Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Should anything bring a compromise upon me, or any project to which I have been assigned, I will see that you answer for it Now that General Franco is advancing so successfully, it is essential that nothing interfere with the triumph of our cause. With all you have demanded, it will go badly for you if anything you have done comes to light You will have to answer for your failure, and if I must, I will make a public display of you; I will disgrace you and see you stand before a firing squad. So if you are losing determination on this mission, let me assure you it will be far worse for you, should you attempt to make a bargain with Ragoczy or the American authorities. You are not the only assassin known to me, and I will not hesitate to silence you if it is necessary. If you continue to threaten me with exposure, I will break off all ties with you and consider our association at an end. Do the work you have contracted to do and I will see you appropriately rewarded.

  You may continue to use this address for the next four months, for I will be supervising General Franco’s supporters here in Sevilla. Our cause is gaining momentum every day, and coordinating the actions of those who are willing to join with us is increasingly important, so it is also crucial just now that no nefarious deeds be attributed to us. You must know that my strictures on this point apply to you as well as to our fighters here. I look forward to your telegram informing me of your completion of your commission, and your plans for a prompt return to España to answer for all you have accomplished.

  Andreas Morales, Colonel

  chapter eight

  “What a beautiful day to visit the winery. Why must we discuss your leaving in the midst of all this?” Rowena said as she and Saint-Germain motored out of Petaluma on their way to Geyserville; the September morning was hot and the traffic on Route 101 was crawling; up ahead about a mile a maroon DeSoto was pulled onto the shoulder, the driver sweating at the task of changing a tire as the rest of the north-bound cars inched by, stately as a parade.

  “There are only a few minor matters to clear up, including the automobiles. Oscar King has all the paperwork done to arrange the transfer to you. The Auburn isn’t your Chancellor Miller Speedster, but it is a very nice machine, for all of that,” said Saint-Germain. “I think you’ll enjoy it; if you don’t, sell it.” He was in his black tropical-weight summer suit, a crisp linen shirt beneath and a red-and-black foulard tie; he had not worn a hat.

  She turned to him, watching his profile as he concentrated on the road ahead. “I wish you’d let me pay you for it. I can easily afford it.”

  “I’d just as soon not,” said Saint-Germain.

  “Do you think you might come back?” Her question was wistful, and she made no apology for it. She played with the ruffled peplum of her mallard silk blouse and brushed imaginary dust off her khaki twill skirt.

  “We’ve been over this already.” He smiled swiftly. “I can’t bring any more misfortune upon you: I won’t.”

  She put her hand on his arm, touching him lightly so as not to interfere with his steering. “I’ve thought about that, and I’ve decided I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I would,” he said, and eased his Duesenberg SJ around the DeSoto. “I’ve done enough to you—perhaps too much.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “You have given me so much more than you have received from me.”

  “You haven’t died yet,” he reminded her. “When you do—”

  She leaned back on the seat again. “When I do, I’ll sort it out. Today I think it would be delightful to live for decades and decades more. But when I actually get there, I may decide I have had enough of life.”

  “I don’t want to cause you any more heartache than you already have had,” he persisted. “And I know whereof I speak.”

  “No doubt,” she said, deliberately imitating him. “But you’re still alive, at least in your own way.” She noticed the small stand of redwoods up ahead on the left, a quaintly decorated restaurant and gift shop standing in its shadow. “Sportsmen like to come here, I’m told. They fish in the Petaluma and Santa Rosa Rivers. There’s some duck-hunting in the hills around here.”

  “But no fox-hunting,” said Saint-Germain.

  “No. Nothing like that; California doesn’t seem like hunt country,” said Rowena. “I don’t miss that nearly as much as I thought I might. Not that I was ever fond of fox-hunting as such, though the riding was invigorating.” She stretched a little.

  He lowered his arm out the window to signal his slowing down for an intersection, stopping carefully. He put the Duesenberg in first gear and continued across the intersection slowly, shifting into second as he reached the other side. “You can ride in California.”

