably contained whatever it was he was spraying. He was so focused on his work that he did not hear her approach.

“Daniel! What in the world are you doing?”

He jumped at her voice. Then he put the spraying equipment down on the ground and went to her.

“Isabelle . . .” He did not seem especially pleased to see her.

“What are you doing?” Isabelle asked again. “And what’s gotten into Micheline? She just ran past me like the devil was after her.”

Daniel sighed deeply, his eyes wandering from the metal canisters to her. “Oh, Isabelle, I wanted to spare you the bad news on the morning of your departure.”

“What bad news?” Isabelle almost shrieked.

“Yesterday evening, Micheline discovered some galling on the underside of the young leaves on some vines in her northern parcel. The galls are little brown growths that don’t belong there.”

“So what?” asked Isabelle, her impatience growing. A bit of discoloration on the leaves wasn’t the end of the world, was it?

“It means that phylloxera aphids have returned to Hautvillers. A few years ago, we had an infestation of the things; that time, we got off lightly. This year, God only knows.”

Isabelle took a deep breath. “But . . . who . . . how . . .” This couldn’t be happening. Isabelle’s knees grew weak just thinking about it. She sat down helplessly on one of the drums.

Of all the bad news that might affect her vines, this was the worst she could think of.

In recent years, phylloxera had decimated large areas in the southern part of Champagne. Hundreds of livelihoods were lost, and it would probably be generations before the vineyards were fully restocked. The vintners she had met in Troyes, who were trying to sell their champagne to the Americans, had had tears in their eyes when they told her about the blight that had befallen them.

“How could this happen?” she cried in despair, and with a hint of accusation in her voice. “What makes you think that they’re here in our vines, too?” She stood up, almost in a panic, and plucked off a few young leaves. “Look! They’re perfect. The prettiest May green you’ll see. If we have to worry about anything, then it’s the Ice Saints just around the corner.”

“Misery loves company—you’re right about that,” said Daniel through gritted teeth. “The fact that our vineyards aren’t yet showing any signs means nothing. Phylloxera live underground. They latch onto the roots and spread a deadly fungal infection in the process. The fungus kills off the roots. By the time we would see the first signs on the plant itself, it’s too late. But if they’ve reached Micheline’s vines, the danger is on the way!” He kicked so furiously at the ground that he broke out little chunks. Then he pointed to the spray bottle. “That’s a mix of water, sulfur, and copper.”

“Insecticide? That should take care of them, shouldn’t it?” Isabelle looked trustingly at Daniel.

He shrugged. “It might stop them from spreading this far. But if they’re already here, then nothing will help.”

In her mind’s eye, Isabelle saw an image of grapevines picked clean. Vines with neither leaves nor grapes. Dry, lifeless wood . . . is that what would greet her on her return?

“Oh, Daniel.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. She had a sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to jump up and run away, to flee the constant stream of problems.

“Don’t hang your head just yet. If we’re lucky, this particular storm will pass us by,” said Daniel softly, and he sat on one of the canisters beside her. He took her hand and squeezed it. For a long moment they sat there, staring at nothing.

It was Daniel who broke the silence. “I have an idea that I’d like to discuss with you. It would protect us from the phylloxera once and for all.”

Isabelle turned to listen.

“I’d like to replace all our vines, bit by bit, with phylloxera-resistant rootstock.”

“Phylloxera what?”

“Grapevines that are resistant to the aphids. You need to have what they call
vignes-mères
—mother vines or rootstock—that are absolutely resistant to phylloxera. This rootstock would then have our grape varieties grafted onto it. They specialize in producing these
vignes-mères
in the south, and I’d like to order plants for our vineyards from there. Not for all of them at once, of course, but we should start with at least a few acres. What do you think?”

More costs
, thought Isabelle anxiously.

“But aren’t we already too late in the year?” she asked. “I remember reading in one of Jacques’s books that new vines are always planted in March.”

“Better late than never.” Daniel shrugged. “Besides, the two women we’d need to have for the grafting—the two real experts—wouldn’t have had any time in March. Every year, they spend March and April working for Henriette Trubert.” His expression darkened at the thought of his old employer.