After paying the cooper, Sara finally arrived at Monsieur Pepin’s. She clutched her sack tightly to her chest and opened the door. He sat upon his stool, hunched over a wood stump, resoling a pair of ladies’ shoes. He looked up, a monocle wedged between his brow line and cheekbone, and squinted at her.
“Mademoiselle Thibault, ’tis good to see you about town again.”
Sara stared at the neat line of polished clogs on the floor next to the far wall. “I was hoping you could repair these for me.” Sara’s grip on the neck of the sack tightened.
The shoemaker stood and gently pulled the sack toward him until she released it into his possession. He opened the bag. Sara watched as he examined Papa’s buckskin boots, running his hand over the yellowed leather, and looking closely at the soles.
“I’ll fix the toes and shine ’em up right fine for you, my love.”
“Thank you.” Sara hesitated. “I don’t have the money to pay you, but may I give you these walnuts now and some wine upon my return? This year’s wine is our finest quality yet.” She tried to sound cheerful.
He laid his tools on the stump and took Sara’s hands between his own. “Ma cherie, do not fret about payment. I am honored to mend them.”
Sara felt her eyes well with tears.
Monsieur Pepin looked at her intently. “It is not the boots that hold value, eh? It is rather the path your Papa walked in them, n’est-ce pas?”
Christmas was a dismal affair. The downstairs rooms of the house echoed like a cavern; it was not at all the bustling, joyful place Sara remembered from her childhood holidays. Papa was not here to orchestrate the festivities, hide the gifts or hold her tightly by the waist and spin her until she was wobbly and light in the head. How he had made them laugh each year when he chased a rabbit through the house in a mock effort to snare it for their Christmas feast! She never did recall his catching the elusive creature. Alas, thought Sara, without Papa there was simply no laughter, no joy, no expectation.
The smells were different, too. Sara could barely detect her favorite scent of pine kernels and thistles, which Marcheline used every winter to light the oven. Instead, as the three Thibault women sat huddled around the table in the airless parlor, all Sara could smell were the worn furnishings, laden with dust. Sara could not even enliven their day with conversation. She could think of nothing to say. Instead, she watched her mother and sister stare at the steam rising from their cups of wine, their idle fingers wrapped resolutely around the clay vessels. Hardly a useful employment, Sara thought as she fidgeted in her chair. She longed to be elsewhere.
At last, the promise of entertainment presented itself. Marcheline entered to announce Jacques’s arrival. Maman spoke up first.
“Welcome him in, Marcheline, and bring us some of those honey loaves you’ve baked.” That her mother made the effort to feign pleasure was a comfort to Sara. Maman would at least engage in polite conversation with Jacques.
Jacques entered the room in his usual whirlwind and ran his hand over his head in an attempt to smooth down his few remaining strands of hair. “Bless me! Ladies, there’s a wicked tempest kicking up out there, and have you seen that blanket of gray sky? My heavens, if the snow doesn’t come by nightfall, I’ll eat my own hat.”
“A happy Christmas to you, Jacques,” Maman responded. Maman always ignored Jacques’s colorful turns of phrase, though Sara found his descriptions delightful.
“I’ve forgotten my manners completely. Happy Christmas, madame, mesdemoiselles! I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I feel Luc’s smiling face shining down upon us on this blessed day of our Lord’s birth.”
“Indeed,” Maman answered, “may God keep him.” She covered her heart with her hand in a gesture that struck Sara as too solemn given Jacques’s attempt at lightheartedness.
Jacques, however, continued with unabated enthusiasm. “I’ve brought presents, my dears. Luc would have wanted his girls to have some trinkets.” Jacques placed three small brown parcels, clumsily wrapped in string, on the table before them. They were all silent. Sara ached for Papa.
Lydia brought Sara back with her quiet words. “How lovely of you, Jacques. You are the truest of friends.”
Jacques cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “It was nothing.” He picked up the cup Marcheline had placed in front of him and lifted it ceremoniously. “Go on, don’t keep me waiting!”