  “At Ponderosa Lodge, if nowhere else,” she said, trying to smile.

  “Yes. You can ride there.”

  She nodded, and spent half-a-mile looking out the window. “I love the end of summer. It’s not just the harvest, it’s the drawing in of the year. You can feel it start. The light changes, somehow. This year it changed last month—a bit early. In spring, it’s a gradual change, hardly perceptible from one day to the next, but autumn arrives on a specific day, when the light changes. It’s easier to see here, in California, than it is in England, but I’ve seen it there, too, now that I know what to look for.”

  Saint-Germain glanced out at the sky. “The light does change,” he said; he did not often notice it as the years flickered by, but he recognized what she was describing.

  They drove through Santa Rosa in silence, and went on north, the traffic remaining dense, and providing an excuse for their stillness. As they reached the outskirts of Healdsburg, she spoke up as if they had been conversing all along. “Are you really expecting trouble at the winery?”

  “Trouble now would do the most harm; so yes, I think there is an opportunity to do real damage, and it will have to come before the crush is over. Little as he admits it, Carlo Pietragnelli believes the White Legion will strike, and strike soon. So does Oscar King.”

  “So this is more than a farewell visit?” For the first time that day she was uneasy.

  “It is possible.” He continued to drive, his demeanor unconcerned. “I do share their concern; the crush is almost over.”

  “You know something, don’t you?” she asked sharply.

  “Let us say I suspect,” said Saint-Germain. “There are rumors, little more than that. But these rumors are consistent and specific, and that makes them worrisome.”

  “You won’t tell me what they are, will you?” Suddenly she laughed, tossing her head. “I wish I could be angry with you, but I can’t. I’ve been trying to, but—” She shrugged.

  “If you would prefer to argue, tell me and I’ll attempt to oblige you,” he said, managing a wry smile.

  “It’s no good if you agree to argue,” she said ruefully. “Oh, Comte, I know I’m going to miss you.”

  “And I you.” He braked to allow a truck laden with crates of produce to cross the road; he moved on. “How do you plan to spend the holidays this year?”

  “I don’t know. They’re still a couple months away, and Thanksgiving is in November.” She sighed. “I have thought of asking Penelope to come for Christmas. She could fly to New York and come across the country by train or airplane. I could see my nephews and…”

  “Yet you hesitate,” he said.

  She faltered, wanting to explain herself clearly. “It’s difficult with Penelope. Ever since she became a widow, she has set her life in stone, a monument to her mourning. Not that she sees it that way: she lives at Longacres with a staff of nine, and she thinks of herself as deprived because Rupert Bowen is dead. I don’t make light of her loss, but it isn’t the catastrophe she seems to believe it is. He wasn’t a saint, and his death, while it was very sad, didn’t mean that the world stopped. Penelope expects everyone to share her grief. I find this … trying. I’m sure she finds my lack of commiseration upsetting, too. But she’s my last immediate relative. She has her sons, but I don’t. I’d like to feel more contact with them
, and with her, but…”

  “But you find this compelling, the desire to keep in touch with your own continuity.” He reached out and brushed her hand.

  “It must be hard for you, not having that,” she said, a bit self consciously.

  “Ah, but I have the Blood Bond with those who have loved me knowingly, and that sustains me. Blood is blood, one way and another, and it is the sum of all we are.” He put both hands back on the steering wheel.

  She considered this. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  He kept on toward Geyserville; Saint-Germain mused for a few miles. “Don’t let too much time go by without seeing your nephews,” he recommended. “The years can slip away so quickly. I know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Rowena, sincerely.

  They had reached the turnoff. “Carlo Pietragnelli can provide you some sense of balance, if you begin to feel a lack.”

  “You’re not matchmaking, are you?” She pulled at the small strand of pearls around her neck.

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “No. But the man has a family and he is as tied to his earth as I am to mine, and you may find solace in this.”

