“Where are we going?”
“I’ll explain it all later. Just stay out of sight and don’t wake your mother.”
“But—”
“Do as I say! Now go!” Jacques commanded.
Sara did exactly as Jacques had ordered. While Lydia slept soundly, Sara disrobed and threw her soiled dress into the bedroom fire. The flames surged up, curled around it and consumed it. Sara examined herself by the light of the fire. She had scrapes on her arms and legs and blood everywhere: on her skirt, in her hair, smeared over her thighs. The pale, once unblemished skin of her breast was now torn and bleeding, and hurt almost more than she could stand. She winced as she pressed one of Lydia’s folded handkerchiefs over the wound. Once Sara had washed herself and put on one of Lydia’s ruffled cotton day dresses, she gathered items into a small bag—a dress and shawl for Lydia, a spare pair of clogs and undergarments, a brush, some matches and candles, and Maman’s Bible. Then she began to search for money.
She spent a few minutes rummaging through Bastien’s room for coins he might have stashed away. It unnerved Sara to be in his chamber: the bed was made, each pillow in its place, and Bastien’s red velvet morning coat hung on the valet by his dresser. She was now no better than a common criminal, she observed silently, as she searched the coat’s pockets and found a money clip containing twenty francs. There must be more. Sara hurried to the study downstairs.
Sara ransacked Bastien’s desk and found nothing useful. Her eyes searched the room and came to rest on a wooden box with an intricate pattern of roses and lilies inlaid on its polished cherry finish. Sara lifted the top and sifted through the papers inside. There was a latch on the lower edge of the lid. Sara pulled it up to reveal a false bottom and the drawer it concealed. She removed the contents and found a bundle of over a thousand francs and two sheets of paper. On the smaller piece, someone had scrawled, Notre Dame, 197 Mott, New York. On the other document, she recognized her mother’s signature below the words that had officially signed their land over to Jean Lemieux. It was the deed to Saint Martin.
Sara could not think of Maman right now. She shoved the money and documents into her petticoat pockets. She had broken at least two commandments in the space of one hour, God forgive her.
Sara raced up the stairs and shook Lydia gently, whispering, “Hurry, Lydia! We must make haste!”
“Why? Where are we going?” Lydia murmured sleepily. At Sara’s prodding, Lydia dressed and followed her out the back of the house to the vacant caves. Although the caves were not far away, Sara could barely make out their shape, for a thick fog had crept in during the evening hours.
“Watch yourself on the way down, Lydie, the steps are mossy,” Sara warned. They descended to the lower caves that, in her grandparents’ day, had stored most of the family’s wine. Lydia obeyed and kept one hand wrapped tightly around Sara’s. With her other hand, she cradled her stomach.
The dank chamber stank of rotting wood. Sara struck a match and lit one of the two precious candles she had in her satchel. Only a few ramshackle oak casks remained within this cave. The walls were decorated with chalk drawings of the girls’ childhood imaginings. Lydia’s fingers grazed the outline of four stick figures holding hands—two tall and two small. Sara remembered sketching them when she was ten. That moment now seemed a lifetime away.
Lydia finally choked out a few words: “Why have you brought me here?”
“Jacques is coming. He will tell us what to do.”
“Am I to leave Bastien tonight?” Lydia’s voice quivered.
“Yes, if you still want to. And I will come with you,” Sara said with conviction.
“I cannot ask you to leave Maman,” Lydia’s eyes filled with tears.
Sara did not know how much she should tell Lydia. How much could she bear to know in her condition?
She caught Lydia looking at the scratches on her neck. “I have no choice. I must go with you,” Sara said sharply.
Just then, Jacques appeared. He handed Sara a sack containing a jug of wine, some cheese and bread. “For the journey. Did you find any money?”
“Yes. Thirteen hundred francs.”
“Good, you’ll need it, and the extra two hundred I’ve put in there. The horses are hitched. We’ll leave at once.”
“Where are we going?” Lydia asked.
Jacques’s eyes darted to Sara. “Under the circumstances, I think you should both go abroad.”