Lydia and Sara were first to remove the paper wrapping and reveal the necklace inside each package: small wooden crosses secured to gold chains. Sara’s was dark stained wood; Lydia’s was blond wood. Jacques must have carved them himself. To Maman, he gave the only picture he had of Papa, taken in Reims during the war when a traveling photographer had visited their regiment. Sara took the tintype between her fingers to examine it. Papa’s face was so smooth and vibrant.
“That’s when your Uncle Jacques still had his hair!” They all laughed.
“You could not have given us anything finer. Thank you, Jacques.” Maman held the photograph close to her heart for the remainder of his visit.
Finally, Maman gave the girls their gifts. To Lydia, Maman gave her cherished Bible, for, she said, as a soon-to-be-married woman, Lydia would certainly make use of it. Sara thought this odd, but Lydia seemed to think it the most generous of presents. To Sara, Maman gave a newly knitted wool shawl the color of claret, which Maman said would bring out the green of Sara’s eyes. Maman draped it over Sara’s shoulders and Sara was comforted by its warmth and softness. Lydia commented that its deep hue added color to Sara’s cheeks and fire to her eyes.
Then Maman nodded to Sara in a silent request that Sara retrieve the last gift, wrapped in hessian cloth, from the side table. Sara handed the gift to Jacques. “For all you have done for us.” Sara knew Maman had wanted to give Jacques a handsome raise, but with the farm finances in such an uncertain state, this was the next most valuable thing they could give that would be useful to him.
Jacques’s eyes opened wide when he saw Papa’s favorite boots, cleaned and fitted with new soles and leather laces. Maman had even knitted a beautiful pair of socks to accompany them. Jacques did not speak. Sara knew he had never owned a pair himself, and they would be a comfortable change from wooden clogs, especially in the frigid winter months.
“You needn’t say a word, Jacques. Papa would have wanted you to have them,” she assured him.
Jacques sniffed loudly and nodded his head. “Thank you.” He was in no state to direct the conversation to more buoyant topics, so Sara was relieved when her sister spoke up.
“Tell us the news from town, Jacques.” Lydia loved to hear all the city news. Sara noticed today that she seemed to search for topics that did not involve her betrothed, for Bastien had not called at Saint Martin for a fortnight. Nor should he dare show his face here, thought Sara bitterly. Lydia had ceased to mention his name. For once, Sara had to agree with her sister; it would be a welcome diversion to hear the latest gossip from their little corner of the Loire.
“So many things, I hardly know where to begin. Oh yes, well, Mim witnessed a most distressing sight the other day.” Jacques’s brother and his wife had moved to Tours ten years ago and had opened one of its most popular taverns. “Monsieur Laroche had a few drinks before leaving the tavern. He didn’t return home to Vouvray that evening, so Madame Laroche drove into town looking for him early the next morning. No one had seen him. She asked Pierre and all the patrons, and it seems he had disappeared somewhere around ten o’clock.” Jacques’s voice was grave. “Madame Laroche was so anxious to find him, she engaged the local curate to assist in the search.”
“Did they find him?” Sara was intrigued.
“Indeed. Mim was tidying up the place before they opened again. Guess whom she found on the cellar floor—au naturel, mind you—reeking of wine and snoring as loud as a woodsman’s saw!”
“No!” Lydia cried.
Jacques waved his hands frantically, for he wasn’t finished. “But you haven’t he
ard the best of it. Laroche was so crocked, he took one look at Mim, placed his felt cap back on his head and stumbled out of the tavern without a word—and without a stitch.” Jacques was laughing and snorting so hard, he struggled to catch his breath. “Wait, wait,” he gasped, wiping his tearing eyes with his sleeve. “A half hour later Mim found his shirt and breeches inside an open barrel! It seems that Monsieur Laroche had taken himself a bath in the storeroom!”
Sara’s shoulders began to shake, and Lydia tried hard to contain her amusement by tightening her lips, but to no avail. She erupted in peals of laughter. Even Maman could not resist. She clutched her handkerchief to her lips and giggled until she cried. It was such a relief to laugh again.