  “England is my native earth,” she reminded him.

  “Have some crates of it sent to you, or I’ll arrange it. I’ll go along to Chalfont Saint Giles and load up sacks for shipping to you.” He chuckled and his face softened. “I’ll be a midnight harvester, if I have to be.”

  Her laugh was a bit shaky. “I’ll arrange it with Penelope. You won’t have to sneak in at midnight.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” said Saint-Germain. “I wouldn’t like to have to explain what I’m doing. I’ll leave that to you.”

  They were following the telephone poles along the graveled road that led to the entrance to the Pietragnelli Winery; Rowena rolled up her window to keep the dust out, and remarked, “Look how dry the hills are. They must be looking forward to rain.”

  “As soon as the grapes are in, I should think so,” Saint-Germain agreed. “But they won’t want it until the picking is done.” As they slowed down for the gate, he said, “Pietragnelli would be quite delighted to have you paint his winery. He’d never ask you himself—he’d consider it too intrusive—but I know he wishes you’d do something more than sketches.”

  “I have my sketch pad with me,” Rowena reminded him.

  “I think he would like to see a painting eventually.” He turned and drew up at the gate to the winery; pulling on the brake and putting the gears in neutral, Saint-Germain got out of the Duesenberg to open the gate. As soon as he had it pulled back, he returned to drive through, then stopped and went to close the gate again, looking around carefully as he did, scanning the goat-farm and the vegetable plantations across the road as well as Pietragnelli’s vineyards. He noticed that two guards were keeping to their posts, each about fifty feet from the gate, and each held a rifle. When he was back in the car again, he said, “Thank you for coming with me today. I know this isn’t what you had in mind as a farewell—”

  “It’s always a pleasure to visit the winery,” she said with automatic good manners. “Even though it looks more like an armed camp. You really are expecting trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Preparing for it, in any case. The guards have been here a week.” Saint-Germain started down the road, dust rising behind him. “The harvest is when the winery is most vulnerable; the work is demanding and must be done swiftly—if the harvest is lost, the winery loses more than work hours.”

  “You needn’t apologize for taking care of Pietragnelli,” said Rowena. “I would be surprised if you didn’t make the effort.”

  “What can I be but grateful?” Saint-Germain said as he stopped the Duesenberg in the curve of the drive at the front of the house. He set the brake, put the transmission in neutral, and turned off the ignition.

  “How can I reach you once you leave?” Rowena asked.

  “You can write to me in care of Miles Sunbury, as you have done in the past; he’ll know where to find me. As soon as I am established at a location, I will send you the address, if it is prudent to do so.” Saint-Germain got out of the car and went to open her door. As she stepped out, he kissed her cheek. “Don’t decide that I am no longer interested in you. You are a wonderful woman. Never doubt it.”

  “You’re a shameless flatterer—and I love it,” said Rowena playfully to cover the rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Saint-Germain regarded her seriously. “I don’t flatter you. I am praising you, and deservedly, Rowena. You may not be accustomed to it, but you merit it, and more. I hope you won’t dismiss this when I’m gone as my good manners, for your character isn’t an issue for politesse.”

  She blinked, and when she spoke, she stammered. “I—I’m not, you know. Deserving.”

  “You will pardon me for disagreeing,” said Saint-Germain, and stepped back from her, taking her hand and tucking it through the crook of his arm.

  “You’ve tasted my blood,” she said just above a whisper as they started toward the front door. “You say you know me.”

  “I do,” Saint-Germain assured her as he rapped on the screen door.

  “Momento!” Carlo Pietragnelli called from inside. “Mrs. Barringstone! They have come!” A few seconds later the front door came open and Pietragnelli barreled out to greet his guests. “In buon’ punto!” he exclaimed. “Today is almost the end of the crush. Most of the grapes are in, and we can be joyous. You can join us in our festivities, in spite of all the difficulties we have faced this harvest. My workers are out bringing in the last of the whites. Tomorrow we do the red plantation on the eastern slope of our second vineyard, and it will be finished until next year.” He clapped Saint-Germain on the shoulder. “We’ll open a bottle of the best to drink to the new wine. If you don’t want to drink with me, then so be it, but the rest of us will have our celebrations.”