“To America?” Sara was shocked.
“So far from France? We don’t know the language. We don’t know a soul there. Could we not live in Paris, or perhaps Spain?” Lydia sounded confused.
Jacques looked at Sara. Sara knew it could not be helped—they must tell her. “Lydie, I need you to listen and not ask questions.” She took Lydia by the shoulders and looked her directly in the eye. “Bastien attacked me tonight. Bastien is … he is … dead,” she stammered.
“Oh. Oh—but how?” Lydia asked, shaking, her eyes wide with shock.
Sara pleaded with Jacques. “Must we truly leave for America? Could we not stay on the continent, at least until the baby is born?”
“Bastien is dead. His father will assume one or both of you had something to do with it. You must go where he wouldn’t suspect—where he won’t find you.”
Sara hesitated. “You cannot suppose that I would be brought to trial.”
“If you are, the judges are known to be unsympathetic to women. You could be imprisoned, or worse.” Jacques’s voice trailed off.
“The guillotine?” Sara whispered in horror.
Jacques lowered his head.
“But I struck him in my own defense! He was going to—I did not intend to—” a sob escaped her. Sara felt Lydia’s arm drape protectively around her shoulders.
“Of course not, love, but Lemieux’s oldest and favorite son, a bourgeois, is dead. Lemieux will want someone’s head for it,” Jacques reminded her.
Sara brought her eyes to meet Lydia’s, fearful of what she would see there.
Lydia put her hand over her belly and straightened her shoulders. “You were Papa’s best friend, and you have never failed us, Jacques. We will trust you and do what you believe is best.”
Jacques nodded and instructed them gently: “Go to the wagon. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll leave for the train station.” He handed Lydia some apples. “Feed these to the horses. That will keep them quiet while you wait.”
When Jacques met them at the wagon, he was breathless from exertion. He loaded up a bag, three lanterns and his shotgun. The three headed north on the dirt road away from Saint Martin. Sara was too exhausted to argue with Jacques. For now, she would have to rely on him and Lydia to tell her what was best. The wagon rattled down the road at a snail’s pace. Sara could barely see the road through the shroud of fog before them. She instinctively looked back, searching for the outline of the house and the watchman’s shed where Maman slept soundly, unaware that her daughters were running for their lives.
A flash of orange broke through Sara’s hazy thoughts. It flared up, illuminating the line of rectangular windows in the front of the house. In less than a minute, tongues of flame darted up the timbered stucco walls of her family’s ancestral home.
Saint Martin was ablaze.
CHAPTER 6
Philippe
JUNE 29, 1896, NAPA CITY, CALIFORNIA
Philippe Lemieux hated to lose. It did not irritate him that another man might best him; his pride was not that brittle. But he was precise and self-demanding, and hated to put forward anything less than his best effort. Despite this, Philippe did not allow a trace of frustration to register upon his face. As he sat at the card table, leaning his chair back against the saloon wall, he reminded himself that, in this particular game, a calculated loss would benefit him the most.
Philippe examined the faces of his opponents after the first betting round. Lamont, the most senior of the four Frenchmen, was a seasoned vigneron, but a novice at the game of poker.
Still, he had proven himself much more sportsmanlike than the other two at the table. Courtois and Gautier were new to both winemaking and the game. Courtois drew two new cards and shifted in his seat; Gautier drew one and let out a telling sigh. Lamont stayed pat, as did Philippe. He guessed from Lamont’s blank face that they held the two lowest hands. Lamont’s was a consequence of bad luck, Philippe’s of deliberate design.
It was a small stakes game: no bet exceeded five dollars, a laborer’s weekly wages. When the cards were revealed, Gautier had bested the other men with a straight flush. Philippe was surprised. Courtois had the next best hand, a full house. Philippe and Lamont showed down with three-of-a-kind and two pair, respectively. Philippe was pleased with the outcome, although he feigned mild disappointment. He was just about to launch into a friendly commiseration with Lamont when he was cut off by Gautier.
“At least the old lady will let me in for supper tonight,” Gautier announced with satisfaction.
