The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (40 page)

It was no different for Isabelle. The old witch was one step ahead of her, yet again.

“I have no doubt that it’s all very expensive,” she said despondently.

“I know a few of the
vignes-mères
suppliers very well. I could try to arrange a deferred payment with them. I’m sure they would agree to being paid in three months’ time. And as far as the two women are concerned, they’re incredibly fast. They can do up to fifteen hundred plants a day and do outstanding work. If you agree, I’ll book them for two days at the end of May.”

“Do I have a choice?” Isabelle sighed.

“If we want to survive in the long-term, then no.” Daniel embraced her and kissed her tentatively on the forehead. “We’ll make it! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”

Pressed to Daniel’s chest, Isabelle noticed from the corner of her eye Claude leading the two horses out of the stall. He would hitch them to the wagon and drive it around to the front of the house. And suddenly, the torment of parting was too much for her. What would she have given to be able to stay there in Daniel’s arms? But at the same time, any doubt she had had about her pending journey dissolved instantly in the face of this new threat. The pain she felt at leaving, her fears—she had to forget all of it. She took a deep breath and said, “You’re right. We can’t capitulate to a tiny aphid. I’ll go sell your champagne. For what we have ahead of us, we’ll need every franc I can bring back home.”

Chapter Forty-One

“Faster! Faster! Gallop, you miserable nag!”

“Come on, White Princess!”

Wringing her hands, Isabelle stood in the grandstand at Vienna’s Freudenau Racecourse and, like the other spectators at the racetrack, cheered on her favorite. She had no eye for the virtues of the facility itself, the beautiful country meadows on which it was situated, or even for the radiant May day that flooded the track and the visitors with sunshine from a clear blue sky. The place smelled of sawdust and horse sweat, expensive perfume and excitement. But all that held Isabelle’s attention were the goings-on down on the track, even though, when they had first arrived, Raymond practically had to force her to bet a few coins on one of the horses. Isabelle had no desire to stand there like a spoilsport, so she chose a mare simply because she liked her name. And now it looked as if White Princess might actually gallop home first.

“Run, White Princess, run!” Isabelle cried. In her excitement, she dug her fingers into Raymond’s right arm. The women around them had long before given up their aplomb and were jumping around and cheering or cursing, depending on which horse they had bet on. The men acted more casual about the whole affair, but if one looked more closely, one could see that they gripped their walking sticks so tightly their knuckles turned white. One man sucked so forcefully on his cigar that the ash tumbled onto his jacket.

The last race of the day finished with White Princess placing second. Isabelle still beamed; she would never have believed that a visit to the racecourse could be so exciting.

“What amazing fun that was!” said the owner of the Hotel Imperial, patting at her red cheeks with gloved hands. “Maybe I should get out of my office more often!” She giggled girlishly.

Her friend, Countess Esterhazy, nodded. “We needed a Frenchman to come along and drag us out of our ivory tower.” She spontaneously squeezed Raymond’s arm. “No wonder we look forward so much to your visits. You’ve always got something new on the boil.”

“If you say so,” replied Raymond, with both charm and modesty. Then he looked around at the group that had gathered around him. “May I invite you all, ladies and gentlemen, to a little refreshment? Fresh strawberry cake at the Spritzer Café and perhaps a glass of champagne?”

Isabelle smiled when Raymond offered his arms to the two women and led them in the direction of the elegant café on the fringe of the racecourse. Chatting happily, the rest of the group followed them.

“Well, my dear widow Feininger, what do you think of our Vienna?” asked Gottlieb Bauer, another of their little group and the owner of one of the most splendid restaurants in the city, at Stephansplatz.

“It’s beautiful!” Isabelle reeled off the list of the sights she had already visited. She was also astonished by the outstanding celebrity of Raymond’s business contacts. Most were purveyors to the Imperial and Royal Monarchy, but his clientele also included Countess Esterhazy. If the countess decided that she preferred a particular drink or dish, then its respective vendor would do well to have plentiful stock of it, because half of Vienna would soon be following suit.

“I am so glad to be able to experience so many wonderful days here in the city,” Isabelle said.

“And Vienna is proud and happy to be able to welcome the renowned and beautiful widow Feininger as its guest,” Gottlieb Bauer replied.

The group sat down at a sunlit table by the window. Small bouquets of roses decorated the table, which had been set with white damask, Nymphenburg porcelain, and silver cutlery. Two champagne coolers stood by the table—it came as no surprise to see the Veuve Rougette in them: Raymond had already informed the owner of the café in advance about exactly what he wanted. Her escort was a perfectionist, no more and no less.

