Sara’s feet landed back on the ground and she steadied herself, clasping Papa’s hand. Then the music abruptly stopped; the laughter and ribald shouts were replaced by silence. All eyes turned to the doorway to regard the well-made figure of Bastien Lemieux, who stood a head taller than the average man, with a broad chest and long, fit limbs.
Papa released Sara’s hand at once and strode toward the door to greet his future son-in-law. Maman followed in haste. Sara felt Lydia take her hand and squeezed back.
“Thank you, Sara, you are such a dear,” Lydia whispered. “I would faint dead away if it were not for you. He is splendid, is he not?” Sara silently opted for “not” but said nothing.
Sara watched Bastien bow slightly to her parents and offer his congratulations on the harvest’s end. “You are the envy of every girl in Vouvray, I’m certain of it,” Sara assured her sister.
“Save for one,” Lydia whispered. “Why do you dislike him so?”
“I have no quarrel with Bastien. He is everything a gentleman should be, outwardly, but how does he regard you as his future wife? That is my concern.”
“As any gentleman would, with respect and thoughtfulness.”
“Forgive me, Lydia, but do you not find something … lacking in his demeanor?”
“You know as well as I, Sara, that Bastien is a man of convention and manners. He does not think it proper to display his most guarded sentiments for all to see.”
“Yes, but has there been any ‘display’ of affection that leads you to believe his love is sincere?”
“Sara! I will not respond to such a vulgar question.”
“I’m sorry, Lydia.” Sara had not intended to offend Lydia, but her sister always seemed to misinterpret her. They were like two sides of a coin, one minted for pageantry, the other for practicality.
Bastien sauntered across the room toward the sisters, and Lydia lifted her hands in greeting. Crimson crept over her chest and up the length of her fair neck, finally dancing in the apples of her cheeks. Her delight could not be concealed. Sara, on the other hand, felt herself turning scarlet for an entirely different reason. She was embarrassed: Bastien’s peacock finery—his waistcoat and top hat—was absurd at this rustic gathering.
Bastien flashed a brilliant smile at Lydia, revealing a row of straight, narrow teeth. His aquiline nose and high cheekbones gave him an aristocratic air. His brown eyes were the color of ripe chestnuts, and his neatly trimmed straight black hair rested just below his tall collar. All in all, observed Sara, it was understandable why so many of her contemporaries found him worthy of pursuit. But his arrogance, which no one else seemed aware of, made her impervious to Bastien’s charms. Sara instinctively stepped back as he advanced. She saw Lydia take his hands in hers, and Sara knew proper conduct dictated that she must also greet him politely.
Bastien gave a short bow. “Mesdemoiselles Thibault, it is an honor. I must congratulate your family on what your father informs me has been a plentiful grape harvest this season. My father sends his regards and bids me to say that we look forward to tasting your first press upon its completion.”
Bastien paused to look around the room at the Gypsies, who had returned to their gaiety. He continued with a sniff, “I confess, I half expected to find your laborers thick with drink, clinging to the walls with fatigue after their arduous work. But they possess such exuberance. Perhaps because the expense of this grand soirée falls upon your father’s shoulders?”
Sara did not know if she should laugh or lash out at his rudeness.
“The harvest has been most adequate, Monsieur Lemieux. We thank you for your good wishes,” she choked out.
Lydia clamped her hand on Sara’s arm, as if to deter her from any further comment. “Monsieur Lemieux wants only the best for our farm, for we will soon be united as one family.”
“Of course. I merely meant to say that your father is very generous.”
“My sister is quite protective of our little vineyard, Monsieur Lemieux.” Lydia squeezed Sara’s hand. “You may find it difficult to believe, but not only has she inspected every stone on our land, she has also recorded every detail of its condition in her treasured diary. She carries that book with her as the curate does his Bible. What secrets of the vintner’s trade must rest in her chronicles!”
Sara burned with embarrassment. She was livid that Lydia would trivialize her contributions to the farm’s success—and in front of Bastien Lemieux, of all people. As if this weren’t upsetting enough, he decided to take a swipe at her as well.