“With those winnings, you’d best bring supper home with you, Gautier.” Philippe motioned toward the butcher shop across the street. “I bet the missus would enjoy that nice haunch of pork hanging in the window.” Philippe figured the best way to get rid of him was to locate the nearest foodstuff and point him in that direction. If Gautier’s ever-growing paunch was any indication of his habits, Philippe could be assured that he would act on the suggestion with gusto.
“Indeed she might. A fine idea, Lemieux, and a pleasure taking your money, messieurs.” Gautier corralled his winnings off the table and into his saddlebag. He then pushed his hat firmly upon his head and sauntered out the tavern door.
Lamont shook his head and mumbled, “You’d think he’d struck gold.”
Courtois forced a laugh. He was the quintessential bootlicker, thought Philippe. Lamont glared at Courtois with unveiled disdain.
Philippe knew Lamont well enough to understand his dislike for Courtois and his kind. Courtois had the air of an aristocrat but the nerves of a tree squirrel. He had made his money in trade on the San Francisco docks. At his doctor’s bidding, he had moved his family to the country last year for the air. Better for his chest, he said. Courtois had purchased a small vineyard, just a mile north of Philippe’s, and half-heartedly made an effort at grape farming. From Lamont’s prickly demeanor, Philippe judged that he viewed Courtois as a pretender. Lamont’s heroes were the forty-niners and the silverados and the year-round farmers—those who had earned their livelihood and his respect from working the land. Lamont’s kind had built California from the ground up.
“Another drink, gentlemen?” Philippe wanted to keep Lamont there a bit longer.
Courtois shook his head and stood up to leave. “If I keep showing up stewed for dinner, the missus is going to cart me off to the Castle for certain.” Philippe cringed a bit at Courtois’s humor. The Castle, as it had been nicknamed, was the enormous asylum just south of Napa City for the area’s drunkards and those in need of “moral treatment.” The immense building near the Napa River boasted seven towers, six hundred patients, a lumberyard, an amusement hall and its own mortuary. It looked like a palace, but if you walked by its looming exterior, you could hear the shrieks of its inmates.
Lamont changed the subject as soon as Courtois quit the tavern. “So, Lemieux, your first harvest is coming up, right? How are the vines looking?”
“Actually I had a small harvest last year, mostly zinfandel and cabernet, but I expect well over a hundred tons this October, and five hundred by the ’97 harvest. I’m actually about to drive to the depot to pick up some equipment I ordered. It came in on the nooner—a bottling machine.” Philippe waited to see if Lamont would take the bait.
“You know, I’ve always admired you for your forward thinking, Lemieux.” Philippe could guess what was coming next. “As a friend, though, I have to warn you off of bottling. I tried it three years back—I told you this—it was a bust. Not only is it expensive to bottle the wine, the railway charges three times what they would to transport barrels. Besides, it’ll be another year before you’re ready to sell this year’s vintage.” Lamont shook his head and scratched his graying beard. “It’s just not worth it, son.”
“I thought I’d start off small. Bottle half of last year’s vintage and sell the rest by the gallon.” Philippe would tread lightly at first, because he knew that before he could make his pitch to Lamont, the man’s ego would have to be sated.
“I was in your shoes a few years back.” Lamont smirked. “Don’t make the mistakes I made. Hell, I’ve got a third of a cellar filled with top-notch bottled chardonnay, and I can’t move it. It’s just too expensive. You should ship your barrels east, maybe as far as Chicago. That’s what I do, and I make a decent living off it.”
“Yes, but you know as well as I do, half our wine doesn’t even make it to the Second City—the rail men drink it and then swap it with water, or even worse, vinegar. The other half of our wine is poured into bottles, slapped with a French label and sold for double the price. Shouldn’t we be taking that profit? Shouldn’t the people in Chicago and New York be able to enjoy your chardonnay and zinfandel, both of which are superior to their French counterparts?”
“Ah”—Lamont shook his head and waved his hand dis-missively—“but French wine is French wine. It has a unique appeal, an air of sophistication, if you will. Who will ever choose bottled California wine over French?”
