The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) (41 page)

“Send them to the Hotel Imperial,” Raymond instructed the saleswoman when he had paid for the three dresses that Isabelle liked the most. Then she took his arm, and they stepped back out on the street. Isabelle, dizzy from trying on so many dresses, followed him blindly, and it was only when they had gone several blocks that she realized they were not walking in the direction of the hotel, but back toward the store where she had first looked at all the fabric.

Raymond, who saw the puzzled look on her face, stifled his smile. “Thought we were finished, did you? No, it can’t be that only Mama Isabelle gets to pretty herself up; we’re going to buy some of that lovely material, and you can have something beautiful tailored for your little daughter as well. I’m sure I saw you admiring some delicate pink lace earlier.”

Isabelle was in seventh heaven.

The blissful feeling did not subside later that evening. “What a good idea to come here,” said Isabelle, taking a bite of her grilled mackerel.

When Raymond returned from his business meeting, he did not take her to an elegant restaurant as he normally did, but out to Vienna’s expansive Prater park. Now, they were sitting in one of the rustic restaurants that offered simple fare in the shadow of the huge Ferris wheel. It was a warm evening, and the Prater was full of young couples in love, holding hands and laughing as they strolled among the trees and across the meadows. The smoky smell of the mackerel that Raymond and Isabelle had decided on for dinner mixed with the scent of the roses, in full bloom, that climbed the wooden wall of the restaurant.

Were the roses in her vineyards blooming, too?
she wondered. As quickly as the question appeared in Isabelle’s mind, so did it disappear again. Hautvillers, the vineyards, the phylloxera—it was all so far away.

“The simplest things in life can be wonderful when one enjoys them together,” said Raymond and he smiled fondly at her. “What is it they say? Joy shared is joy doubled.”

Isabelle nodded. “And nothing is worse than loneliness.”
Like the time after Leon died
, she thought to herself. For a moment, neither said a word, but then Isabelle dragged herself out of her gloomy thoughts. She took a sip of her wine and said, “This trip . . . to be honest, I was a little afraid of it. I had no idea what was waiting for me out here. And now, every day is more beautiful than the one before it. If I just think of all the wonderful people I’ve had the honor to meet . . . and the elegant hotels, the many unforgettable moments. Like this one.” She swung one hand wide, a gesture encompassing the whirl of activity in the Prater. “I truly believe that today was one of the loveliest days of my life.”

“And yet, the best is still to come: your triumphal march to Berlin!” said Raymond.

“Triumphal march—that remains to be seen,” Isabelle replied, frowning.

She was, of course, looking forward to seeing Josephine and Clara again. Clara especially, from whom she had not heard since her last visit and to whom she wanted to take a huge bouquet of flowers to apologize for her own unforgivable behavior.

“Visiting my old hometown again—frankly, the thought makes me feel a little panicky. Back then, you know, I left Berlin literally overnight and followed Leon blindly. My father had completely different marriage plans for me, and after I left, he cut me off; I was supposed to marry into Berlin society, and those people, I’m quite sure, did not think very much of my actions. And now I’m supposed to sell my champagne to the
same
high society?”

Raymond, who had been listening closely, laughed out loud. “Don’t lose any sleep about Berlin society. Between us, we’ll have them wrapped around our little fingers. But your parents . . . have you really lost contact with them completely?”

Isabelle nodded unhappily.

“That can be changed,” said Raymond slowly. “An arranged meeting . . .”

Isabelle shook her head. “I don’t know.” One hand went to her throat as if to loosen a too-tight collar. “Meeting them again, after all that’s happened?”

Raymond smiled gently at her. “It’s just a thought, no more. I want you to be happy and to feel comfortable. Nothing else matters.”

“I
am
happy. This whole trip is like a long, lovely dream. After all the troubles in the last few months, I never would have thought it possible to feel so . . . so at ease again.” She shook her head. “And I owe all of it to you.” She took his hand and squeezed it.

A carafe of fine mineral water stood on the nightstand, and beside it, a bowl of sliced fruit. The chambermaid had turned back the eiderdown for the night—in the Hotel Imperial, no luxury was spared when it came to the comfort of tired travelers. But Raymond felt anything but tired just then; in fact, he felt more fresh and alive than he had felt in a very long time. For a moment, he considered going back down to the bar for a cognac, but then he thought better of it. Early the next morning, they would be leaving for Berlin. The trip would be long and arduous, and it would be better to have a good night’s sleep behind him before embarking on such a journey.