“Mademoiselle Sara is quite modern in her pursuits,” Bastien observed. He didn’t intend it as a compliment.
“Oh, you’ve only heard the half of it.” Lydia smiled, but her eyes darted uneasily between Bastien and Sara, who didn’t understand why Lydia continued to chirp about her work in the vineyard. “She assists Papa with the press and the pasteurization, although I believe it is, in part, to cause our dear maman vexation of the worst kind.” Lydia’s eyes flitted to Bastien’s. “I confess, Monsieur Lemieux, I am caught up in the frivolous preoccupations of young ladies, but not our dear Sara. She would set aside Hugo’s novels to read the scientific journals that line her bookshelf. She has a lively mind indeed,” she sighed. “If only I could find a comparable passion to which I could devote my time.”
“Indeed,” Sara said tersely, silencing her sister. She was upset, but could see that Lydia was desperate to please her fiancé. She was about to excuse herself when she realized that Bastien was staring at her. Sara shifted uneasily under his gaze.
Bastien smirked. “I would venture to declare that it is noble to pursue one’s passion in life. However, we must admire those who have the necessary grit to sustain such a passion. These enthusiasms are far too easily stolen away with the passing of time and change of circumstance, are they not, Mademoiselle Sara?”
“Indeed they are, monsieur, for those who lack conviction.” Without another word, Sara turned on her heel in search of friendlier company.
Weary from a rambunctious evening of drink and dance, the revelers staggered across the back lawn to the caves beyond. Sara imagined them exchanging gossip and telling stories around the fire before surrendering to deep slumber. Maman and Papa had already retired, bleary-eyed and bone-tired. Lydia had slipped away earlier with Bastien; Sara didn’t want to think what for. As she climbed the stairs toward her bedchamber, she began to contemplate what she knew of the Lemieux family. They would soon be irretrievably united with her own family, for better or for worse.
Sara had first come to know Bastien when he began working as his father’s apprentice and came with him regularly to visit the Thibault vineyard. Farm life was too demanding for much visiting. Sara ventured to town only on market days or Sundays and did not have the time to sustain any lasting acquaintances, aside from her friends at the village school. Moreover, the Lemieux brothers, Bastien and Philippe, were older than Sara by ten and nine years, respectively.
Their mother, Adèle Lemieux, had died eight years ago of a wasting disease. What little Sara had seen of her, she had liked. She remembered one Sunday morning, as a girl of nine, attending Mass with her family and sitting in the pew opposite Monsieur and Madame Lemieux and their two sons. She could not help but stare at the fine figure of Adèle Lemieux, whose shiny yellow hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck in an elaborate twist. Sara could not imagine how she managed to keep it in its beautiful figure-eight curve. She was taller and straighter than any woman Sara had ever seen; when she stood she reached her husband’s full height. Her skin was milk-white and her lips were pressed into a soft pink bow, which held a hint of pleasure, as if she were remembering a happy secret. Sara remembered feeling envious, watching Madame Lemieux take hold of her sons’ hands and gaze at them adoringly. Sara had thought that, as kind as she could be, her own maman would never have done such a thing.
Although Sara knew little about Madame Lemieux outside of her incandescent appearance and gentle manner, she wa
s distraught when she heard that Madame had died, leaving her two sons motherless. After Madame Lemieux’s death, Sara still saw Bastien and Philippe at Mass on occasion with their father. Bastien seemed little changed, but she noticed that Philippe’s hands now hung limply at his sides or remained locked across his chest. His face was expressionless; the light that had animated his young features had vanished.
Sara had spoken with Philippe only once. One morning, six months after Madame Lemieux had passed on to her greater glory, Sara had found herself walking home alone from church. Lydia had skipped on ahead when Sara had gone back to retrieve Maman’s Bible, which she had left in the pew. Sara loved walking alone, even though her mother did not often allow it. She kept to the main road, for one never knew what trouble could be stirring in the adjacent wood. Halfway down the road, she heard voices coming from the scrub bushes. Her heart thudded a warning, and Sara answered it by quickening her pace.