“Let’s not try to sell it to the high falutin’ class, then. Let’s sell it to the everyman. Let’s sell it to the city clerk who wants to surprise his wife for their anniversary.” Philippe stopped there. He didn’t want to belabor his point.
“Go on.”
“Why do we work so hard? So we can bust our bollocks selling barrels of wine to drinkers who don’t even know where it comes from? Do we really want to eke out a living that way? I don’t. I came to Napa to produce the best wine I can off the best land there is and sell it across the country—in Chicago, New York, New Orleans.” Philippe paused to gauge Lamont’s reaction, but his expression was unreadable. Philippe decided to appeal to the man’s sense of nationalism. “France’s wine production is on the rebound, and they’ll be active in seeking out new American markets. Don’t you think we should at least throw our hat in the ring to show them we’re a contender?”
Lamont looked appraisingly at Philippe, all the while smoothing his mustache from its bushy midsection out to its twisted tips. He shrugged, unconvinced. “Maybe.”
Now it was time to lay it out for him in black and white. “Hear me out on this, Lamont. We know that McKinley will likely get himself elected in November, and if he does, one of the first things he’s going to do is pass the tariff on foreign dry wines. The import duty will go from thirty to fifty cents. Now you may think this will work to our advantage, but let’s think it through. Our wines are already protected by a thirty-cent tariff. A fifty-cent tariff is going to artificially inflate domestic wine prices, and that will spur a vineyard land grab like we haven’t seen in a decade. Every last Gautier and Courtois will be running into these hills to plant grapes, and they will overplant, ruining the soil and the reputation for quality our wines have earned. Over time, that will crater wine prices. Napa vintners have just started turning a profit these last two years, now that wine is selling at over twenty cents a gallon in most cities. Do we really want to jeopardize that?”
Lamont shrugged. “I do see your point, Lemieux.”
“But there’s even more to consider. I just read that the meat packers and shippers in Chicago want to propose a reciprocity agreement with France and Germany. They’re going to increase their exports overseas. Guess who they’re going to throw to the wolves to get their way?”
Another shrug.
“Us.”
“What! How?” Now Lamont was incensed.
“In return for permission to export their meat to those countries, they’re proposing a bill that would allow France and Germany to ship their wines to America with little or no duty
—not even the thirty cents that exists now.”
“They’re proposing to eliminate the duty altogether?”
“Yup. At least for France and Germany. Our markets—Chicago, New York, New Orleans—will be flooded with foreign wines, and prices will nosedive. We may even be forced to sell our wines overseas, at the blending centers in France, alongside the Spanish and the Algerians.” Philippe hated this idea, and it was evident in his voice. “Let’s make that quick calculation. Those wines sold last month for an average of fourteen cents per gallon. If you deduct seven or more cents for cooperage, shipping and insurance, you’re looking at, if you’re lucky, seven cents of profit. Versus the sixteen or so we could be earning now. All to fill the coffers of some rich, power-hungry butchers and pork packers!”
Philippe had been persuasive enough to render Lamont speechless. Looking closely, Philippe realized Lamont’s face, under his well-groomed beard, had lost its color entirely. He felt a twinge of regret for scaring him, but sometimes it was the only way to get people moving—to shove them out of their complacency.
“I have a plan.”
“What do you propose we do?” Lamont was eager to listen now.
Philippe sat back in his chair at last and laced his fingers together behind his head. He had to say this just right. “California does a fair business in the East—260,000 gallons to New York last month and more than 55,000 to Chicago. Between us growers here in Carneros, we also have plenty of contacts in the East, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lamont nodded, waiting.
“We need to set our Carneros wines apart from the other California wines, even the other Napa wines, in both price and quality. We need to ship bottles, not barrels, to guarantee high quality and name recognition. We need to offer samples to the merchants in Chicago and New York in order to distinguish the Carneros wines from all other California wines.” Philippe thought of Agoston Haraszthy, the pioneering Sonoma vintner he greatly admired, who decades ago had garnered worldwide recognition for his sparkling wines. “We need to make our inroads now.”
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