Raymond was about to climb into bed when he noticed the cream-colored envelope lying beside the fruit bowl. His curiosity turned to a deep frown when he recognized the handwriting. What in the world did Henriette Trubert want from him?

Hautvillers, May 15

Dear Raymond,

I hope my letter finds you in good health. Everything is running as usual here in Champagne. Last week I was in Reims and decided to visit your shop. Your assistant there, Madame Colette, was as stiff as if she had swallowed a stick, and I am far from confident that your customers are happy with her, or if you will be happy with her revenues.

Raymond grimaced. It was May 22, so the letter had been posted a week earlier. Madame Colette was the spinsterish daughter of a vigneron. She certainly understood something of the industry, but had such an aloof manner that she could almost be described as unsociable, not an ideal trait when one worked in the sales field. His customers would have to accept it until Raymond found someone to replace her because if everything went according to plan, he would be traveling more often in the future.

Do you remember the trips we took together? We never made it beyond Paris, but we had some wonderful times, didn’t we?

Why was Henriette going back over that old history
now
? Was she getting sentimental in her later years? And, more important, why had she written him the letter at all? He could not remember telling her about the route he would be following, which meant that she must have gotten his address in Vienna from Madame Colette. He read on, and Henriette’s intentions quickly became clear: her insatiable nosiness. And greed.

I hope your courting of your wife-to-be has been a success? The mental picture I have of the young widow Feininger lying in your arms makes me very happy. You have been alone far too long, my darling. And loneliness makes old men strange. Besides, I’m sure you will do your best to talk your future bride into getting rid of that millstone, namely her estate, as quickly as possible. You should be free to share a wonderful, unfettered life, after all. And to travel to whatever far-off countries you like. You know I’m ready, and that I pay well. My offer will convince even you, my shrewd businessman.

Raymond did not know if he ought to laugh or be outraged at such brazenness. Typical Henriette!

But if anyone had a couple of aces up his sleeve, he did. Dear Henriette did not know it yet, but she was the last person in the world he would sell the Feininger estate to. But all of that was a long way off, and he still had a good deal of work ahead of him.

Work—the word sounded so dry.
Winning Isabelle was not
work, he rebuked himself. She was the most captivating being he knew. He could have sat for hours, just looking at her. It was no different for other men, he knew, and he practically nourished himself on the envious looks cast in his direction whenever he appeared with Isabelle on his arm. She was clever, articulate without being talkative, and she had a wonderful sense of humor. She could even laugh at herself—a talent very few people had. She was the woman he had spent his life waiting for. After all his professional success, winning Isabelle would be the crowning achievement of his life. Through her, he would dupe old age: when he was around her, he felt younger and more agile than he had in twenty years. “Madame Isabelle Dupont”—the name rang softly and harmoniously in his ears.

But did she feel the same way? Could she imagine a life at his side? After all the long coach rides and train trips, after all the excursions, dinners, visits to the opera, and everything else they had done together in the last few weeks, he still could not say with any certainty where he stood with her. It was clear to him that she felt some affection for him. She showed him as much, again and again, like that same evening in the Prater. And she admired him greatly as a businessman.

He frowned. Or did she still only see him as a fatherly friend?

Raymond suddenly had the feeling that he could not spend a minute more than necessary with this question. He dressed quickly, snatched up the key to his room, and went out.

Down in the bar, he was met by the sound of a piano being played softly. A few night owls, returning from the opera or the theater, were seated at small tables and drinking champagne or wine. Raymond took a seat at the bar and ordered a cognac. Then he leaned back to listen to the piano. It wasn’t long before his earlier train of thought returned.

In the first two weeks of their journey, Isabelle had been as skittish as a young horse under a saddle for the first time. Her thoughts were constantly turning to her daughter and the estate. Did they really have phylloxera to deal with now, too? What would the rootstock cost that Daniel wanted to order? Things had been particularly bad in Munich on the anniversary of Leon’s death, where she had come to breakfast distraught, her eyes red from crying. That same day, Raymond had scheduled an appointment with an important customer, but it would have been impossible to take Isabelle with him in that state. To sell champagne, or anything else, one needed to be in a good mood. So he had ordered a carriage and instructed the driver to take Isabelle for a long drive along the meadows beside the Isar river. The green of the meadowlands and the sound of wavelets along the shore had apparently done her good, for when they met again in the hotel late that afternoon, she was in much better spirits.