Raymond, of course, could have sought out each of his customers individually in their respective places of business. He could have sat himself down at a table, pulled out a list of what he had to offer, and introduced one champagne after another. But traveling like this, he sold champagne in a far more elegant and less obtrusive way, with a style that Isabelle had first had the opportunity to observe in Munich.

Raymond took his customers out of their usual surroundings, offering them something out of the ordinary, and relying on what he called the “champagne state of mind”—a great help when it came to placing large orders—to develop all by itself. For many Viennese, a visit to the racecourse might be nothing special, but for these men and women, corseted tightly within the inflexibilities of social convention and business appointments, Raymond’s invitation was an adventure. At first, it had confused Isabelle that one hardly so much as mentioned champagne during such outings. Now, she smiled as she remembered their first meeting in Munich.

They had spent hours sitting in the English Garden with the owner of Munich’s largest gourmet food shop. Like Isabelle, the woman was a widow, and together they had talked about the breeding of standard poodles, the businesswoman’s personal hobby. With every stud that the woman spoke rapturously about, Isabelle grew more and more unsettled. At breakfast, Raymond had boasted that he was counting on an order of twelve hundred bottles of Feininger champagne, so when—blast it all!—would the talk finally swing around to business? Isabelle had put together a carefully worded speech about the ambitious goals that she and her cellar master were pursuing, and it seemed that no one wanted to hear a word of it.

“Word of your success as a breeder has naturally spread far beyond Munich,” said Raymond when the woman was done telling them in detail about her most recent litter. “Though I don’t own one myself, I love dogs above all other animals. As a token of my recognition for your breeding work, I had a crate of Feininger champagne sent to you last week,” he went on. “A first-class Feininger rosé—nothing else would do. I trust it was the right choice for you and the buyers of your puppies?”

Horrified, Isabelle inhaled sharply. Her champagne was supposed to be sold in the woman’s famous gourmet shop, not set before any old dog owners!

“Ah, the widow’s pink champagne. Just delicious.” The woman nodded with satisfaction. “You know,” she said in her strong Bavarian dialect, “the people only ever expect the best from us, not only with the dogs, but with everything.” She turned away from Raymond and looked at Isabelle. “It’s a good champagne you’ve got there, Frau Feininger. And such a pretty picture on the bottle. I wonder if the artist might paint my dogs? How many bottles of Veuve Rougette could we have?” The last question was again directed at Raymond.

Raymond’s face transformed to a look of concern. “Not as many as I’m sure you would like,” he said with regret.

“But—” Isabelle began, only to be immediately interrupted by Raymond’s warning glance.

“Oh, come now,” the businesswoman had said, poking Raymond playfully in the ribs. “Getting me all excited and then ducking? That’s not fair! Two thousand bottles is what I want. We’ve got a big year this year!”

“So what do you say, shall we take a ride on the Ferris wheel in Prater after this?” said Raymond now, when they all had their strawberry cake in front of them and had clinked their glasses of Feininger champagne.

Instead of answering, the owner of the Hotel Imperial peered as if in a trance at the countless tiny pearls in her glass. Countess Esterhazy, too, seemed to have no great interest in a ride on a big wheel. “Ravishing,” she sighed, over the top of her glass. “My dear widow Feininger, you have created a wonderful drop here! From now on, this is the only champagne I drink,” she announced, and took another big mouthful.

Isabelle smiled delightedly.

“A wise decision,” said Raymond, and lifted his glass in a toast to the countess. “There is only one drink on earth that can make a beautiful woman more beautiful—champagne! I would add that rosé certainly does justice to its name; it adds a special rosy hue to a lady’s complexion.”

“Then I shall make sure I keep a little private stock of Feininger Rougette,” said the manageress of the Hotel Imperial, patting her cheeks, again pale, affectedly.

“And what about a little for me, my ladies?” said Gottlieb Bauer then. “If I may be permitted, I would very much like to stock Veuve Rougette myself. In the coming months, Stephansplatz will host celebrations practically back-to-back—not including New Year’s Eve. I can tell you now that the guests at my restaurant will have a great thirst for champagne.”

Raymond smiled mildly. “It will take me a small miracle to satisfy all your wishes, you know!” He winked gleefully at Isabelle.

