He was captivated by the majestic grandeur of Mount St. Helena, which rose high above the neighboring peaks, its summit poking through the lower-lying clouds. An even more stunning sight, however, was the number of phylloxera-stricken farms that had been abandoned. The parasite had afflicted half of the six hundred vineyards in the county. Philippe had heard that many were owned by San Francisco’s social elite, European-born aristocrats who had purchased the vineyards with dreams of a bucolic escape from the demands of city life, and the bragging rights that come with the creation of one’s own wines. Their abandoned properties presented an opportunity that Philippe decided he could not pass up.
Eagle’s Run was the most idyllic land Philippe had ever laid eyes on. He immediately saw the advantage of settling in Carneros, in the southern Napa Valley. Its morning fog and the cool afternoon breeze from the San Pablo Bay made its climate perfect for growing zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay grapes. After discovering that the property had been abandoned, Philippe headed immediately to city hall and paid the monocled clerk twenty-seven dollars in back taxes owed on the land to the town. By the end of the day, on Tuesday, January 27, 1891, the city had signed the land over to him, the deed was recorded, and he had acquired the property.
He could not believe his good fortune. Eagle’s Run was located five miles south of downtown Napa, between the Napa River and Carneros Creek. Of its 350 acres, nearly two-thirds was dedicated to the vineyard and the other third consisted of pasture-land, meadowland and a small orchard. The northern section included a white-painted oak house, set on a verdant knoll conveniently close to the public road. The house could have easily accommodated a family of six, though Philippe spent little time indoors. It featured two floors, a stone basement and five gables, two of which crowned the long front porch. The tidy white-fenced yard, adorned with columbine, mountain lilac and herbs, pleased him greatly.
But like any bargain, Eagle’s Run had a sizable hitch. Almost all the vines were dead—gnarled from the ravages of the phylloxera. Philippe knew that it would be five years before he could produce a reasonable harvest. He planned to sell the yield of unscathed mission grapes for table wine until his replanted vineyard was thriving. With some of the money Philippe’s father had given him when he left home, and against the advice of several well-established Napa vintners, Philippe purchased specimens of the rarely used St. George rootstock from a friend in France. He hired ten skilled Italians to bench graft the resistant rootstock to new vines. Today the vineyard was flourishing, with 120 acres of zinfandel and cabernet and 80 of chardonnay, and he expected a yield of over one hundred tons this year—a good start.
The bottling machine tied securely atop his wagon would complete the winery’s modernization. Philippe had poured his soul into making his vineyard a success, but if he left for New York this fall, who would be capable of running it in his absence? As he rounded the final bend toward the vineyard, he saw a woman waving wildly to him from his front porch. Of course, he thought.
Madame Aurora Thierry was a lively and unconventional woman. Her white farmhouse, whose upper balcony overlooked her ten-acre farm and orchard, was located north of Eagle’s Run, in the heart of the land known as Rancho Rincon de los Carneros. Aurora, as she insisted Philippe call her, had given him invaluable advice when he was scouting out land to purchase. She had schooled him in the terroir of the Napa Valley and, specifically, its three distinct climates.
The northern portion from St. Helena on up was best suited to grow grapes for making fine white wines. The middle valley’s warmer temperatures and flatter land was best suited to grow cabernet sauvignon and sauvignon blanc grapes. Her favorite region, and the one she called home, was Carneros, in the lower valley. Its moist conditions were best suited to zinfandel, cabernet, malvoisie and berger, she had told him. Under Aurora’s astute guidance, Philippe had replanted with disease-resistant zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay grapevines. She had many connections in Napa, and had helped him find experienced bench grafters and reliable laborers. She advised him as much as he asked, but never intruded on his management of the farm. Philippe could not think more highly of any other Napan.
Aurora was waving her hat in the air with such vigor, he was certain she would bounce right off his front porch. He returned her wave. She was indeed like the dawn of a new day, and her enthusiasm for life was contagious. Philippe guessed her age as somewhere in the range of forty-five to fifty, old enough to be his mother. Her face was like a lady apple just past its ripened peak. Soft lines appeared around her eyes and creased her brow when her face lit up with excitement at sharing one of her rebellious schemes with him. Her coiled, fiery red hair had only recently begun to show a few stray strands of white. Her eyes were bright blue and her skin clear, with the exception of a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, which lent her a childlike charm. She was always fashionably dressed and sported a wide-brimmed straw hat to shield her fair skin during long days out of doors conducting her research. No matter what she was wearing, her ensemble always included a gold suffragette button fastened to her lapel.
According to Linnette, Aurora had met with her share of misfortune. Her husband, with whom she had shared a tempestuous but ardent relationship, had died ten years earlier, leaving her with no children and a farm to manage on her own. She had since thrown herself into an abundance of pursuits. She taught botany and husbandry at the Ladies’ Seminary in town and campaigned tirelessly with the likes of Susan Anthony to secure the vote for women in California. In addition, she was the area’s foremost expert on olive farming and had even completed her studies in the subject at Berkeley two years ago, much to the displeasure of the male authorities who dominated the field. Linnette had observed that Aurora was such a fixture in town and so well credentialed that it was difficult for even her most outspoken critics not to secretly admire her, or at least tolerate her passion and unorthodox ways.