The pianist reached the end of his melody, and the guests responded with light applause. Raymond waved the young man over and pressed a coin into his hand. Then he asked him to play something jauntier. Maybe that would turn his head to happier thoughts. When he thought about it, however, he realized that he was not actually unhappy, but simply impatient. And Isabelle was not the kind of woman whose heart could be won in a hurry.

In any case, he sensed that her anxiety and thoughts about her home had diminished over the course of their journey, and that she was more . . . with him.

Raymond emptied his glass. The big question was, would she say yes if he asked her to marry him?

Deep inside, he believed that she would, but a grain of uncertainty remained. He hoped that, in Berlin at the latest, he would feel wholly confident. If everything went as planned there, Isabelle could hardly do anything else but accept him.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was an odd feeling to walk again through the streets where she had grown up, and Isabelle hoped she would not see her mother or father by accident. The farther she walked along Görlitzer Strasse, the stronger the feeling of strangeness became. Had it really been only two years since her sudden departure? It felt like decades.

The old shoemaker’s shop was still there, and the pharmacy run by Anton Berg, Clara’s father. Reutter’s Emporium, the department store on the corner, had actually gotten bigger, and a milliner’s had opened up next door. Despite its inviting display, Isabelle had too much on her mind to spend very long looking at the pretty head coverings. From the Görlitzer train station came the brake squealing and hissing of arriving trains, while from the smithy operated by Josephine’s father came the penetrating stink of singed hooves. Luisenstadt still seemed to be a lively part of the city. Only at Josephine’s former workshop were the shutters closed, and the house that Isabelle’s friend had inherited from old Frieda gave an impression of being looked after but not lived in. Isabelle frowned. Hadn’t Josephine and Adrian moved in there after they were married? She hadn’t heard anything about them moving. Confused, she walked in the direction of Clara’s house on the next corner. Clara would know.

“Isabelle! What a surprise.”

“Bonjour, Clara!” Isabelle did an exaggerated curtsy. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say exactly when Raymond and I would get here, or I would have gotten in touch,” she said and handed Clara the bouquet. “That’s for you. I know I can’t possibly make up for my intolerable behavior when you visited, but I would at least like to apologize.” Less flippantly, she added, “I simply did not want to believe that something was wrong with Marguerite, you know?”

Hesitantly, Clara accepted the bouquet through the half-open door. “That really wasn’t necessary,” she murmured. “Is Raymond . . . also here?” She looked almost fearfully over Isabelle’s shoulder.

Isabelle laughed. “Oh, God no! I left him in the Grand Hotel. I prefer to meet my girlfriends unaccompanied. But don’t you want to offer me a cup of coffee? Or have I come at a bad time? I can go to Josephine first, and we could meet later on. Where is she, by the way? Did she and Adrian move?”

Clara, still standing in the dim light of the hallway, nodded. “Adrian’s father gave them a villa on the edge of the city. He wanted his grandson to live in a house that befits his station.” There was more than a trace of mockery in her voice, but the next moment her shoulders slumped. She sounded as if she were in an abyss of despair as she continued: “Isabelle, I’m so sorry, but today is really not a good day for a visit. Gerhard is—” She broke off as if she had changed her mind about saying the words. “Isabelle, I beg of you, watch out for yourself and make the right decision! Once you’ve made your bed, you have to lie in it, no matter how hard it is. Raymond adores you; I saw that in Reims. You would be well off with him at your side!”

Isabelle wanted to laugh to lift the weight off the moment, but the laugh stuck in her throat. “What’s going on, Clara? You’re being so strange!” She narrowed her eyes to get a better look at Clara’s face in the low light. Was she mistaken, or was there a blue shadow beneath Clara’s left eye? A terrible thought came to Isabelle.

Clara immediately took a step back. “Everything is all right,” she said with a forced smile. “It’s just that I don’t have any time today for a gossip over coffee. Gerhard needs me at the practice.”

“But I was so looking forward to talking to you. And I would love to see little Matthias again.” Isabelle was both disappointed and confused.

Clara sighed. “Matthias is with my mother, and it is better if he stays there today. Now go, please!”

Josephine skillfully screwed a small gas lamp onto an old bicycle. “There. Now Mr. Draber can ride safely through the city in the dark, too. Can you hand me that rag?”

Isabelle, sitting on a stool in Josephine’s bicycle workshop, did as she was asked. “Almost like old times,” she said and smiled. “Do you remember? Just after you opened your old repair shop, I stopped in to visit you. Then someone knocked at the door and this self-important civil servant came in. He wanted to give you a friendly reminder that you had to pay your taxes.”