“Today, we’re going to treat ourselves to a day off, just for us,” said Raymond during breakfast the next morning in the elegant dining room of the Hotel Imperial. Isabelle, who was reading a note she had just received from Lucille, nodded absently. Marguerite was developing wonderfully well, Lucille wrote, then she listed all the things that she and little Marguerite had been doing together. It seemed the young woman had gotten into the habit of going out into the vineyards with the pram and lending a hand among the vines. She enjoyed the work very much, Lucille wrote, and the fresh air did Marguerite good. How reassuring. And yet the thought of red-cheeked, full-breasted young Lucille working side by side with Daniel did not please Isabelle at all. More important, though, she appreciated the brief updates, which reassured Isabelle that Marguerite was not wanting in any way while she was gone.

“Did I hear you correctly? We have no business scheduled for today?” she asked when she had folded Lucille’s letter again and tucked it into her handbag.

“You have just over a third of your champagne stock left. I’m sure you’d like to create as much of a furor with that in your hometown as you have in Munich and Vienna, wouldn’t you?”

“If anyone has caused a furor, then I would look no further than yourself,” Isabelle replied rather ruefully. “I’m coming to think that my being here isn’t really necessary at all.
You
are the one persuading these people. You and Daniel’s artistry.”

So they had already sold most of it! Raymond had the exact numbers in his order book—he received a commission for every bottle sold, after all—but Isabelle had kept a rough count in her head as well, and she was happy to have that confirmed. She tore excitedly at the crumbly croissant on her plate.

Raymond refilled her coffee. “Practicing your false modesty, my dear? Every one of my customers has assured me of how happy they were to meet the beautiful, clever widow Feininger in person.”

Isabelle smiled. “Let’s not argue about who is more responsible for our success. The main point is that our trip
is
a success!”

“That, my dear, is beyond doubt.” Raymond took another sip of coffee. “I do, in fact, have one appointment late this afternoon, but I won’t be introducing your champagne there. My other brands have to have some exposure, too. But until five this afternoon, we’re as free as two birds.” He made a playful fluttering movement with his hands. “We could take a walk through the city, go to one of the many museums, visit the Spanish Riding School, or stroll through the garden at Schönbrunn Palace—whatever you feel like.”

Isabelle leaned back in the soft upholstery of her chair. “A day for nothing but pleasure,” she said pensively. “I can’t remember the last time I had a day like that. At home, it’s always work, work, work. You finish one task, and the next one is already waiting for you.”

“A woman like you ought to be enjoying her life, not spending her days slaving like a farmer’s wife,” he said reproachfully. “May I make a suggestion? Let’s just go for a walk. I am certain we will see Vienna at its best.”

And they did. They ambled along Mariahilfer Strasse, where elegant shops were lined up side by side. So many beautiful things! Again and again, small cries of delight escaped Isabelle. When her feet began to ache, they stopped a carriage, which took them to the Hotel Sacher. There, they drank hot cocoa, and Raymond nagged Isabelle into trying a slice of the hotel’s famous Sacher torte.

“If you keep forcing food into me like this, I won’t fit into any of my dresses anymore,” she protested, laughing, then immediately stabbed the chocolate cake with her fork.

In Alfred Gerngross’s department store, Isabelle spent a good hour going through their enormous selection of fabrics. Her dresses still fit her, to be sure, but her wardrobe, most of which had come with her from Berlin, was hopelessly old-fashioned. Alongside the stylishly dressed women she was meeting, she felt like an ugly duckling, and she did
not
want that to happen the next time she went abroad. She had just decided on a length of taffeta and another of silk. She wondered aloud about which seamstress in Hautvillers she could entrust with the valuable cloth, and Raymond asked whether they might not do better to look for a ready-made dress.

They moved on to Herzmansky’s store on Stiftgasse, where Isabelle stared in disbelief at the racks of hundreds and hundreds of dresses. Day dresses and opulent ball gowns made of fine silk and warm woolen fabric. Matching gloves, hats, and scarves were displayed in glass cabinets, and the store even sold shoes. Isabelle would have loved to try on every dress, but when she saw the prices, discreetly attached at the hem of each dress, she blanched. A single dress cost more than she paid Claude and Daniel together in a month!

Raymond, noticing her reticence and interpreting it correctly, said, “You have brought me a great deal of luck on this trip, Isabelle. Not only has your champagne sold well, but the other brands I represent have also. Allow me to make a gift to you of two or three dresses, please! And look at these wonderful shoes; you should try them on, too.” He repeated his offer so insistently that Isabelle finally gave in.

While Raymond sat in a leather armchair and accepted the offer of a glass of cognac, Isabelle followed one of the saleswomen into a spacious changing room. She tried on first one dress and then another, proudly presenting them to Raymond, who turned out to be not very helpful, because he found
all
of them beautiful. Isabelle giggled. It was like being a child again, when Papa accompanied her and
Maman
when they went shopping.