Aurora marched off the porch and right up to Philippe as he drove up. He was surprised to see that her face was flushed and pinched with anger. The Winchester she brandished in her right hand reinforced the impression.
“Where in the blazes have you been?”
“In town. Why? What’s happened?”
“You mean you haven’t heard? Your foreman beat a Chinese worker senseless last night and nearly killed him. Down by the river.”
Philippe had known that Jip Montagne, who’d worked for him over the past year, was a bit unpredictable and harbored a strong dislike for the Chinese, but he’d never seen him driven to violence before. Philippe wondered if the victim had been one of the twenty-five traveling Chinese pickers Eagle’s Run usually employed. Most of them lived south of Napa City, in dilapidated houses on the riverbank.
“How did it happen?”
“He’d been drinking and went down looking for a Chinese man he said had ripped him off. A bad deal of some sort. Tan told me—the man was his cousin.” Tan had been Aurora’s loyal manservant since her husband had died.
“Where’s Jip now?”
“He ran off like a streak of greased lightning, I’m told.” Aurora drew her rifle up, cocked it and took aim at some fictional figure in the distance. “When I find him, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Philippe raised his eyebrows at Aurora’s overreaction. Nevertheless, he understood her indignation, and he knew her aim to be sharp. “Holster the gun, Aurora. I’ll handle this. Stay here and watch the wagon for me, would you? I’m going to look around.”
Philippe set the brake, hopped down from his rig and set off toward the winery. After searching its length, he checked the larger of the two barns out back, which housed his plows and fertilizer. He found Jip slumped over a bag of seed, snoring. Without a word, Philippe dumped the water-filled bucket sitting by the door over Jip’s head. Jip sputtered and shook his head like an angered grizzly. Philippe would have laughed if he hadn’t been so infuriated. Instead, he picked Jip up by his shirt collar and pinned him by the neck aga
inst the wall. Jip coughed and his eyes bulged with shock.
“I’m giving your week’s wages to the man you thrashed. If it happens again, I’ll be giving him your job, understand?”
Jip nodded and gasped for air. Philippe dropped him to the floor and walked out.
He had considered sacking Jip outright, but by taking his wages and keeping him employed, he could hit him where it hurt and at the same time keep a watchful eye on him. Besides, with the fall crush around the corner and his plans to go east, Philippe didn’t need a disgruntled foreman wreaking havoc in his absence.
Jip Montagne hated the Chinese because, for the past twenty years, they’d been hired for field jobs that he felt should have gone to white men—namely, the Italians, Germans, and French. Philippe knew the truth: the Chinese worked harder and complained less than the Europeans, and their typically small stature was an advantage when it came to picking off the smaller vines. Townspeople like Molly Reynolds resented them because they earned Napa dollars but spent the money sparingly, and only in Chinese-owned shops. Most had left for San Francisco’s Chinatown by now, fed up with the discrimination and violence. Only a handful of families remained; some were house servants to the larger landowners, while others ran businesses in town, like Sam Kee’s laundry.
Jip didn’t understand that there were twenty equally qualified men in the area who would line up for the chance to manage a major vineyard. Hopefully, Philippe had made his displeasure clear to Jip this afternoon. Arrogance, Philippe reckoned, was a useless quality in a man.
Philippe returned to a newly composed Aurora, who sat fanning herself on his porch.
“So you found him?”
“I did indeed. We shouldn’t have any more trouble. Now, if you’re free this afternoon, I’d like you and Tan to accompany me down to the riverbank.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to give Tan’s cousin an apology and compensation for his injuries.”
“That’s very generous of you, but it’s not necessary. An apology should suffice.”
“Oh, it’s not me. Jip has graciously offered to pay Tan’s cousin a week’s wages to make amends for his behavior.” Philippe smiled broadly.
Aurora smirked with satisfaction. “How very unexpected of him.”
Convincing Aurora Thierry to oversee Eagle’s Run while he journeyed back East was not as easy as Philippe expected. In fact, she was downright obstinate in her refusal. She argued that she had far too much research to conduct over the winter months to prepare for the spring planting. Philippe waged a campaign to win her over on their ride to the river. He offered to pay her handsomely for her time and explained she would only have to oversee Jip’s efforts to prune the vines, turn the soil and build the straw fires to keep the frost at bay. She would also mind the payroll and pick up his letters in town.
“What if Jip acts up? He’s certainly not going to take orders from a woman.”
Aurora made a good point. Jip didn’t value chivalry, but he certainly valued money. “I’ll promise Jip a bonus upon my return if you report to me that his work and behavior have been beyond reproach. And, of course, you always have your Winchester.”
Aurora ignored his last comment. “I suppose that would be satisfactory. But I’m still not certain I can afford the time away from my research.”
Philippe could tell that Aurora was warming to his proposal.