Josephine, dusting the lamp, groaned. “I was so stupid and naïve! I’d thought of everything except actually registering my business. Thank God you were there; I wouldn’t have been able to deal with the man alone.”

For a moment, they reveled in the old familiarity. Then, with a little difficulty, Josephine stood up and ran her hands over the swell of her belly.

“I need a break. There’s a little restaurant just opened up down the street. They serve the best pea soup in Berlin. Shall we go?”

“I’m worried about Clara,” said Isabelle, sitting with Josephine. Bowls of soup and large mugs of coffee were between them.

Josephine chewed at her bottom lip, but said nothing.

“Clara? What’s the matter?” asked Adrian, who had spontaneously decided to join them.

Isabelle looked at her former fiancé. Marriage suited him: he gave an impression of satisfaction and happiness.

Isabelle put her spoon aside and told them about her strange meeting with Clara at her front door. “Do you think that terrible Gerhard beats her?” Simply asking the question was bad enough for Isabelle; the thought was truly horrible.

“If I ever see him try it . . . ,” said Adrian grimly.

Josephine’s expression was less dire. “Frankly, I wouldn’t put anything past that man,” she said with disgust. “A while ago, I saw Clara and she looked out of sorts. Her right arm was red and swollen. She said she’d fallen awkwardly in the garden, but somehow I didn’t believe her at all. I wanted to get her to talk about it, but she closed up like a clam.”

“That’s terrible,” Isabelle breathed.

“It was embarrassing for her that you saw her in that condition. Nothing is supposed to muddy the image of the fine doctor and his dutiful wife,” said Adrian, topping up Josephine’s cup with fresh coffee. She thanked him with a smile, then remarked, “Clara is ashamed, and I understand that. But if she doesn’t confide in us, we can’t help her.”

“Clara knows that the two of you will always be there for her. When she’s ready, she’ll turn to you for help,” said Adrian, and he stroked his wife’s cheek lovingly.

They’re so close, and they understand each other so well
, thought Isabelle. She felt a prick of envy in her chest.

“Raymond adores you . . . You would be well off with him at your side.”
She suddenly heard Clara’s voice. It was true: with Raymond, she really did feel safe and appreciated. On the other hand, it wasn’t as if she pined for him whenever he left the room. Her thoughts were interrupted by Adrian saying good-bye. He had to go—work was waiting.

He’d barely left when Josephine said, “Clara is pregnant again, you should know.”

“She’s pregnant? But . . .” Isabelle tried in vain to come up with a connection between that piece of information and Clara’s state just now.

“It looks to me like the good doctor did not particularly welcome the news of this second pregnancy,” said Josephine. “He’d like to invest every extra penny in his practice, but now that Clara is pregnant, he’ll have to fork out a few marks for a nanny.”

“And so he hits her?”

Josephine shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can promise you that I’ll keep an eye on Clara. Enough about that sad subject. I’d rather hear how love is treating you. You traveled here with that charming champagne dealer. Is there anything in that? The two of you . . . ?”

Isabelle laughed. “What do you want to hear? That I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Raymond?”

“Why not?” Josephine replied briskly. “Or do you have your heart set on your new cellar master, the good-looking—what was his name again?”

At the thought of Daniel, Isabelle’s stomach immediately did a little somersault.

“Oh, Jo,” she said, with torment in her voice. “I just don’t know anymore! Back then, when I ran off into the unknown with Leon, I let my emotions drive me. Not that I regret what I did,” she hurriedly added. “But a little more consideration wouldn’t have hurt. Times have changed; I just don’t want to make another mistake. Now and in the future I must let good sense be my guide.”

“Getting fainthearted?” Josephine looked at her friend teasingly. “I would have believed anything but that.”

“What does that have to do with a faint heart?” Isabelle replied, annoyed. Then her watch caught her eye. “So late already, my goodness! The hairdresser that Raymond ordered for me is coming to the hotel at three.” She quickly began to rummage in her handbag for money. “I have to go. Raymond and I have been invited to the Berlin Palace. Can you imagine? The invitation was signed by some high-ranking general, apparently an old customer of Raymond’s. When I think I might actually see the emperor, it makes me feel almost ill, I’m so excited! Raymond says that Kaiser Wilhelm only ever drinks German sparkling wine but that his generals are far more open to a glass of champagne. It would be a sensation if they actually bought
my
champagne, so cross your fingers for me, all right?” She kissed Josephine on both cheeks in farewell. “Good business and financial security—that’s what matters to me. And Marguerite, of course; in the end, she’s the reason I’m doing all this. Maybe I’m not cut out for love at all.”