  “I should hope so,” said Saint-Germain.

  Pietragnelli turned to Rowena and grinned. “You do me honor to return, signora. I am delighted to have you here!” He kissed her hand. “La qualità,” he announced. “I can always tell.”

  “If that means what I think it means,” said Rowena, “many thanks. Mille grazie.”

  “Come in. Come in,” Pietragnelli effused, making more room for them and half-bowing to allow them to enter his house. “Mrs. Barringstone! My guests are here!”

  “I am coming, Mr. Pietragnelli,” she called from the kitchen.

  “She is bringing a treat,” said Pietragnelli confidentially. “She and I have been baking all morning, making harvest pugliese with walnuts, olives, garlic, and Asiago cheese, for the workmen and for you, Signora Saxon.” He stood aside in the entry-hall so Mrs. Barringstone could approach with a loaf wrapped in a blue-and-white towel set in a flat-bottomed basket. “There is butter in the covered tub. This is just out of the oven, quite fresh, as it should be. Mrs. Barringstone, cut a slice for Signora Saxon.”

  Mrs. Barringstone did as Carlo Pietragnelli asked, making sure the slice was on the generous side. “You eat it all, it’s very good.” She waited, watching while Rowena buttered and tasted her slice of the newly baked loaf.

  “Excellent,” said Rowena around a partial mouthful of bread. “This is delicious.”

  “Jut as it should be,” said Pietragnelli. “We’ll have a proper dinner at four, so the men can have a break before we finish the crush.”

  “It’s a good dinner,” said Mrs. Barringstone. “If I say so myself.”

  “She is getting better at the herbs and spices,” said Pietragnelli. “In another year, she will not need my recipes for pasta or minestrone.”

  “Mr. Pietragnelli has told my husband that he’s going to keep us on for another year at least, and he’s promoted my man. It makes everything so much easier for us.” Her lips quirked in what might have been a smile.

  Saint-Germain took advantage of the moment. “Are we going out to the winery? I know you don’t want to b
e away from the workers for long.”

  “No, I don’t; you’re right,” Pietragnelli said as he went to the kitchen door and opened it, the aroma of crushed grapes hung on the air, a disturbing, delicious presence that seemed to permeate even the ground. Half-a-dozen men were standing around a crushing machine—a huge funnel with a deep trough at the bottom of it that ran half-way across the yard; a long Archimedes’ screw turned in the trough, crushing the grapes and sluicing the juice toward a huge vat standing in the doorway of the winery.

  “Mr. Pietragnelli,” said Warton, then nodded at Saint-Germain.

  “How is it going?” Pietragnelli asked as he bustled over to the crushing machine. “The smell is very good Keep on.”

  Rowena looked at the work going on and blinked. Flustered, she turned to Saint-Germain. “I thought…”

  “You assumed they crushed the grapes with their feet in a vat, signora, as they did in the past,” said Pietragnelli. “Some of the vintners still do, but they are few and far between, and they do not live on the wines they make, nor do they employ as many men as I do. These days we use machines, those of us who want to prosper, and who have more than a dozen acres in vines. These machines work much faster than human feet, and they separate out the stems and seeds better than the old strainers did. Not that you want to lose all the seeds and skins—they affect the color and the taste. Here, you can see how the first state of the wine is; I will test it for sugar this evening.”

  Saint-Germain noticed Virgil Barringstone standing aside from the rest, looking awkward; he could see the anxious glance he exchanged with a young, freckle-faced boy of high-school age, and wondered what the two were up to. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the two of them, and turned back to Rowena. “This winery is very modern.”