Read Online The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) by Petra Durst-Benning - Free Book Online
Authors: Petra Durst-Benning
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did the same with the rest of their baggage. He drove the stretch to Hautvillers several times a week, and when Leon and Isabelle had booked the journey, he assured them that he knew the road well.
“Your luggage weighs at least as much as a load of champagne bottles, so I won’t be pushing the horses very hard,” he said. “But if everything goes smoothly, we’ll be there in three hours.”
Three hours , Isabelle thought as Leon helped her up onto the seat. Maybe she should take up cycling again after all; then she would be able to get back to Reims easily. The thought cheered her up and made it at least a little easier to say good-bye to the city that had already touched her heart.
They were finally on their way to their new home. The sun shone brightly, as it ought to at the beginning of March. Birds were chirping for all they were worth, and the scent of the first forsythia blooms filled the air. Isabelle snuggled close to Leon, who had also climbed up onto the seat of the coach to sit between her and the driver.
“‘ Bonne chance ,’ the man in the champagne shop said. Isn’t that nice? Good luck. We could really use some of that.”
Leon put his arm around her. “One thing I have to give the Champenois —they really are very friendly,” he said, and told her again about the professional cyclists he had met the day before. They had given him many tips about the best cycling routes.
“So much forest? I really did not expect that in Champagne,” Isabelle said to the coachman after they had seen nothing but trees for half an hour. Fallen leaves from the previous winter carpeted the ground between the still-bare trees, creating a morbid atmosphere. The sun, which had been shining as brightly as the daffodils in the front gardens of Reims, shed its light here through the trees in a pallid glow.
“The world-famous vineyards are coming,” said the coachman, and grinned.
And, indeed, at a certain point, the forest thinned out, the land opened up, and the sun shone down again from a cloudless sky.
The driver turned around a curve and reined in the horses.
“ Et voilà! ” He swept his hands wide, his gesture taking in the gently rolling landscape of the Montagne de Reims.
Isabelle exhaled audibly. “This . . . is unbelievable!” Her gaze turned across thousands—no, millions—of grapevines, growing in rows as far as she could see. The vineyards here were not steep as they had been in the Palatinate; in places, the vines even grew on flat land. Like an ocean crossed by a low swell , thought Isabelle, overwhelmed by the sense of distance and endlessness. But even more impressive was the knowledge that this landscape was the result of human work. Work and the blessing of God , she thought, and the notion felt utterly strange to her, something that had not come to her either in Berlin, with its enormous factory buildings, or in the Palatinate. She felt overcome by a strange emotion.
“Somewhere in the middle of all that are our vineyards, too. Isn’t that amazing?” said Leon.
Isabelle gripped his hand. Speaking quietly, she said, “I never imagined it would be so beautiful.” She nodded in the direction of the nearest grapevines. “What are those bushes standing at the end of every fourth or fifth row of vines?”
“Roses, of course,” Leon replied casually.
“Roses are almost as typical of the Champagne region as the grapevines,” the coachman said. “There’s a reason for them, too. In certain weather, the roses succumb to a mildew infection very fast, so if a winemaker sees a rose bush that’s been hit, he knows he has to treat his vines against the mildew.”
“I’m sure it must be wonderful when the roses are in bloom.” She could not remember ever being so impressed by a landscape—she, a child of the city. This is where you belong , said a soft voice deep inside her.
“See there?” The coachman was pointing to a village in the distance. It was situated atop a
“Your luggage weighs at least as much as a load of champagne bottles, so I won’t be pushing the horses very hard,” he said. “But if everything goes smoothly, we’ll be there in three hours.”
Three hours , Isabelle thought as Leon helped her up onto the seat. Maybe she should take up cycling again after all; then she would be able to get back to Reims easily. The thought cheered her up and made it at least a little easier to say good-bye to the city that had already touched her heart.
They were finally on their way to their new home. The sun shone brightly, as it ought to at the beginning of March. Birds were chirping for all they were worth, and the scent of the first forsythia blooms filled the air. Isabelle snuggled close to Leon, who had also climbed up onto the seat of the coach to sit between her and the driver.
“‘ Bonne chance ,’ the man in the champagne shop said. Isn’t that nice? Good luck. We could really use some of that.”
Leon put his arm around her. “One thing I have to give the Champenois —they really are very friendly,” he said, and told her again about the professional cyclists he had met the day before. They had given him many tips about the best cycling routes.
“So much forest? I really did not expect that in Champagne,” Isabelle said to the coachman after they had seen nothing but trees for half an hour. Fallen leaves from the previous winter carpeted the ground between the still-bare trees, creating a morbid atmosphere. The sun, which had been shining as brightly as the daffodils in the front gardens of Reims, shed its light here through the trees in a pallid glow.
“The world-famous vineyards are coming,” said the coachman, and grinned.
And, indeed, at a certain point, the forest thinned out, the land opened up, and the sun shone down again from a cloudless sky.
The driver turned around a curve and reined in the horses.
“ Et voilà! ” He swept his hands wide, his gesture taking in the gently rolling landscape of the Montagne de Reims.
Isabelle exhaled audibly. “This . . . is unbelievable!” Her gaze turned across thousands—no, millions—of grapevines, growing in rows as far as she could see. The vineyards here were not steep as they had been in the Palatinate; in places, the vines even grew on flat land. Like an ocean crossed by a low swell , thought Isabelle, overwhelmed by the sense of distance and endlessness. But even more impressive was the knowledge that this landscape was the result of human work. Work and the blessing of God , she thought, and the notion felt utterly strange to her, something that had not come to her either in Berlin, with its enormous factory buildings, or in the Palatinate. She felt overcome by a strange emotion.
“Somewhere in the middle of all that are our vineyards, too. Isn’t that amazing?” said Leon.
Isabelle gripped his hand. Speaking quietly, she said, “I never imagined it would be so beautiful.” She nodded in the direction of the nearest grapevines. “What are those bushes standing at the end of every fourth or fifth row of vines?”
“Roses, of course,” Leon replied casually.
“Roses are almost as typical of the Champagne region as the grapevines,” the coachman said. “There’s a reason for them, too. In certain weather, the roses succumb to a mildew infection very fast, so if a winemaker sees a rose bush that’s been hit, he knows he has to treat his vines against the mildew.”
“I’m sure it must be wonderful when the roses are in bloom.” She could not remember ever being so impressed by a landscape—she, a child of the city. This is where you belong , said a soft voice deep inside her.
“See there?” The coachman was pointing to a village in the distance. It was situated atop a
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