JANUARY 15, 1896
Sara passed the afternoon walking on the banks of the Loire and wading into its frigid waters, her skirt knotted up at her knees. She concentrated on the feel of the pebbles beneath her feet—some sharp, some smooth, others slippery with moss. After five minutes, her toes numbed and she could hardly feel the stones at all. Is this what Papa had felt? A tingling sensation, and then nothing? No, she reckoned, the mud that overpowered Papa would have been a thick sludge; he would have felt as if he were drowning in a vat of molasses.
When twilight came, Sara began the climb up the steep bank toward the farm. After fifty paces or so, she heard Lydia calling from the house. She hadn’t thought she was late for supper, but perhaps she’d lost track of time. As Sara came closer, she saw the dour expression on Lydia’s face. Sara quickened her steps instinctively—maybe something had happened to Maman.
Lydia took her by the hand and led her into the parlor, shutting the door behind them. Before Sara could even ask, Lydia blurted out the unimaginable. She intended to marry Bastien in March.
Sara stared down at her clogs, examining the rough scratches that marred their once smooth wooden surface. She couldn’t bear to look Lydia in the eye. When she finally spoke, her tone was scathing. “You would dishonor our father’s memory by marrying the man whose family is responsible for his death?”
“Watch your tongue, Sara,” Lydia snapped, sounding too much like Maman. “I have no desire to dishonor Papa. I loved him, too.”
“I don’t understand. You cannot marry into that family. Papa would forbid it. And Maman, surely she has not agreed to this.”
“Father is gone and has left us with nothing but debts. The vineyard will need proper tending if we are to survive here, and that will require funds we do not have. If I make this marriage, we will want for nothing.”
Sara was shocked by both Lydia’s decision and her callousness.
“You cannot be serious, Lydia. You mean to say that you are marrying him in order to save Saint Martin? You never cared about the farm. The three of us, with Jacques’s expertise, will survive just fine without them. We can ask the bank to extend the loan, Jacques and I can manage the grafting and the harvest and the crush, and I can find a new negotiant, new buyers …”
Lydia’s voice softened for the first time. “Dearest, I do not doubt your abilities. But Bastien’s father holds the loan, not the bank. Bastien has pleaded with his father to ease the terms of the loan on our behalf, but Monsieur Lemieux does not see it as a good investment. He may well be correct. Besides, even if we were all to work our fingers to the bone, the vineyard is simply too much for us to manage without someone to cover our expenses until next year’s harvest.”
Sara bristled at the mention of those foul people. How could Lydia be so blind?
“I’m afraid it has already been decided, Sara.”
“By whom? Why was I not consulted?”
Lydia stared at her hands, fingers intertwined and poised on her lap. She would not look at Sara.
“What is it, Lydie?”
“Maman asked me not to tell. Not just yet. But I fear I must.” She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “I walked into the study last week and came upon Monsieur Lemieux and Maman talking. When I asked her later, Maman said that he had offered her a fair price to purchase Saint Martin. It would be enough to repay our debts and give Maman a proper living and you a dowry.” Lydia straightened her back. “She had no choice but to accept it. Papa has left us swimming in debt.”
Sara attempted to interject but Lydia lifted a hand to silence her.
“Papa mortgaged the farm to purchase those new vines years back. There is little money for repayment, not to mention for our living expenses.” Sara wondered where Lydia had obtained so much knowledge about their financial affairs.
“But surely you could have persuaded Maman to wait?” Sara felt her chest tighten.
Lydia shook her head. “Half of the farms in Vouvray are ruined. In Chancay, Noizay, Reugny, it is the same. Look around, Sara,” she said quietly, “The phylloxera has hit everyone hard.”
“You would marry into their family after they cheated us?”
Lydia’s tone was defensive. “They too have a business to run and could only offer a lower barrel price in order to remain profitable. Sara, you should know that I was the one to persuade Maman to accept their offer. She signed the papers this afternoon.”
Sara felt heat rush to her face. “But the land is our inheritance! Legally, it passes from Papa to us.”