“Wouldn’t it absolutely enrage the big toads in town to discover that Aurora Thierry is running one of the largest wineries in Napa this winter?”
Aurora gave Philippe a sideways glance. A smile began to play upon her lips. Philippe had his answer. In early December, after the last of the wine was barreled, he would set out for New York.
CHAPTER 7
America
JUNE 30, 1896, NEW YORK CITY
Sara waited in the quiet of the confessional. It was more than a minute before the priest’s voice broke the silence.
“Who was this man?” He could not hide his surprise. Sara thought it best to keep her answers succinct. “My sister’s husband.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“He attacked me.” Sara pressed her hand over the scar Bastien had left on her chest. In recent days, she had felt a prickling sensation there.
“So he harmed you?” Sara detected a hint of sympathy from the priest.
“Yes, and he nearly raped me. That is when I stopped him.”
“You were defending your virtue and your life?”
“Yes.”
“Did the courts rule as such?”
Sara hesitated. “No, the case was never tried in a court.”
“Why not?”
“Because I left France before anyone would discover my … offense.” Sara’s voice quivered at the memory.
The priest was silent again for a few moments, and then cleared his throat to speak. “Exodus 21 tells us: ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ The Beatitudes, as described by Matthew, remind us that the meek will inherit the earth and the peacemakers will be called children of God.” The priest sighed and his voice deepened. “If your words are truthful, then you have killed a man in defense of your virtue. This is not a sin in the Lord’s eyes. However …”
Sara anxiously awaited the priest’s next words.
“You must tell me truthfully, daughter. Do you regret it? Ending your brother’s life?”
Sara gripped her hands together. “I regret that my brother-in-law was so hateful as to inflict pain and suffering upon my sister, and my family, over and over again. I regret that his actions forced me to defend myself by breaking one of God’s most holy commandments. But Father, I will never regret killing that man to protect my family.”
“This is unfortunate, for in your refusal to surrender any uncharitable feelings you harbor toward your brother-in-law, you continue to ignore the second greatest commandment: Love thy neighbor as thyself. I cannot absolve you of your sin in the Lord’s eyes until you have made amends.”
“Make amends? How do I do that, Father?”
“Do you wish to be forgiven and have this dark stain removed from your soul so that you are rendered clean in the Lord’s eyes on Judgment Day?”
“I do.”
“Then you must seek out your brother-in-law’s kin and confess your sin. And you must abide whatever punishment the law assigns you.”
“I see.” Sara sighed in defeat.
“Do not lose heart, child. All things are possible with God’s love.”
Sara did not know if that were true. She was about to say as much when the priest ended the sacrament.
“Let us say the Lord’s Prayer together before you go.”
For the first time, Sara felt the full weight of her sin. She uttered the words to the prayer she had said her entire life, hoping they would serve as a magic elixir, to summon the guilt she could not bring herself to truly feel. As we forgive those who trespass against us. As she spoke the words, Sara’s cheeks burned and her tears began to fall. Forgive him? She could not bear to do it. She knew she was a wretched creature. But then, if that were true, Bastien had made her this way.
Sara stood outside the building she now called home. The convent’s stone structure was vastly different from the neighboring wood-framed tenement houses. From the street, its facade looked to Sara like a rock wedged between two planks, but its narrow appearance belied the virtual village that lay behind its imposing carved oak doors. The Thibault sisters had been residents here for nearly four weeks. The convent, managed by Les Religieuses de Notre Dame, had been built in 1848 on the Lower East Side. Its address was of course the notation Sara had found written on the scrap of paper in Bastien’s cash box that fateful evening. She had brought it to America with her, along with the deed to Saint Martin. To her surprise, the address turned out to be a place of refuge for them in this strange new country.
Sara had booked them into steerage on the great steamship La Champagne, out of Le Havre, at Jacques’s insistence. A
s he had advised, she had given her mother’s maiden name, de Coursey, for their surname. Sara could see he was fearful for their safety. Their goodbyes had been tearful, but brief. Sara’s stomach knotted when she thought of how they had left their mother without saying goodbye, but to have alerted Maman to their departure would have implicated her in Sara’s crime. Sara had begged Jacques to take care of Maman, and promised to send word when they were safely settled in America.
The journey to New York had lasted twelve days, and although the winds were light and the seas calm, Lydia had suffered bouts of nausea throughout the crossing. Fortunately, she had found the fat, juicy pickles served on board to be a satisfactory remedy and had eaten through nearly a barrel of them. They shared the basket of saucissons and hard cheese Sara had purchased before their departure. After eleven nights on a swaying hammock in a room shared with thirty other men, women and crying children, Sara was more than eager to disembark. Upon docking at Ellis Island, she and Lydia had signed their names in the register as planned: Sara de Coursey and Lydia de Coursey. The pock-faced man who tended the register stabbed a dirty finger at the line they had left blank: Address. Sara was perplexed. Should she invent an address? She barely knew any English. Panicked, she recalled the crumpled piece of paper in her pocket. She lifted the pen and scrawled their destination in the narrow space: 197Mott Street, Manhattan.
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