Instead of answering, Josephine only smiled.

Half an hour before the start of the formal dinner at the palace, the guests streamed into the foyer of the Berlin City Palace, each couple competing in elegance with the others.
How fortunate that I let Raymond talk me into a new evening dress in Vienna
, Isabelle thought. In her emerald-green silk dress and matching accessories, she felt slim and beautiful and could hold her own with any of the women there. But not even her elegant dress could help her overcome her nerves, and with every step she felt less and less sure of herself. As she cautiously checked her pinned-up hair, she glanced covertly at her escort. In contrast to her, Raymond seemed entirely in his element in the German emperor’s home. And he was certainly among the best-looking men that evening—with his black tailcoat, white starched shirt, top hat, fine kid gloves, a gold pocket watch, and then his handsome face, which was accentuated by the silver streaks in his hair. Among the men present, Raymond looked the most aristocratic of all.

“I’m so nervous,” she whispered to him.

“What about?” he whispered back. He smiled and nodded a greeting to someone, exchanged a few words, paid a compliment here and there. As he had in Munich and Vienna, he seemed to know everyone there with any rank or reputation.

“I have the feeling that everyone is looking at us,” said Isabelle with a pained smile. There—wasn’t that an old admirer of hers? Baron Gottlieb von . . . she could no longer remember his name, but she did have a clear memory of how he and his mother had always smelled terribly of mothballs. He was high on her father’s list of prospective marriage candidates. And over there, wasn’t that Irene Neumann, Adrian’s sister? Isabelle’s stomach roiled even more. Oh God, who else would she bump into tonight?

“They’re only looking because we make such a splendid couple. Try to relax a little,” said Raymond. He patted her hand where it rested on his sleeve.

Isabelle breathed in and out deeply. Raymond was right. Her nervousness was silly. She forced herself to let her eyes roam around the room. The hundreds of candles burned beautifully! And all the lovely flowers, deep-red roses, and the scent of the most expensive perfumes—everything was so opulent, so magnificent! And no doubt that they would have interesting guests at their table, and the imperial kitchen would serve all kinds of wonderful dishes. An evening like this was a rare experience, and she was determined to try as hard as she could to enjoy every minute of it. And if, finally, a small order for her estate came out of it, then all the better.

Fortified by her new resolution, Isabelle took Raymond’s arm, and they walked in the direction of the various dining rooms. They were halfway down the long hallway when she abruptly stopped walking.

“What is it?” whispered Raymond.

“Up ahead, at the doorway to the semicircular balcony.” Isabelle licked her lips, which had suddenly become so dry that she could hardly speak a word. “My parents.”

Raymond followed her gaze. “How lovely,” he said with a smile. “Then let us wish them a good evening.” Gently but firmly, he began to walk fast.

“Isabelle!” Jeanette Herrenhus stared at her daughter in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Any other mother would have embraced her daughter without an instant’s hesitation, perhaps even planted a kiss on her cheek. But Jeanette Herrenhus did no more than stiffly hold out one gloved hand.
Still the chilly beauty, I see
, thought Isabelle, and she felt a spasm of deep sadness.

“I heard that you had been widowed. My condolences,” said Moritz Herrenhus in place of a greeting; he sounded far from sympathetic. “But I see you have found a replacement,” he added, looking Raymond Dupont up and down. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

How could her father be so brutish and mean? Isabelle wanted to simply walk away without another word, but Raymond stood his ground as if rooted to the spot. He seemed determined to put this encounter behind him in a cultivated manner, and Isabelle was left with no choice but to follow his example.

“May I introduce Monsieur Raymond Dupont. Jeanette and Moritz Herrenhus, my parents,” she said tightly. For a moment, she toyed with the notion of telling her parents about Marguerite, but then decided against it. A disabled child—she could imagine Moritz Herrenhus’s disparaging remarks about that.

Raymond turned to Isabelle’s mother. He gave her a consummate kiss on her hand and said, “Until today, I thought that Isabelle’s beauty was a gift from God. Now I know better—it comes from an angel.”

Were her eyes deceiving her, or did her mother actually blush? And the way she laughed . . . Isabelle found it embarrassing.