But just then, out of the wood, Saul Mittier with pinched face and unkempt dirty blond hair, jumped in front of her, followed by three of his gang. Saul Mittier was a menace in ripped breeches and a stained shirt, wielding a long, pointy tree branch. He had once hidden a foul-smelling grass snake in the teacher’s desk, causing her to shriek with fright, and he had a penchant for spying on the girls while they used the school privy. Saul and his gang moved closer, surrounding Sara as a wolf pack would its prey.
“What are you doing there?” He placed his hands on his hips, blocking her path. “You look fetching on this holy Sunday. And looky here, you even have your Bible. Tell me, Sara, does the good Lord, who sees all, know what you’re about under there? Let’s see that pretty honey pot!” Saul lifted the hem of her skirt with the stick. She batted it away, but not before she felt it scrape her thigh. Even at age nine, Sara did not endure embarrassment for long. Instead, she embraced its more useful companion—anger.
“Saul Mittier, you rat! If your père knew what you said, he’d take the strap to you!” Sara yelled over the taunts and howls of laughter. Their faces blurred, and all Sara could see were their open mouths and crooked yellow teeth.
Saul poked her in the chest. Sara grabbed the stick and tugged, but Saul didn’t let go. He landed with a thump—facedown in the dirt. Sara knew if she ran, his jeering friends would chase after her. She held her mother’s Bible tightly to her chest. She could not lose it, for it had cost Papa five francs. She looked down the road beyond the boys, lifted her chin and walked straight ahead past them, still clenching the stick in her other hand. She knew she wouldn’t get far.
Saul ran up from behind and shoved her to the ground. They tussled, and before long he was on top of her, fists raised. Sara covered her face to protect herself from the blow, but it never came. A large hand grabbed Saul by the collar and yanked him right off her.
It was the hand of Philippe Lemieux.
Philippe had been on the other side of the churchyard when he spied the gang heading down the road after Sara. Sara listened to his version of events as he walked her home. He had run up behind them, pulled Saul off Sara, then threatened that if he ever saw Saul hit a girl again, he’d strip him from head to toe and make him walk through the village naked. Sara had laughed at the thought of that pug-nosed prig running through town in the altogether.
At eighteen, Philippe was nearly twice Sara’s height, and seemed to be growing so fast that his skin stretched itself tight in a race to keep up with his bones. He had sandy hair, kind, bright blue eyes and wide cheekbones.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
Sara shrugged. “No, just a few scrapes.” In truth, she felt the sting on her palms and knees, but wanted to appear brave. As they neared the walkway to Sara’s house, Sara knew Maman would want to thank Philippe with some freshly made currant buns, which she always baked for dinner on Sundays.
“You must come in. Maman and Papa will want to thank you.”
Philippe smiled and waved his hand in polite refusal. “No need to thank me. Something tells me you would have kicked those boys senseless, even if I hadn’t shown up.” With a quick wink, he handed Sara the dusty Bible, turned and walked toward home. Sara had liked him instantly. As Philippe had figured, Sara was an excellent kicker—and a first-rate pincher, too.
Sara had seen neither hide nor hair of Philippe in almost six years. He had departed for America when he was only twenty-one years old. It was said that he hadn’t wanted a place in his father’s business, but had ambitions of running a vineyard of his own. More crucially, he had shamed his family when Jacques’s niece Marie Chevreau, who lived an hour away in Tours, had become pregnant. When it was discovered, they had left for America together. His father and brother had not seemed disappointed to be rid of him. In fact, they rarely spoke of Philippe.
Sara’s apprehension about the impending nuptials of her sister and Bastien Lemieux stemmed from her distrust of wine brokers in general, and an aversion to Bastien in particular. Everyone knew that wine brokers were an avaricious lot, and Lydia Thibault and the expansive Thibault estate were perhaps the most desirable possessions east of Tours. Lydia was known for her beauty, charm and pliable manners, which Sara believed Bastien would take the liberty to shape. Lydia, in turn, would become the wife of a prominent merchant, and eventually a mother, the pinnacle of her aspirations. Everyone thought them an enviable match. Sara disagreed.
