Read Online The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) by Petra Durst-Benning - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Petra Durst-Benning
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hill that was higher than most of the others around, which made it look somehow majestic and very close to the clouds. “Hautvillers.”
Isabelle blinked several times. She had arrived. Hautvillers. Her new home.
A steep main street wound up the hillside. Well-tended houses lined both sides of the street, with little space in between. None of the houses was more than two stories high, and it seemed to Isabelle that the residents were doing their best not to outshine the grapevines that, in places, grew down to the walls of the houses. Maybe that was the reason that everything here seemed to exist in such harmony. Almost every house was decorated with a wrought iron sign depicting the profession of the person who lived inside. As the horses stretched their necks forward and leaned into the steep climb up the main street of Hautvillers, their coach passed a basket maker, a general store, a laundry, and a cobbler’s workshop. Isabelle beamed at everyone she saw—after all, these people would be her new neighbors.
After a few minutes, they came to a marketplace, around which Isabelle noted the town hall, a bakery, and a small restaurant called Le Grand Cerf—“The Great Stag.” A very pretty young woman with her hair loosely tied up was energetically sweeping out the entrance to the restaurant, and as the coach drove past, she looked up. Her eyes shone like dark-brown sealing wax, but she returned neither Isabelle’s smile nor her greeting. If that’s how you want to be , thought Isabelle.
“Look there!” Leon cried, and he pointed to a sign attached to the garden fence of a house on a corner. It pointed the way to the Moët champagne estate, but Isabelle did not see a similar sign pointing to their estate anywhere. The horses had almost reached the top of the hill—and therefore the end of the village—when Isabelle spied, beyond the houses on her right, a magnificent estate built atop a small rise. It lay some distance outside the village, a tree-lined lane leading toward it. Finally! Isabelle squeezed Leon’s hand excitedly.
The coach turned to the right, into one of the last streets of the village. The houses and gardens were larger there, and everything seemed more open and less crowded than in the village below. It is lovely here , thought Isabelle, as the coach pulled up in front of the last building on the right. It was not possible to drive any farther, however, because the street ended just a few yards ahead in a cobblestoned cul-de-sac, beyond which were gardens and fields. Isabelle frowned. There was no way to drive to the estate on the hill from there.
“I thought the driver knew the way! What now?” she said reproachfully to Leon. Instead of answering, he jumped down from the wagon.
“We’re here, my dear!”
Isabelle’s disappointment at finding that her new home was not the large estate in the distance did not last long. Jacques’s elongated two-story house was not grandly situated among the vineyards. It was on the very edge of the village, and there was no tree-lined lane leading to it. But there was a large forecourt with space for many horses and carriages, and the house itself was the largest on the entire street. “Champagne Feininger”—the name stood out on the plain but elegant sign mounted above the large double-winged wooden gate in the middle of the building. Champagne Feininger. Isabelle felt a warm tremor run through her at the sight, but she could not bask in her anticipation for long; too many other impressions were pouring over her.
The dark-brown gate was so huge that their coach could have driven through it with ease. The roof, made of rust-red tiles, made a pleasing contrast to the white plaster and the dark-brown wood framing the window. And the windows! On the ground floor alone, Isabelle counted five windows on the left of the gate and as many on the right, while the upper floor was the same, everything perfectly symmetrical and exceptionally pleasing to
Isabelle blinked several times. She had arrived. Hautvillers. Her new home.
A steep main street wound up the hillside. Well-tended houses lined both sides of the street, with little space in between. None of the houses was more than two stories high, and it seemed to Isabelle that the residents were doing their best not to outshine the grapevines that, in places, grew down to the walls of the houses. Maybe that was the reason that everything here seemed to exist in such harmony. Almost every house was decorated with a wrought iron sign depicting the profession of the person who lived inside. As the horses stretched their necks forward and leaned into the steep climb up the main street of Hautvillers, their coach passed a basket maker, a general store, a laundry, and a cobbler’s workshop. Isabelle beamed at everyone she saw—after all, these people would be her new neighbors.
After a few minutes, they came to a marketplace, around which Isabelle noted the town hall, a bakery, and a small restaurant called Le Grand Cerf—“The Great Stag.” A very pretty young woman with her hair loosely tied up was energetically sweeping out the entrance to the restaurant, and as the coach drove past, she looked up. Her eyes shone like dark-brown sealing wax, but she returned neither Isabelle’s smile nor her greeting. If that’s how you want to be , thought Isabelle.
“Look there!” Leon cried, and he pointed to a sign attached to the garden fence of a house on a corner. It pointed the way to the Moët champagne estate, but Isabelle did not see a similar sign pointing to their estate anywhere. The horses had almost reached the top of the hill—and therefore the end of the village—when Isabelle spied, beyond the houses on her right, a magnificent estate built atop a small rise. It lay some distance outside the village, a tree-lined lane leading toward it. Finally! Isabelle squeezed Leon’s hand excitedly.
The coach turned to the right, into one of the last streets of the village. The houses and gardens were larger there, and everything seemed more open and less crowded than in the village below. It is lovely here , thought Isabelle, as the coach pulled up in front of the last building on the right. It was not possible to drive any farther, however, because the street ended just a few yards ahead in a cobblestoned cul-de-sac, beyond which were gardens and fields. Isabelle frowned. There was no way to drive to the estate on the hill from there.
“I thought the driver knew the way! What now?” she said reproachfully to Leon. Instead of answering, he jumped down from the wagon.
“We’re here, my dear!”
Isabelle’s disappointment at finding that her new home was not the large estate in the distance did not last long. Jacques’s elongated two-story house was not grandly situated among the vineyards. It was on the very edge of the village, and there was no tree-lined lane leading to it. But there was a large forecourt with space for many horses and carriages, and the house itself was the largest on the entire street. “Champagne Feininger”—the name stood out on the plain but elegant sign mounted above the large double-winged wooden gate in the middle of the building. Champagne Feininger. Isabelle felt a warm tremor run through her at the sight, but she could not bask in her anticipation for long; too many other impressions were pouring over her.
The dark-brown gate was so huge that their coach could have driven through it with ease. The roof, made of rust-red tiles, made a pleasing contrast to the white plaster and the dark-brown wood framing the window. And the windows! On the ground floor alone, Isabelle counted five windows on the left of the gate and as many on the right, while the upper floor was the same, everything perfectly symmetrical and exceptionally pleasing to
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