Lydia pressed her palms together and sighed. “As part of their marriage contract, Maman kept ownership of her family’s vineyard, and all its dwellings, while Papa managed them. You and I inherit only the furnishings.”
Papa had never mentioned such an arrangement. Couldn’t her mother have consulted her before she sold Saint Martin out from under them? No, no, she couldn’t, because Sara would have fought her tooth and nail. Sara was disgusted.
“Sara, don’t you see?” Lydia’s eyes brightened with hope. “When I marry Bastien, we keep the vineyard.”
“What do you mean? I’m sure Bastien will throw you over and evict us as soon as the ink has dried.”
Lydia placed her hands on her midsection. “He would not throw out his own child.”
“What?”
Lydia shifted in her chair. “I am carrying Bastien’s child. He will inherit Saint Martin and it will stay in the family.”
Sara stared blankly at Lydia. “And Maman? Does she know?”
“I have not told her, because I didn’t want to compound her grief with scandal. She may suspect it, but I have not uttered a word.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“It’s a boy. I feel it, Sara.”
“But he will be a Lemieux.”
“He will have Thibault blood.”
Sara was silent. Had Lydia run mad?
“What is the alternative, Sara? Bankruptcy and a bastard? That would help no one.” Lydia looked down and smoothed her skirt. “We will be a good match—you’ll see.”
Sara was appalled by her sister’s desperation. Lydia had always been a model of primness and decorum. To think that she had given herself to such a horrible man! Yet Lydia didn’t seem the least bit ashamed.
“What about your dowry, Lydia? We have nothing now. Perhaps Bastien would accept Maman’s silver or Papa’s watch?” Sara said mockingly.
“Bastien has pledged his devotion to me, our child and Saint Martin. He requires no more.”
“He requires no more?” Sara’s voice was shrill. “What more is there, Lydia? He’s taken everything! Are you not angry? Do you not blame him?”
“You are being nonsensical, Sara. It was not Bastien’s plan to purchase the vineyard. He asked his father to give us more time to make the payment. Jean Lemieux refused, and that did anger me at first. But Bastien has apologized for his father’s actions and is committed to helping us. I trust him, Sara. I need you to trust him, too. As the new owner of Saint Martin, he has told me he will expand the business, and even export our wines to America.” Lydia rested her hand on her belly. “Would you rather my child grow up with no land and no fortune?”
Sara couldn’t answer. This was ludicrous—every word of it. She felt sickened and hel
pless. Sara ran from the room without a word and marched toward the stables, filled with rage. What a fool she was to think that her mother and sister would trust her to take over now that Papa was gone! They had thrown themselves at the mercy of Jean Lemieux and his greedy son. They hadn’t even stood up to them.
Sara saddled and mounted her bay, grabbing hold of the reins. Her sleeves clung to her perspiration-drenched skin. She clawed at her collar until it broke open, feeling the relief of the cold evening air against her throat. She pressed her heels into her horse’s sides and galloped past the back of the house to the western edge of the vineyard, then stopped, breathless, beneath the oaks that stood sentry over her father’s gravestone. Sara sat still upon her horse, but inside she felt frantic.
Sara finally dismounted and laid herself down on the cold patch of new earth that covered her father’s grave. The ground enveloped her in its smell of clean rain and dead leaves, not like Papa at all. The new shoots of grass tickled the skin of her cheek. They were confused—winter was still hard upon them, but they had emerged to seek the sun during the past few unexpected days of mild weather. She rolled over and looked up at the web of spindly oak branches that hung high above her. They looked to Sara like the bony fingers of a starving hand, straining toward the elusive sky and the coveted place at the crown of the tree. There they would be the first to feel the sun’s warmth and the first to catch the spring rain. Only the leanest and wiliest would thrive.
Sara wondered if Papa could hear her thoughts. She imagined hearing his voice echo in the sway of the trees. What would he say? What counsel would he offer? She listened closely, but heard nothing. She did not want to leave her father’s grave, but the mantle of darkness had begun its descent over Saint Martin. Sara stood up and smeared cold dirt across her cheek as she wiped away her tears.
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