Sara’s heart was also heavy with the knowledge that when Lydia married Bastien, Sara would no longer have a central place in her sister’s life. When they were girls, Lydia had taught her how to roll down hills and to whistle inside the caves where Maman couldn’t hear them. She made Sara dandelion crowns and chased her through the sunflower field. She showed Sara how to break open a sunflower and rub out the plump black-and-white seeds. When Sara awoke from a nightmare, it was Lydia who wrapped her arms tightly around her and murmured, “Guardian angels by your side,” lulling Sara back to sleep.
Sara sighed and her eyes drifted around the candlelit bedroom they shared. Lydia’s wall was adorned with pictures of the latest fashion plates clipped from the pages of La Nouvelle Mode, the kinds of costumes she hoped to acquire in her married life, Sara supposed. In contrast, Sara’s shelves were stacked top to bottom with books about grape growing and scientific research, many of them translations of American volumes. Glass jars filled with rocks and plant specimens served as bookends to papers written by Louis Pasteur and Madame Aurora Thierry, the French-born Californian whose treatise on grape varieties was one of the best Sara had ever read. Papa was the only one in the family who shared her great passion for learning. She loved to spend the evening hours searching for new ideas that might help their vineyard reach new levels of prosperity.
Sara’s thoughts returned to Lydia. She loved her sister, but she struggled to understand her. How could Lydia not see Bastien’s flaws? Moreover, why didn’t Papa notice them? Perhaps Maman had insisted on the marriage and Papa had acquiesced. Sara’s mind often churned over dark thoughts in these small hours. She sighed at the uncertainty of it all and rolled toward the open window to look out upon the stables.
A burst of cool night air alerted her senses to movement below. She shifted her gaze downward and witnessed a peculiar sight: Bastien Lemieux stood at the side of his brougham. Why, on such a fine evening, would he not have ridden the mile between their homes on horseback? The answer came a moment later: Lydia stepped out of the carriage and Bastien handed her down. She smoothed the hem of her dress over what looked to be her bare legs. When she lifted her face, Sara thought she spied tears. Bastien ran his hand along the side of Lydia’s disheveled coiffure to replace a comb. How it had become loose, Sara would not allow herself to speculate. Bastien lifted Lydia’s hand, kissed it and took his leave.
He did not go far. As Lydia sneaked into the house, Sara watched Bastien round the back of the stables toward the caves. What in the devil was he up to?
CHAPTER 3
Papa
Sara came down the stairs at the
unusually late hour of eight the next morning, intending to make her way to the dining room for breakfast. She was surprised to find Lydia standing in the hallway outside Papa’s study.
“Lydie, who’s there?”
Lydia put her finger to her lips to silence Sara, who leaned in closer to the doorway to listen. She could hear the deep vibration of men’s voices behind the door.
Lydia mouthed, “Bastien!” and pointed toward the door.
Sara grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the corridor. “What are they talking about?”
Just then, the door opened and Bastien was upon them. “Mesdemoiselles Thibault,” he said flatly. He made a slight bow and left without another word.
Lydia hastened after Bastien, and Sara poked her head around the entrance to Papa’s study.
“That miserable pig!” Papa muttered and crumpled the paper in his hand.
“Papa? What happened?”
Papa was silent. He raked his hand through his hair and stared at the desk before him.
“What has Lemieux done?”
Papa shook his head. “Jean Lemieux is trying to ruin us. He has set a price of forty francs per barrel. He didn’t even extend us the courtesy of consulting the curate.”
Sara’s mind reeled at the implications. “But why? Our wine is excellent this year—the best ever—you said so yourself!”
“Quality is not the issue. Lemieux has brought in low-priced Italian and Spanish wines, which he intends to blend with our Vouvray wines. They will bottle them, label them with the Vouvray name and export them.”
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